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ncisficathonTitle: you must learn to break every rule, learn to watch every glance
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lozenger8/Loz
Written for:jack_infinitude
Prompt: Ziva/McGee. The two are sent on an undercover mission that requires a certain level of intimacy. Preferred setting anywhere between the beginning of S4 and the end of S6. Cannot be a PWP.
Archive: I do not mind.
Genre: Het
Pairings: Ziva/McGee
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.
Notes: Title from the Barry Gray song “Dangerous Game”
Word Count: 2,460
Summary: Things don't always go according to plan, but Tim's starting to realize that that's okay.
Sometimes when they’re alone together, especially under stressful situations, and he needs to center himself or he may freak the hell out, Tim thinks about creating a shock new twist in his latest Deep Six novel and having Lisa hook up with McGregor. It’s not that he’s attracted to Ziva, he tells himself, it’s more just that she is attractive, and you know, McGregor’s a better catch than the rakish, but hopelessly immature Tommy. And when Tim needs to distract the section of the brain that’s always going through the computations of likely survival, he comes up with all the reasons why Lisa and McGregor wouldn’t work. (First on the list is that it’s bad narrative practice to lay down signifiers of one event and go for another that’s entirely different. Second and third devolve into disyllabic scrabbling such as, ‘because’ and ’it’s wrong!’)
Ziva turns around and studies Tim with an assessing glance, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You are not keeping your eyes on the present, McGee.”
“It’s eyes on the prize.”
Ziva half-shrugs. “That too.” She gestures back to the people they’re meant to be watching. “You are ready for this?” she asks, immediately sounding disbelieving. It brings out Tim’s indignant side. Everyone on the team seems to forget he’s a field agent the minute he’s required to be a field agent. It’s more than slightly annoying.
It isn’t that they don’t think he’s capable, he knows they all do. But being capable enough to hack into Interpol’s databases isn’t the same as being capable of pulling off undercover work, and it often seems like the usual attitude is if he can do one, he can’t possibly do the other. It doesn’t matter that he’s had the same training as everyone else; hell, if not more. Or that, because he’s made mistakes in the past, he’s extra careful now.
Ziva is the worst offender, when it comes to underestimation. And for reasons he doesn’t really want to analyse, it frustrates him even more than Gibbs withholding these kinds of assignments, Ducky calling him ‘dear boy’, Abby’s mocking sympathy, and Tony’s insistence on calling him ‘Probie’. It rankles even more than Palmer thinking they’re equally placed at the bottom of the ladder when it comes to the team hierarchy.
Tim admits, to himself, if no one else, that he can sometimes be petty.
“I’m ready,” he says with a nod. “Are you?”
Ziva gives a deprecating chuckle that makes the fine hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand on end. He’s never entirely sure when this happens if it’s from excitement or terror. Ziva doesn’t seem to notice. She positions herself in front of Tim and he wraps his arms around her, taking a light grip on her forearm that she could easily get out of if she wanted. He pushes the barrel of the gun he’s been given under her chin and slowly walks her forward.
Instead of concentrating on the possibility of getting shot in the head by the guy who thinks he’s Ziva’s boyfriend, Tim focuses on her radiating heat, on the sweet scent of jasmine that must be from her shampoo (softly whimsical, for Ziva, he thinks. Often she smells like gun oil.)
“Would you like to linger a little longer?” Ziva asks, her voice low and mischievous. “You do seem happy with the arrangement.”
“That would be the other gun, Ziva,” Tim replies, but he feels the corner of his lips twitching into a smile that he has to quash. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
The moment comes when their mark, ex-Mineman Jonathan McCord, moves further out into the open, away from the warehouse doors, swinging something that looks like a wrench between his hands.
“McCord,” Tim yells, because that was the script. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.” He continues to walk Ziva forward. “It’s nice, right? I think she’s nice.”
In reality, ‘nice’ is about the last word Tim would associate with Ziva, and once again, part of that is his inner writer coming to the fore, because it’s a horrendously empty word, and Ziva is anything but horrendously empty.
“All I’m gonna want in exchange,” Tim shouts, “is a couple of those mines I’ve been told you’ve smuggled out from under the Navy’s nose.”
The plan is a simple one. Ziva’s been working the case getting close to McCord the past three weeks, hoping he’ll show his hand, but time’s running out, so they’ve raised the stakes. McCord is meant to lead them to where he’s hiding the four naval mines they’ve been reliably informed he stole. He’s meant to care so deeply for Ziva that he does anything and everything to save her from Tim’s evil clutches.
Nothing goes even remotely to plan. It becomes blindingly, distressingly apparent when McCord’s friends come out of the warehouse and surround Tim and Ziva, holding primitive but still damaging weaponry. Tim always knew there was the risk of pain involved in this mission, but he’d hoped it would be minor. This doesn’t look minor at all. There’s seven tall, muscular men looking intent on maiming.
They wrench Ziva out of Tim’s grip, which he’s surprised about, because he’s been holding a gun to her head. These don’t seem like the actions of a rational, nor loving partner, and the reason is obvious when McCord starts to speak.
“You could have gone ahead and shot her for all I care,” he snarls, “I don’t like betrayal.” He swings the wrench again. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you? ‘cause you work together. Well, you know what? Now you can rot in hell together.”
*
Sitting on the cold-ass concrete of the warehouse, with his hands cuffed behind him and his legs bound tight, Tim wonders how McCord discovered Ziva was an agent. He didn’t appear keen to let them in on the revelation, preferring instead to literally spit in their faces. Ziva’s sitting a few feet away, similarly bound, propped up against a barrel. Unlike Tim, who’s actually finding the act of sitting up straight physically painful.
He’s not exactly frightened for his life, because he figures McCord and his merry band of lackeys would probably have killed them already if that was their intention. It seems to him that what they’re going to do is move the mines from wherever they’re storing them, and use himself and Ziva as insurance that they can do so hassle-free. Tim’s stomach twists uncomfortably with the realization that he’s a hostage. And, of course, he’s not the only one. Really, he expected Ziva to put up more of a fight, but the odds were stacked against them.
Far as he can make out, only three guys have actually stayed behind to guard them. If he could get out of the cuffs, he could unbind his legs, get Ziva free, and then they could go after McCord. He says as much to Ziva, who laughs.
“That would not be a wise idea. I do not recommend it.”
“Why not? We’ve seen tougher times than this.”
“That may be so, but you are likely to be injured attempting to extricate yourself from those handcuffs, and that would make it even more difficult to successfully negotiate escape, attack, and capture.”
Tim ignores Ziva’s lecturing and pulls his arms further back, testing how much room he has. He’s been researching escape methods for his latest novel. It would be good to test the theory.
“I am serious, McGee. Stop writhing around. It will not do us any good. It’s better simply to wait.”
“You do realize I’m not a child? I’m an agent just like you.”
Ziva mocks like she has a degree in it, and Tim’s not sure, maybe Mossad really do provide lessons on that kind of thing. “No one’s an agent just like me.”
He won’t let it go, though. He’s convinced he’s got to make her see. “I can do difficult things. I am trained. I don’t have to lie down and take defeat.”
“I must apologize. I did not realize I was offending your manly honor.”
“This isn’t a sex thing,” Tim says, in a rare display of speaking before his mind can kick into gear and self-censor. Ziva’s lips twist up and Tim can tell she hasn’t even attempted to take that the way he intended.
“Or a gender thing,” he futilely adds. “This isn’t a thing, Ziva.”
Ziva speaks with flat, ironic tones that never fail to make Tim bristle. “No. You would be this annoyed if it was Gibbs telling you not to make an idiot of yourself.”
“That’s an unfair comparison and you know it.” Tim says, very quickly surprised and gratified by Ziva’s head-tilt of concession. “Anyway, we both know Gibbs would never have gotten into this situation.”
“He will come for us. He always does.”
Tim gazes at the smooth angles of Ziva’s face, at her calm confidence and the element of reverence in her expression. She hero worships Gibbs even more than he does --- and, actually, does he look like that when he talks about him? Is there the ever-present manic belief? He thinks maybe there must be, and it unsettles him. Because he’s always understood that Abby and Gibbs have a father/daughter relationship, but now it’s clear Ziva has one with him too. And he and Tony are like Gibbs’ constantly bickering sons. It seems wrong that he’s never consciously noticed it before. That beyond one of Tony’s flippant jokes and Abby’s way of twisting Gibbs around her little finger, there’s real feeling there.
He’s still not sure they should rely upon rescue when, combined, they can rescue themselves.
“I genuinely think we can do this, where’s your self-belief?”
“You are either overestimating my abilities or underestimating theirs, McGee. Please remember, I have had to spend the last three weeks with McCord. I know what he and his friends are capable of.”
“Clearly you think I’m overestimating my own abilities,” Tim grumbles. He wriggles on the spot again. Damn, his wrists are already sore from chafing.
Ziva’s eyes sparkle in response. “Are you aware you are sweet as a zipper when you’re flustered?”
Tim levels Ziva with a stare. “That was intentional and don’t think I’m going to spend the rest of the day, and God-forbid, evening, correcting your wilful language quirks to keep you entertained.” Tim experimentally twists his hands around in his cuffs once again. “I award you many points for deflection, though.”
Ziva’s expression softens, but her tone is all hard edges and a hint of peevishness. “If you have not noticed how highly I regard and trust you, McGee, then you are even more of a fool than I have occasionally thought you to be.”
The more reasonable side of Tim’s brain is telling him to listen to the words of experience. Surely Ziva’s been in similar straitened circumstances enough times to know when to fight and when to pull back. But the irrational side of him really is offended on behalf of his manly honor. He admits it to himself, if not to Ziva. He wishes she had confidence in his abilities to get out of this problem, he wants to --- God, he wants to impress her. He wants, he realizes now with increasing shame, to rescue the damsel in distress.
Which Ziva really is not and he knows that, and this is why he, Timothy McGee, listens to self-help mp3s and occasionally smacks himself upside the head, because he’s just dumb in so many ways.
“In fact,” Ziva continues, and Tim didn’t really register that she was still talking, “I admire you very much.”
It starts to sink in that Ziva is looking at him with the curious mixture of coy and confused she can sometimes project, the vulnerability that is simultaneously at odds with and yet counterbalances the rest of her personality. She’s looking at him like he’s always denied wanting her to look at him. “I do not want you to be hurt.”
It occurs to him that in all the time he’s known Ziva, she’s been pulling his pigtails.
He ignores one part of her advice in order to wriggle closer to her. She watches with barely concealed amusement and frustration. But he’s stopped trying to get out of the handcuffs, and he really just wants to be next to Ziva, to feel the warm press of her leg against his own. Because he may be stupid in some ways, but she was making a declaration there, and he wants to make his own.
Finally they’re next to one another, when Tim’s back is aching and there’s sweat trickling down his forehead. Ziva shifts over to the left a little so he can also lean against her barrel.
“No more daring attempts at escape?” Ziva asks.
“No, I think I’ll just hang out here with you for a while.”
“I would like that very much.”
“So would I.” Tim leans into Ziva, and it’s awkward with his hands behind his back, but he manages to press a kiss against her cheek. Ziva turns her head and Tim’s second kiss lands at the corner of her lips. She initiates the next kiss, full mouthed and greedy. Ziva licks at his lower lip and he can’t help but make a little sound as her tongue slides against his teeth. He’s equally incapable of preventing himself from deepening the kiss, almost forgetting to breathe as they move together, wet and hot.
“You really are very brave, McGee,” Ziva says, low, and tempting, and mocking, of course. “I didn’t know you would ever have the courage.”
“I did tell you I can do difficult things,” he jibes back.
“Now, how are we going to spend the next few hours?” Ziva asks, managing to successfully sound innocent in her inquisition.
“I figured I could tell you all about my latest novel,” Tim says, smiling wider at her disgruntled response of an expression. “There’s gonna be a shock new twist.”
*
By the time Gibbs does, predictably, come, and Tony tells them they’ve captured McCord, and have actually discovered way more than four naval mines, Tim has told Ziva all about his next three novels (mostly making it up on the spot, because he had plans for Lisa and Tommy and now it seems like they’re really not going to work. Despite being his creation, McGregor is distressingly unpredictable) and they’ve had several uncomfortable and yet ridiculously enjoyable make-out sessions. And if anyone notices a difference between them, which, considering how much of a family they all are, they probably do, no one says a thing.
Author:
lozenger8/LozWritten for:
jack_infinitudePrompt: Ziva/McGee. The two are sent on an undercover mission that requires a certain level of intimacy. Preferred setting anywhere between the beginning of S4 and the end of S6. Cannot be a PWP.
Archive: I do not mind.
Genre: Het
Pairings: Ziva/McGee
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.
Notes: Title from the Barry Gray song “Dangerous Game”
Word Count: 2,460
Summary: Things don't always go according to plan, but Tim's starting to realize that that's okay.
Sometimes when they’re alone together, especially under stressful situations, and he needs to center himself or he may freak the hell out, Tim thinks about creating a shock new twist in his latest Deep Six novel and having Lisa hook up with McGregor. It’s not that he’s attracted to Ziva, he tells himself, it’s more just that she is attractive, and you know, McGregor’s a better catch than the rakish, but hopelessly immature Tommy. And when Tim needs to distract the section of the brain that’s always going through the computations of likely survival, he comes up with all the reasons why Lisa and McGregor wouldn’t work. (First on the list is that it’s bad narrative practice to lay down signifiers of one event and go for another that’s entirely different. Second and third devolve into disyllabic scrabbling such as, ‘because’ and ’it’s wrong!’)
Ziva turns around and studies Tim with an assessing glance, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You are not keeping your eyes on the present, McGee.”
“It’s eyes on the prize.”
Ziva half-shrugs. “That too.” She gestures back to the people they’re meant to be watching. “You are ready for this?” she asks, immediately sounding disbelieving. It brings out Tim’s indignant side. Everyone on the team seems to forget he’s a field agent the minute he’s required to be a field agent. It’s more than slightly annoying.
It isn’t that they don’t think he’s capable, he knows they all do. But being capable enough to hack into Interpol’s databases isn’t the same as being capable of pulling off undercover work, and it often seems like the usual attitude is if he can do one, he can’t possibly do the other. It doesn’t matter that he’s had the same training as everyone else; hell, if not more. Or that, because he’s made mistakes in the past, he’s extra careful now.
Ziva is the worst offender, when it comes to underestimation. And for reasons he doesn’t really want to analyse, it frustrates him even more than Gibbs withholding these kinds of assignments, Ducky calling him ‘dear boy’, Abby’s mocking sympathy, and Tony’s insistence on calling him ‘Probie’. It rankles even more than Palmer thinking they’re equally placed at the bottom of the ladder when it comes to the team hierarchy.
Tim admits, to himself, if no one else, that he can sometimes be petty.
“I’m ready,” he says with a nod. “Are you?”
Ziva gives a deprecating chuckle that makes the fine hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand on end. He’s never entirely sure when this happens if it’s from excitement or terror. Ziva doesn’t seem to notice. She positions herself in front of Tim and he wraps his arms around her, taking a light grip on her forearm that she could easily get out of if she wanted. He pushes the barrel of the gun he’s been given under her chin and slowly walks her forward.
Instead of concentrating on the possibility of getting shot in the head by the guy who thinks he’s Ziva’s boyfriend, Tim focuses on her radiating heat, on the sweet scent of jasmine that must be from her shampoo (softly whimsical, for Ziva, he thinks. Often she smells like gun oil.)
“Would you like to linger a little longer?” Ziva asks, her voice low and mischievous. “You do seem happy with the arrangement.”
“That would be the other gun, Ziva,” Tim replies, but he feels the corner of his lips twitching into a smile that he has to quash. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
The moment comes when their mark, ex-Mineman Jonathan McCord, moves further out into the open, away from the warehouse doors, swinging something that looks like a wrench between his hands.
“McCord,” Tim yells, because that was the script. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.” He continues to walk Ziva forward. “It’s nice, right? I think she’s nice.”
In reality, ‘nice’ is about the last word Tim would associate with Ziva, and once again, part of that is his inner writer coming to the fore, because it’s a horrendously empty word, and Ziva is anything but horrendously empty.
“All I’m gonna want in exchange,” Tim shouts, “is a couple of those mines I’ve been told you’ve smuggled out from under the Navy’s nose.”
The plan is a simple one. Ziva’s been working the case getting close to McCord the past three weeks, hoping he’ll show his hand, but time’s running out, so they’ve raised the stakes. McCord is meant to lead them to where he’s hiding the four naval mines they’ve been reliably informed he stole. He’s meant to care so deeply for Ziva that he does anything and everything to save her from Tim’s evil clutches.
Nothing goes even remotely to plan. It becomes blindingly, distressingly apparent when McCord’s friends come out of the warehouse and surround Tim and Ziva, holding primitive but still damaging weaponry. Tim always knew there was the risk of pain involved in this mission, but he’d hoped it would be minor. This doesn’t look minor at all. There’s seven tall, muscular men looking intent on maiming.
They wrench Ziva out of Tim’s grip, which he’s surprised about, because he’s been holding a gun to her head. These don’t seem like the actions of a rational, nor loving partner, and the reason is obvious when McCord starts to speak.
“You could have gone ahead and shot her for all I care,” he snarls, “I don’t like betrayal.” He swings the wrench again. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you? ‘cause you work together. Well, you know what? Now you can rot in hell together.”
*
Sitting on the cold-ass concrete of the warehouse, with his hands cuffed behind him and his legs bound tight, Tim wonders how McCord discovered Ziva was an agent. He didn’t appear keen to let them in on the revelation, preferring instead to literally spit in their faces. Ziva’s sitting a few feet away, similarly bound, propped up against a barrel. Unlike Tim, who’s actually finding the act of sitting up straight physically painful.
He’s not exactly frightened for his life, because he figures McCord and his merry band of lackeys would probably have killed them already if that was their intention. It seems to him that what they’re going to do is move the mines from wherever they’re storing them, and use himself and Ziva as insurance that they can do so hassle-free. Tim’s stomach twists uncomfortably with the realization that he’s a hostage. And, of course, he’s not the only one. Really, he expected Ziva to put up more of a fight, but the odds were stacked against them.
Far as he can make out, only three guys have actually stayed behind to guard them. If he could get out of the cuffs, he could unbind his legs, get Ziva free, and then they could go after McCord. He says as much to Ziva, who laughs.
“That would not be a wise idea. I do not recommend it.”
“Why not? We’ve seen tougher times than this.”
“That may be so, but you are likely to be injured attempting to extricate yourself from those handcuffs, and that would make it even more difficult to successfully negotiate escape, attack, and capture.”
Tim ignores Ziva’s lecturing and pulls his arms further back, testing how much room he has. He’s been researching escape methods for his latest novel. It would be good to test the theory.
“I am serious, McGee. Stop writhing around. It will not do us any good. It’s better simply to wait.”
“You do realize I’m not a child? I’m an agent just like you.”
Ziva mocks like she has a degree in it, and Tim’s not sure, maybe Mossad really do provide lessons on that kind of thing. “No one’s an agent just like me.”
He won’t let it go, though. He’s convinced he’s got to make her see. “I can do difficult things. I am trained. I don’t have to lie down and take defeat.”
“I must apologize. I did not realize I was offending your manly honor.”
“This isn’t a sex thing,” Tim says, in a rare display of speaking before his mind can kick into gear and self-censor. Ziva’s lips twist up and Tim can tell she hasn’t even attempted to take that the way he intended.
“Or a gender thing,” he futilely adds. “This isn’t a thing, Ziva.”
Ziva speaks with flat, ironic tones that never fail to make Tim bristle. “No. You would be this annoyed if it was Gibbs telling you not to make an idiot of yourself.”
“That’s an unfair comparison and you know it.” Tim says, very quickly surprised and gratified by Ziva’s head-tilt of concession. “Anyway, we both know Gibbs would never have gotten into this situation.”
“He will come for us. He always does.”
Tim gazes at the smooth angles of Ziva’s face, at her calm confidence and the element of reverence in her expression. She hero worships Gibbs even more than he does --- and, actually, does he look like that when he talks about him? Is there the ever-present manic belief? He thinks maybe there must be, and it unsettles him. Because he’s always understood that Abby and Gibbs have a father/daughter relationship, but now it’s clear Ziva has one with him too. And he and Tony are like Gibbs’ constantly bickering sons. It seems wrong that he’s never consciously noticed it before. That beyond one of Tony’s flippant jokes and Abby’s way of twisting Gibbs around her little finger, there’s real feeling there.
He’s still not sure they should rely upon rescue when, combined, they can rescue themselves.
“I genuinely think we can do this, where’s your self-belief?”
“You are either overestimating my abilities or underestimating theirs, McGee. Please remember, I have had to spend the last three weeks with McCord. I know what he and his friends are capable of.”
“Clearly you think I’m overestimating my own abilities,” Tim grumbles. He wriggles on the spot again. Damn, his wrists are already sore from chafing.
Ziva’s eyes sparkle in response. “Are you aware you are sweet as a zipper when you’re flustered?”
Tim levels Ziva with a stare. “That was intentional and don’t think I’m going to spend the rest of the day, and God-forbid, evening, correcting your wilful language quirks to keep you entertained.” Tim experimentally twists his hands around in his cuffs once again. “I award you many points for deflection, though.”
Ziva’s expression softens, but her tone is all hard edges and a hint of peevishness. “If you have not noticed how highly I regard and trust you, McGee, then you are even more of a fool than I have occasionally thought you to be.”
The more reasonable side of Tim’s brain is telling him to listen to the words of experience. Surely Ziva’s been in similar straitened circumstances enough times to know when to fight and when to pull back. But the irrational side of him really is offended on behalf of his manly honor. He admits it to himself, if not to Ziva. He wishes she had confidence in his abilities to get out of this problem, he wants to --- God, he wants to impress her. He wants, he realizes now with increasing shame, to rescue the damsel in distress.
Which Ziva really is not and he knows that, and this is why he, Timothy McGee, listens to self-help mp3s and occasionally smacks himself upside the head, because he’s just dumb in so many ways.
“In fact,” Ziva continues, and Tim didn’t really register that she was still talking, “I admire you very much.”
It starts to sink in that Ziva is looking at him with the curious mixture of coy and confused she can sometimes project, the vulnerability that is simultaneously at odds with and yet counterbalances the rest of her personality. She’s looking at him like he’s always denied wanting her to look at him. “I do not want you to be hurt.”
It occurs to him that in all the time he’s known Ziva, she’s been pulling his pigtails.
He ignores one part of her advice in order to wriggle closer to her. She watches with barely concealed amusement and frustration. But he’s stopped trying to get out of the handcuffs, and he really just wants to be next to Ziva, to feel the warm press of her leg against his own. Because he may be stupid in some ways, but she was making a declaration there, and he wants to make his own.
Finally they’re next to one another, when Tim’s back is aching and there’s sweat trickling down his forehead. Ziva shifts over to the left a little so he can also lean against her barrel.
“No more daring attempts at escape?” Ziva asks.
“No, I think I’ll just hang out here with you for a while.”
“I would like that very much.”
“So would I.” Tim leans into Ziva, and it’s awkward with his hands behind his back, but he manages to press a kiss against her cheek. Ziva turns her head and Tim’s second kiss lands at the corner of her lips. She initiates the next kiss, full mouthed and greedy. Ziva licks at his lower lip and he can’t help but make a little sound as her tongue slides against his teeth. He’s equally incapable of preventing himself from deepening the kiss, almost forgetting to breathe as they move together, wet and hot.
“You really are very brave, McGee,” Ziva says, low, and tempting, and mocking, of course. “I didn’t know you would ever have the courage.”
“I did tell you I can do difficult things,” he jibes back.
“Now, how are we going to spend the next few hours?” Ziva asks, managing to successfully sound innocent in her inquisition.
“I figured I could tell you all about my latest novel,” Tim says, smiling wider at her disgruntled response of an expression. “There’s gonna be a shock new twist.”
*
By the time Gibbs does, predictably, come, and Tony tells them they’ve captured McCord, and have actually discovered way more than four naval mines, Tim has told Ziva all about his next three novels (mostly making it up on the spot, because he had plans for Lisa and Tommy and now it seems like they’re really not going to work. Despite being his creation, McGregor is distressingly unpredictable) and they’ve had several uncomfortable and yet ridiculously enjoyable make-out sessions. And if anyone notices a difference between them, which, considering how much of a family they all are, they probably do, no one says a thing.
