NCIS
So, I've forayed into a new fandom--the TV show NCIS. This is a one-shot, set in season three, the episode Ravenous. Tony asks Ziva if the story she told in interrogation (that she danced and always looked for her father at recitals; he was never there) was true.
“Ziva?”
Ziva looked up from where she’d been packing up her things. It’d been a long week, and she was ready to go home. Tony was leaning against his desk, those long legs crossed at the ankle. He had his head cocked to one side, studying her the way she hated.
“Yes?”
“Was that true before? In interrogation?”
“Was what true?” She knew exactly what.
“The dancing thing. With your dad.” The look on Tony’s face was bothering her. She didn’t accept pity, not from anyone.
All Ziva had wanted to be was a ballerina. She had her pink tutu, complete with ruffles and frills and sparkles, and she had the best toe point of anyone in her class. Her teacher always praised her determination and her willingness to put in what she called “sweat time.” Her mother came to her recitals. Her sister came. Her half brother came. Her aunt Nettie and her cousins and her father’s secretary came. But her father did not.
She was seven years old when she asked him about it. She knocked on the door of his study, all wound up from the adrenaline of another recital, where she’d scanned the crowd and not seen him. She was angry at him, and she’d never been good at holding back her anger.
“Papa.” She burst in when he gave her permission.
“Hmm?” He looked up slowly from the papers he was going over, distracted.
“I had a recital tonight.” She came right up to his desk, further than she was really supposed to come into his study. If he asked her to meet him there (usually for a scolding for being too impatient or too loud or too something), she always had to sit in the arm chair that was so far from the desk she could stretch out her legs completely and not touch.
“What?”
“Why did you not come to my recital?”
“Zivaleh.” He sounded tired and he rubbed at his temples. “I did not have time. I am sorry if it upset you that I wasn’t there.” He glanced at his watch. “I believe you should be in bed by now.”
But the next day, he excused himself from a meeting to take Ari and some of her older cousins shooting. And Ziva understood-he didn’t have time for pink frills or pirouettes or ballerinas. He only had time for guns and assignments and Mossad. So she threw her silk shoes in the back of her closet and gave her beautiful tutu to her little sister. She didn’t have time for it either anymore.
“Of course not.” She said brusquely. “I was simply finding a way into the suspect. Sometimes it is easier to identify than intimidate.” She went back to gathering her things. “Besides,” she continued lightly. “Could you see me in pink lace?”
Tony grinned. “I’d love to.” He leered at her, slipping back into his familiar persona. “Should I come over tonight?”
She huffed and punched his shoulder as she walked away. And yet, as Tony watched her make her way to the elevator, he could have sworn she had a certain sashay to her gait.
“Ziva?”
Ziva looked up from where she’d been packing up her things. It’d been a long week, and she was ready to go home. Tony was leaning against his desk, those long legs crossed at the ankle. He had his head cocked to one side, studying her the way she hated.
“Yes?”
“Was that true before? In interrogation?”
“Was what true?” She knew exactly what.
“The dancing thing. With your dad.” The look on Tony’s face was bothering her. She didn’t accept pity, not from anyone.
All Ziva had wanted to be was a ballerina. She had her pink tutu, complete with ruffles and frills and sparkles, and she had the best toe point of anyone in her class. Her teacher always praised her determination and her willingness to put in what she called “sweat time.” Her mother came to her recitals. Her sister came. Her half brother came. Her aunt Nettie and her cousins and her father’s secretary came. But her father did not.
She was seven years old when she asked him about it. She knocked on the door of his study, all wound up from the adrenaline of another recital, where she’d scanned the crowd and not seen him. She was angry at him, and she’d never been good at holding back her anger.
“Papa.” She burst in when he gave her permission.
“Hmm?” He looked up slowly from the papers he was going over, distracted.
“I had a recital tonight.” She came right up to his desk, further than she was really supposed to come into his study. If he asked her to meet him there (usually for a scolding for being too impatient or too loud or too something), she always had to sit in the arm chair that was so far from the desk she could stretch out her legs completely and not touch.
“What?”
“Why did you not come to my recital?”
“Zivaleh.” He sounded tired and he rubbed at his temples. “I did not have time. I am sorry if it upset you that I wasn’t there.” He glanced at his watch. “I believe you should be in bed by now.”
But the next day, he excused himself from a meeting to take Ari and some of her older cousins shooting. And Ziva understood-he didn’t have time for pink frills or pirouettes or ballerinas. He only had time for guns and assignments and Mossad. So she threw her silk shoes in the back of her closet and gave her beautiful tutu to her little sister. She didn’t have time for it either anymore.
“Of course not.” She said brusquely. “I was simply finding a way into the suspect. Sometimes it is easier to identify than intimidate.” She went back to gathering her things. “Besides,” she continued lightly. “Could you see me in pink lace?”
Tony grinned. “I’d love to.” He leered at her, slipping back into his familiar persona. “Should I come over tonight?”
She huffed and punched his shoulder as she walked away. And yet, as Tony watched her make her way to the elevator, he could have sworn she had a certain sashay to her gait.