Rifiuto: Non Miriena

She took a deep breath, running her fingers through her curls one last time before stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. After returning to her hotel to check in with her team leader, before changing into a pair of jeans and a dark green tunic-style blouse. She wore a pair of black boots and had done only minimal makeup- more than what she usually did. She checked the time, and bit her lip. They'd agreed to meet outside the apartment complex at seven, and then walk over to the café, but she'd been too anxious to get on with the date that she'd gotten ready and arrived early.

The director- no, her team leader- would have her head if she jeopardized the case they were working in any way. She shouldn't even be out, but back in her hotel room, running surveillance with Bishop, but in all honesty, there was only so much of the perky, down-to-earth cockamamie blonde with the dark eyebrows she could take. She loved Bishop, she was her partner, had been her best friend from the moment she joined the team last year, but there was only so much of the woman's convoluted and eye-raising personality quirks she- or anyone, for that matter- could take before strangling the woman. How her husband put with her, Ziva would never understand. So she'd gotten ready and slipped out of the hotel room, racing across the city, asking for directions before finally ending at his door. She waited for a few moments, and then knocked again, hoping that she wasn't making a fool of herself, standing outside the door, only to find him not home at all. A moment passed before she heard a dog barking and the door opened; he stood on the other side, surprise in his green eyes as she met his gaze.

"I am early." She said, as he struggled to think of something to say. "I am sorry, I just..."

"No, no, please, come in." He turned back, shooing the dog away, before stepping aside. Once the door was open, she stepped inside, looking around. The flat was small, the kitchen and living room connected, a straight shot from the doorway. Off the living room was a short hallway, with a bedroom and bathroom, the typical studio apartment for one person. In the corner of the living room, near the window, was a writing desk, and beside that, was the small entertainment center and TV. The dog that she'd heard barking was curled up on the floor by the sofa, watching the new arrival with big, amber eyes. "Please, have a seat." She turned to him, giving him a big smile, going to the sofa and doing just that. The dog instantly sat up, jumping onto the sofa, to lick her face. She laughed.

"Jet. Jethro, down!" The dog instantly got down, sitting as close to her as possible.

"What is his name?"

"Jethro. My little sister named him."

"You have a sister?" He nodded, as he headed into the kitchen and started a pot of tea. "How old?" He turned back to her.

"Fifteen. Sarah. She starts her sophomore year of high school in two weeks."

"Why two weeks? Should she not be in school now?" He bit his lip.

"She's had some... health problems, and has had to take some time off from school. But she goes back next week. It's hard, being over here and not being there to help Sarah." She got up, going to him, watching as he fixed the tea. "Do you have any siblings?"

When he looked back at her and held out her cup, he thought he saw a brief flash of pain in her dark eyes. She accepted it with a smile, before saying,

"I have an older brother, Ari, and... a younger sister, Tali." He nodded, picking up his tea and taking a sip. "Tali was killed, when she was fourteen."

"I'm sorry." She gave him a small smile before shaking herself and looking around.

"I should not have arrived so early, but I could not help myself." She headed back into the living room, going to the small bookshelf, her eyes scanning the titles. He followed, watching her.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Daphne DuMaurier, Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, Stephen King. Sylvia Plath and Langston Hughes and the writings of Malcolm X. And a hundred other authors she had either never heard of or never read. Eventually, she wandered over to his desk, where his laptop sat, with the latest draft of his work open on it. "This is what you were reading today when we met." She turned to face him, eyes wide. "You are a writer?" He nodded.

"Yes."

"Have you been published?" She picked up her cup and took a sip. He shrugged.

"Small things; newspapers, magazine articles, a couple short stories, but never a novel. This is my first venture into the world of "novel writing" as it's called by some." He said, setting his cup on the circular coffee table and joining her at the desk. He searched for several minutes, before pulling out a thick accordion envelope, the tabs marked with numbers. "This is the first draft of my novel." Her eyes widened as she looked from it to him and back.

"Novel?" He nodded. "What is it called?" He lifted out the title page, handing it to her.

Beneath the Blood Ribbon: The Adventures of Special Agent L. J. Tibbs

"It's a mystery novel-"

"Like Tom Clancy?" He thought a moment, before shrugging.

"Kind of. Though Clancy writes more... naval and war stories, and I write more federal investigation mysteries." She raised an eyebrow, being careful to slip the title page back where he'd removed it from.

"What type of federal investigation?" She asked, sipping her tea. "Do you work with an agency?"

"No." She gave him an odd look. "I have a cousin who works for one though." He glanced at the time, nervous. "Should... should we go get something to eat?" She let him put the manuscript away and close down his laptop, before following him. As they headed towards the small café, she asked,

"Please go on, which agency does your cousin work for?" He grabbed the door, holding it open for the elderly couple exiting, and for her to enter. As they took seats, he said,

"The Naval Criminal Investigative Service. More uncommonly known as NCIS."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide.