 | ShatterStorm Productions
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Author: barbossas_wench
Author’s Email: barbossas_wench@livejournal.com
Rating: PG-13/R-ish (for now)
Pairing: Jenny/Ziva
Genre: Pre-Slash/Slash
Word Count: 949
Summary: The nights were the worst for the both of them.
Sequel to: First Meeting I & II
Author's Disclaimer: I own nothing. DPB pwns all, I am mearly a fan. All I share in common with any of this is my name is Jennifer. Though, if anyone tried to call me Jenny, I'd kick their ass. :)
Disclaimer: "NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigative Services," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Belisarius Productions, Paramount Network Television Productions, Paramount Television, and CBS Television. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with " NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigative Services," CBS, or any representatives of Pauley Perrette or Cote de Pablo.
Four weeks later and they were still living the in the tiny apartment. Director David refused to speak to anyone but Ziva and Jenny’s Superiors in Washington were of no help either.
They slowly worked out a routine that was comfortable with them both. Ziva was a very early riser, leaving for her morning run sometimes before the sun had even had a chance to rise. She never ran the same distance two days in a row, for the first week Jenny was a nervous wreck; wondering what had happened to the younger woman. When she finally came through the door, soaking with sweat, her limbs visibly shaking she kept her reproach to herself.
What is she trying to outrun? Or is it who?
The younger woman would not meet her eyes, grabbing her towel and toiletries and heading to the bathroom.
When Ziva would return from her shower, the dark circles under her eyes still visible Jenny would have a mug of coffee ready for her. Ziva was surprised at how easily this American had learned to make coffee on a stovetop. It was usually too strong for Ziva’s liking, but she drank it anyway.
Ziva almost always made dinner. Despite the lack of cooking space, she could make just about anything and made it well. While Jenny was going over information on their targets in the afternoon, Ziva would go to the open air market. Everything she needed for dinner that night she would buy, fresh. While she was cooking, Jenny would go over the information she’d received. They were slowly reeling in the second-in-command of a cell of bombers. They hoped to set up a meeting with him soon.
After dinner, Jenny would clean up, Ziva teaching her the names of various things in Hebrew. They would also discuss how to set up a meeting with their target. Neither one wanting to admit that they each wanted the other far away from the bastard.
Before bed they would drink mint tea and Ziva would growl to herself in Hebrew over Jenny’s tendency to chuckle softly at her laptop as she was reading and writing personal e-mail.
Ziva’s life had been short on the girlfriends list, she didn’t gossip about clothes or cute boys as a teen. She’d spent her time at the shooting range learning to shoot every gun available. She’d entered the Israeli Army at eighteen and served her time before joining Moassad. There was no time for friendships and confidants. Her sister, Tali was the closest she had to a friend, and Tali was gone. So Jenny and her friends, giggling over some TV show called Friends was a bit distracting to her. She even Googled the show and after five minuets of looking at the official web page for the show she wondered how Jenny got to where she was.
The nights were the worst for the both of them.
Jenny sighed and cooed in her sleep. Ziva likened it to the turtle doves that roosted at the barn where her Father kept his Arabian horses. They were soft, gentle sounds occasionally punctured by a word or two of French and once in a great while; the name Jethro.
It wound Ziva’s nerves to the edge. She would crawl to the open doorway and sit watching the redhead sleep. In her tank top and boxer shorts she looked like a lanky teenage boy, sprawled across Ziva’s bed, sheet wound across her body like a lover.
Ziva did not know who this Jethro was, but in those moments, with Jenny’s face scrunched up with some remembered sadness; she wanted to shoot him in the face, point-blank.
Once in a while Jenny would also mummer the word ducky, and Ziva would wonder why in the world this seasoned field agent would wish for a child’s toy.
On the nights that Ziva slept soundly, trapped as she was by daemons of her short past Jenny sat silent vigil on the floor behind the sofa. Ziva would flail her long limbs as if fighting unseen captors.
Jenny, slowly learning Hebrew could only recognize a few words that Ziva would moan in her sleep. Usually ‘no’, ‘safe’ and ‘kill you’; also what she gathered to be a name, ‘Tali’. The sorrow in Ziva’s voice when she would utter that name would break Jenny’s heart. She wondered just who Tali was, she assumed it was a girl’s name. A past lover, perhaps?
When Ziva would finally fall into an exhausted sleep, Jenny would come around from behind the sofa and straighten the sheet over her body. It was the body of an assassin, Jenny knew if she ever woke her up in these moments, Ziva would have no idea where she was or who she, Jenny was. She knew there was a gun under Ziva’s head, she also knew Ziva shot first; asked questions later.
This night had been particularly bad, sweat soaked into the pillow under Ziva’s head and it looked like she’d been crying; a first as far as Jenny knew. She took her chances, brushing a damp strand of hair back from her face she leaned down over the taller woman and brushed her lips softly across her forehead.
A deep shuddering sigh broke from the Israeli’s lips, her whole body seeming to relax into the old sofa.
Counting her blessings Jenny crawled back into bed. That night her dreams took place in a Paris flat, but instead of being held by Jethro; she was holding a tall, dark-haired woman; offering what small comfort she could. Her small hands holding Ziva’s face, lips caressing trails across olive skin, kissing delicate eyelids and thumbs brushing bitter tears away.