A/N: Has anyone else noticed that this storyline has been ignored on the show? That was pointed out to me and it is true. If CBS/DB is listening, we would like a resolution -a happy one. Anyway, here we go! Peace, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing here is mine. Or at least, I put the words in order as you see below. But the characters and storyline? Yeah, not mine.
XXVII.
Dedicated to Jananae as she suggested it.
27 amendments to the Constitution, his and, hopefully, hers. Twenty-seven amendments and eight long months of relentless studying. Twenty-seven amendments and he finds himself nodding off twenty-seven times at his desk because she is in a room somewhere taking the test that will ultimately deem her fate -however, he has already pondered other options of her earning her citizenship. He stayed up into the wee hours of the morning studying with her ad several more hours after she fell asleep worrying for her, praying that she passes.
"'A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed-'" and by 'being' her voice is added to his, a flawless and amused cadence as they speak in unison.
"The Second Amendment, part of the Bill of Rights, adopted on December 15, 1791," she answers, grinning at the question she helped ask. "Tony, I know that one."
"Yeah, you would," he replies playfully, stretching his long legs out across his bed. She is sitting Indian style on her "side," leaning up against the headboard, various papers scattered all around them like snow. Snow marked with neat print and her tidy script, margin notes and post-it notes and Tony-notes full of utter randomness.
He flips through the eleven page packet devoted solely to the Bill of Rights. He settles on another one that she would most definitely know -though she knows them all, frontwards, backwards, and, he's sure, several languages: "Eighth Amendment."
"'Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted,'" she recites, verbatim, as if she is holding the exact definition in her hands. And he fleetingly wonders if attaching someone's testicles to a car battery constituted infringement. . . .
He quizzes her on each article, Congress' role in the law making progress, the entire system of checks and balances. And as he reads and she answers, each and every one correctly, he wonders how on earth he ever passed Government when he was a freshman in high school because the information before him was incredibly detailed, ridiculously similar, and incredibly lengthy.
The study guide that was given her courtesy of McGee has a footnote at the bottom of the page, a handwritten reminder that is also a spoken and written part to test her English. When Tony points this out, she swats him, demanding, "And what is wrong with my English?"
He holds his hands up in the universal gesture of peace. "You'll do fine," he reassures, amending his statement with, "So long as they don't ask you about American idioms and common colloquialisms. Or contractions."
"I am perfectly capable of American idioms! Stop being such a doubting Tom."
Tony fights back the urge to grin as he gently corrects her, "It's doubting Thomas, Ziva."
"Then who does the peeping?"
"Tom."
She waves her hand, stirring the air indifferently, "Tom, Thomas, same thing."
And he concedes that this is true, silently convincing himself that the naturalization test will not ask her about stupid idiosyncrasies.
Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, he channels his best Alex Trebek, "And now onto American History for five hundred."
The last time he looked at the clock was at 2:13 when Ziva's words were muddled with sleep but her answers remained concise, correct, and relatively lucid. Somehow she had migrated throughout their study session, leaning up against his side, shifting so her head was resting his lap. She lasted about a half hour more before sleep had finally claimed her, dragging her tired mind into what he hopes was a state of peace and not a dwelling of what the afternoon would bring.
What if she didn't pass? As illogical and improbable as that slim chance may be, what if? What would he do? Would she be deported? Back to Israel? Could he stand that? Could he go with her? Would he go with her? Gibbs would never allow her deportation, though, he'd scare immigration into letting her stay, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Vance would be no help, but Tony was willing to make a deal with the devil, so why not deal with Vance? He would give his soul, his badge, anything. Easy. And what if she failed and wasn't deported, but not permitted to work at NCIS? Could he stand that? Not seeing her everyday, talking to her. He'd had enough of that deprivation the past two summers to last him a lifetime. . . . Who was he kidding? She was going to pass. She knew the information better than the founding fathers.
Besides, if she failed and wasn't deported, but not permitted to work at NCIS, it wouldn't matter. He'd still see her. Everyday. Every single day. Every morning and every night, when he woke up and when he fell asleep. And during his lunch break.
Worse case scenario and he had a plan. And it was an ingenious plan.
A plan that would make Fred Tuttle jealous.
"Tony? Tony?" quiet voices echo in his exhaustion fogged mind, beckoning him, calling him. He keeps his heavy eyelids staunchly closed, perhaps if he ignores them, the voices, then they will go away. . . .
"Anthony? My word, Timothy, is he all right?" Ducky's lilting brogue penetrates the fog, intruding on a whispering nightmare in where Ziva failed her test. . . . .He bolts upright with a gasp, chair rolling backward, colliding with his filing cabinet, tilting dangerously.
He blinks fuzzily, gathering his surroundings, confused as to why his bedroom is so bright and why two Duckys and two McGees are standing at the foot of his bed. . . . He shakes his head and they focus, each pair of twins morphing into two singular entities. Ducky is watching him with a look of concern while McGee is staring in shock and worry.
"You okay, Tony?" the younger man asks, studying him.
And Tony nods, slowly, gaining conviction after a few bobs, "Yeah. Why not?"
Now McGee is looking at him funny, like he is making no sense at all, and says, "You fell asleep at your desk."
"Nothing new there," he retorts, straightening his tie, rolling back to his desk.
"Twenty-seven times?" McGee asks skeptically.
Tony rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "The fact that you were actually counting, Tim, is really kinda pathetic-"
"What's pathetic?" Gibbs demands, briskly striding into the room. He takes his post up behind his desk, fixing a steely glare at his two charges, cocking a silver eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
McGee balks, scurrying over to his desk, stammering his excuse when Gibbs rises, picking his way to stand beside his friend and tower over his senior agent. Tony gazes up at him through half-lidded eyes and Gibbs thinks he hasn't even seen him this tired with a hangover.
He leans down, murmuring to Tony, "She'll do fine." And swatting him on the back of the head. Which causes DiNozzo to sit up a little more lively, though still zombie like.
And the paperwork is resumed.
And office life continues with one empty desk. . . .
"Be honest, how do you think you did?"
They're sitting downtown, outside on a restaurant's patio, sharing a bottle of chardonnay. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail and her face is glowing, in contentment and the light cast down from the lanterns overhead. His suit jacket is draped across the back of his chair and the buttons at his collar are undone, his tie on the floor of his car in the parking lot. He came directly after work to get her and, both starving, treat her to a celebratory (?) and impromptu dinner.
Alas the American dream.
She offers him a one shouldered shrug, her extended fork hovering over the large slice of cheesecake resting between them. She scrapes off a generous bite, pausing with it at her lips, teasing him and drawing out the suspense. "I'm confident."
"Did you just use a contraction?" he asks in mock awe -and relief at her hopefulness.
She smirks at him around her bite of cheesecake.
"Well," he says, leaning back, sipping his wine, "if you fail-"
"Thank you for that vote of confidence."
"Then there are other ways to become a citizen."
"Oh?"
"Oh yeah. Worse case scenario? You can always marry me."
I do intend to expand upon 25 from L. but it will be a stand alone oneshot, seperate from this. Just wanted to let you know, since someone suggested it :^) Kit.