Rifiuto: Non Miriena
A/N: Earthdragon, don't worry, your question will be answered in this chapter. :)
Thanks to Sazzita, JonnyP86 and earthdragon for reviewing 2.
"N... NCIS?" She choked out, voice strained. He nodded, as the waitress appeared with their coffees. He watched her pale, finding it curious as to why she'd suddenly gone from the beautiful sun-kissed tan to ghost-pale white.
"You okay?" She swallowed, nodding.
"Yes. I... I am fine. I just... I have... heard of that agency."
He raised an eyebrow, sitting back. "Have you? Most haven't. And those that have, confuse it with-"
"CSI." She finished. He nodded. She swallowed, struggling to clear the warning bells going off in her head before speaking. So she turned to something that had been at the forefront since they met. "Why did you agree to become a writer?"
"Agree?" A blush colored her cheeks a very pleasant rose. But he chuckled, and she relaxed. Sitting up, he folded his arms on the table, sighing. "I've always loved to write. Loved to read, too. When I was a kid... my mom would pick one classic novel, and she would read it to us before bed. Did the voices, the actions, she made the story come alive; they weren't just words on a page, they were a movie, playing out in my mind, and..." He thought a moment, shaking his head. "and I loved it. I loved every moment of it. When I got older, I decided that... that if people like Fitzgerald and Hughes could do it, I could do it. I could write. That I could make people fall in love or mourn or hate characters, all with the stroke of my pen. So, I set out to become a writer. Graduated from MIT with a degree in Biomedical engineering, so that I would have something to "fall back on" if the writing never worked out, and then... moved here. I've been here for the last two years, and I love it. I... I write articles for a few papers, have sold a few short stories, but, ultimately, this novel is going to be my big break. I know it."
A grin tugged at her lips; she could hear, could practically taste the passion he exuded when he talked about writing. Just as she was passionate about her work at NCIS, so he was with his writing. It was nice, to see someone with such a thirst for life, for making his own life without anyone else to guide him. Obviously, he had grown up in a loving, nurturing family, without any of the trials she had faced. Once their food arrived, they settled into comfortable silence, stealing glances or aimless chitchat. But once they left the café, coffees and pastry in hand, he led her not back to his apartment, but further down the street, towards a small alcove.
"Where are we going? Thom?" Her giggle died in the air, as they stopped, facing each other in the street. She was not used to being so familiar with people she just met. She blushed again, a deep strawberry coloring her high cheekbones this time. A crooked grin lit his face slowly, and he took her hand.
"I have somewhere I want you to see, Ziva." They shared another glance, before continuing on. Eventually, he tugged her down a dark alley, towards a small door, just off to the right. He pushed the door open, revealing the small foyer of a bookstore. Stepping inside, she found herself standing near a small relaxation area, complete with a sofa and a fireplace. It was quiet, just the crackling of the fire, and as he led her through the store, she found a small kitchen area where tea and coffee sat waiting to be drunk.
"I... I feel as though... I have crossed the wardrobe into Narnia. What is this place?" She asked, stopping and turning around slowly in circles, trying to drink everything in.
"Welcome to Sagesse Roman. Novel Wisdom Bookstore. It's small, but that's what makes it one of Paris's hidden gems, if you ask the right people. Come on." She followed him back to the mystery section, where he quickly scanned the shelves before pulling something down. He quickly checked that this was the one he wanted, before turning to her. She stood back, watching silently as he turned the book around and held it out to her.
Slowly, she took it, cradling it gently in her hands as though she were cradling a newborn. Her eyes scanned the cover, a beautiful wilted white rose upon a black background, spattered with blood; slowly, she turned it over, eyes widening as she found herself staring at the man before her. Her gaze shot up to him; he stood rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets, the pastries and coffees they'd bought to go residing on the small coffee table near the fireplace, waiting to go.
"Is... is this... yours?" He nodded, shrugging.
"Some of my short stories, written not long after I got here. There's a small publisher here who agreed to pay me a small sum for each story written and published, but he wasn't too thrilled too find out it was a bunch of short stories, but he agreed anyway. And then his wife found out about me, and, turns out, she's an agent. An American publishing agent living in Paris, looking for an American author living in Paris. People would say coincidence, I say luck."
She shook her head, amazed. She had never known- nor met, for that matter- anyone who'd ever written anything and had it published.
"It is... beautiful." She turned it back around, opening it to the title page, her eyes scanning the words.
The Rose Bleeds and Other Stories
By
Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him, before looking back at the ink. "This... this is your book, correct?" He nodded. "Then... then who is... who is Timothy McGee?"
He sighed, rocking back on his heels again, and answered almost sheepishly, "Timothy McGee is my pseudonym."