Title: Wake Up Call (part 2)
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
Content Disclaimer: Violence, scenes of lovemaking between consenting adult women, poetic prose.
Author's Note: I claim insanity for attempting an NCIS story when there is someone infinitely more brilliant than I already writing wildly popular stories in this fandom, however, this story pleased her...so I also claim success. ;)
Thank You: To my darling, who inspires me every single day and whose smile lights every darkness. In one week, I'll be in your arms again, love. Not a moment too soon.
The first thing that struck Abby about Ziva's apartment was the warm, exotic, spicy scent of it. She identified clove, cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon immediately. Other more elusive notes underpinned the more obvious ones, giving the place the romantic air of a Marrakeshi marketplace.
The second thing that struck her was the coziness of the decor. Rich sable browns and earthen greens brightened by sunset oranges and decadent, deep ruby garnets, like drops of wine. Simple, comfortable furniture. Well-chosen and obviously meaningful artwork displayed on walls and surfaces like treasures rescued from a desolate oblivion. Discreet safety measures incorporated into the design so as not to be intrusive. All perfectly Ziva.
The third thing that struck Abby was the way Ziva was looking at her right now. Equal parts self-conscious doubt and predatory hunger, both painted with a look of utter adoration that made it difficult for Abby to breathe in the face of it. She looked back, her gaze openly wanton, openly reverent. She moved to the door, the space around her and all that was in it forgotten entirely. She flipped the dead bolts on Ziva's apartment door with deliberate precision.
"No more interruptions," she said. Her voice rumbled up from some place deep inside herself.
Ziva said nothing, only nodded. She licked her lips and gasped lightly on a small sip of air, her eyes wide. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
Abby grinned and took two long strides toward the smaller woman, stopping millimeters before they touched. The heat of Abby's desire buffeted Ziva like blinding desert sunlight reflected by white sands. She practically melted--no, evaporated--on the spot.
They gazed at each other, silent as stone, eyes searching for safe harbor in the storm of their need. Abby's smile faded, replaced by awe, as she delved into those rich, caramel depths. She lightly touched her fingertips to the corner of Ziva's mouth, swallowing hard, trembling suddenly with the portentousness of the moment.
They were alone. They would not be interrupted again unless a meteorite hit the building. There was nothing between them but fabric and a hair's breadth of space. All of Abby's desire, all of her love and want and need for Ziva, coalesced into a fluttering, desperate ache in her heart and tears welled up in her eyes. "God," she breathed, and whether it was a curse or a prayer, Ziva didn't know.
She also didn't care because in the next instant, Abby dipped her head and captured Ziva's lips in a luscious, deep, all-consuming kiss that stole every thought from Ziva's head and curled her toes where she stood.
Ziva whimpered and stood on her tiptoes, winding her arms around Abby's neck, holding on with all of her strength against the tornado of sensation pounding through her body. Abby, never breaking their connection, bent her knees and cupped Ziva's amazing ass in her hands, lifting her completely off the floor. Ziva threw her head back and gasped as she wound her legs around Abby's waist.
Bereft of Ziva's succulent lips, Abby lay a path of nips and kisses along Ziva's throat, suckling the younger woman's raging pulse point, one hand slipping under the ridiculously large tee-shirt she wore to skim over smooth skin and taut muscles.
"Off," gasped Ziva, desperately trying to tug the ruined cotton off her body. "Take it off...."
Between the two of them--and after some urgent tugging and clawing--they finally managed to divest Ziva of the drab shirt, dropping it to the floor without another thought. That left Ziva in only a lacy, black, barely-there bra and Abby gaped at the younger woman with naked hunger.
"Holy fuck!" swore Abby, her eyes closing against the sight, her knees buckling under the weight of her need alone.
Ziva cupped Abby's face in her hands and she plundered her mouth, hard and deep, relentless and unmerciful until the Goth had to wrench her mouth away just to breathe.
Chest heaving, Ziva pinned Abby with a gaze so untamed and electric, the older woman felt her skin tingle all the way to her fingertips.
"Take me to bed, Abigail," ordered Ziva, her voice silken desire.
“To make you mine,” murmured the taller woman, her eyes half-lidded, drunk with the mere thought of finally being able to touch Ziva in all the ways she'd been dreaming of for so long.
“I have been yours forever,” breathed the young Israeli. “Claim me.”
Abby nodded, wide-eyed, and licked ruby-red lips, her breathing labored, ragged. She pivoted and headed down the only hallway visible, praying it led to the bedroom. Ziva captured Abby's mouth again, kissing her hungrily, blinding her, making her stumble. They fell against the wall, the chill of it against her bare back making Ziva hiss. The impact broke them apart.
Abby twisted and stumbled the rest of the way down the hall with Ziva, shouldering her way through the partially closed bedroom door. Nothing about the room—not the lush and gorgeous bed bedecked in black and wine, not the glazed, fresco-like walls or the Ardon piece hanging on one of them, not the antique ash and olive wood furniture—could tear Abby's eyes from the woman in her arms.
She lowered Ziva onto the bed and drew trembling fingertips over her skin, mapping the younger woman's body with them and with her eyes, burning the image of her into her brain. She knelt between Ziva's legs and pressed kisses to her belly, hands splayed around a pair of reed-slender hips.
Ziva's breath hitched and her abdominal muscles clenched in anticipation of what Abby would do next, but when the Goth's kisses never escalated beyond the tender reverence she had started with, Ziva raised her head to look at her would-be lover.
“Neshomeleh?” she whispered.
Abby looked up at her, a question in her eyes.
“It means 'sweetheart,'” Ziva explained. “What is wrong, neshomeleh?”
Abby hid her eyes against Ziva's belly and murmured her answer against soft, warm skin. Her voice was so low the ex-Mossad could not hear it.
“Abigail?” Ziva asked, her worry growing.
Abby turned grief-flooded green eyes up to Ziva. “I almost lost you. Again.” She swallowed, anguish cracking her voice. “You could have died.”
Ziva sat up and Abby wound her arms around the younger woman's waist, holding her tightly. The Israeli woman silently began to unwind Abby's french braids, combing her fingers through inky black hair with infinite gentleness, caressing her softly as she worked.
When she finished her task, she sighed. “I could have, yes,” she agreed. “I did not, though.”
“I know,” said Abby, sadly. “But for, like, five minutes, I thought you'd been shot in the head and were lying in that cold hangar all alone, with no one to hold you, and all I could think was that I'd never told you how I felt and now it was too late. You were gone. Gone and I'd never told you how totally in love with you I am--”
Ziva gasped and Abby's eyes shot up to meet the younger woman's, one eyebrow cocked over a bright green eye.
“You knew that, didn't you? Tell me you knew that, Ziva. I mean, you realize I'm not—that this isn't just something casual to me. Right?”
A small, rueful smile curved Ziva's lips. “It is one thing to know something, Abigail. It is another thing to hear it said aloud. By the woman I have loved from the first time I felt her arms around me....”
Abby grinned. “Really? That long?”
Ziva nodded shyly.
Abby rose from her knees slowly. “You've waited long enough, then,” she said, purring. She pulled Ziva into her arms and moved her mouth close to the younger woman's ear, ruby-red lips parting to speak.
“I love you, Ziva David,” she whispered. Then she pressed a lingering, sensual kiss to the spot right below Ziva's ear, nibbling the sensitive skin there. “You take my breath away....”
“And you, mine,” said Ziva breathlessly. “I love you, Abigail Immaculata Sexburga Sciuto.”
Abby jerked back, stunned. “Okaaaaay,” she said slowly. “That's my full full name.”
Ziva nodded, confused. “Yes, and?”
“No,” said Abby, shaking her head. “Like, that's my full name. My confirmation name included. My very top secret confirmation name. The name I've never told anyone. Ever. Only my family and my childhood priest and the Mother Superior at St. Catherine's know that name.” She narrowed her eyes. “As far as I know, it's only recorded in my family bible and in the records at Immaculate Conception, my church in New Orleans.”
“Ah.” Ziva looked down, having the good sense to blush.
“How did you know that name, Ziva?” Abby kept her voice very even, but Ziva heard the suspicion in it, like a thread of fire-engine red silk woven into pedestrian gray wool. “And if you tell me you tortured the Mother Superior....” The menacing way Abby left that sentence hanging almost made Ziva smile.
Instead, the Israeli raised her eyes to meet Abby's, her gaze open and genuine. “I studied the entire list of the most commonly referenced female Catholic saints and...guessed which one you chose for your confirmation name.”
“You guessed.” Abby's voice was curiously devoid of inflection. She stood in front of the Israeli woman, hip canted to one side, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked...displeased.
Ziva nodded once, precisely and efficiently. She was not intimidated. “Yes.”
“You guessed the saint I chose...from over 700 names.”
Ziva nodded, again only once. “Yes.”
“How??” cried Abby, her curiosity finally getting the better of her.
“First, I eliminated all the names that were too...ordinary. Followed by saints who died of illness or old age.” Her brows contracted thoughtfully over dark eyes. “Of the approximately 300 or so saints left for me to research, only one ordered the exhumation of a sixteen-year-old tomb...and made the doctor wait outside the protective tent erected over the site while she made her initial examination of the body.” She smiled, pride in the powers of her deduction shining in her features. Then the smile turned almost predatory. “I suspect that Sexburga's uniquely...questionable...name also held some fascination for a young Abigail Sciuto,” she added.
Abby laughed and the sound of it melted Ziva's heart. “Why do you think I never use it?” she asked, sitting next the beautiful Israeli. “My mother almost had a stroke when I picked it.”
“And your priest?” asked Ziva, covering her sentimental reaction only marginally successfully.
“Wanted to recommend me to Rome for an official exorcism,” deadpanned Abby, quirking her eyebrows over sparkling apple green eyes.
Ziva's laugh was rich and wonderful and it made Abby's heart ache in her chest. The startlingly disturbing thought that she might never have heard that sound ever again cut the Goth to the quick and she reached out, cupping Ziva's face in her hands.
The kiss began softly.... Sweetly.... It was barely the press of one pair of lips to another.
Ziva looped her arms around Abby's waist and kissed the taller woman back, at first with equal tenderness, then with growing ardency. Her heart leaped against her ribcage when Abby deepened the kiss even more, parting her lips with an urgently insistent tongue to delve into wet heat. One hand slid into Ziva's long curls, fingers winding into silky tresses, holding her still so Abby could plunder her mouth, hunting uncountable treasures there....
Abby's other hand drifted down over soft skin to cup Ziva's breast, a thumb brushing over a tightening peak straining against lacy fabric.
“Yes,” gasped Ziva against Abby's rich, velvety kisses, arching her back into the touch. “Please, Abigail....”
“Please what, ma chère?”
Ziva looked down and blushed, biting her lip in a sexy little show of hesitancy. Then she pinned Abby with a gaze so hot, the Goth was in danger of immolating on the spot. Ziva leaned forward to whisper in her lover's ear.
“I want you inside me,” she said, her voice roughened by untamed desire. “Please, ahuvati.... Take what is yours....”
Abby's eyes fluttered shut. “Oh, God,” she cried, desire crashing over her in a towering wave. When she finally reopened them, she surged forward and claimed Ziva's mouth in a crushing, desperate kiss, lowering the younger woman to the bed again, fingers fumbling with the catch on her bra as they went, frantic until it succumbed finally and she was able to sweep the delicate lace off Ziva's body. She dropped it to the floor before returning to Ziva's breasts, hands cupping them, fingertips tugging at hardened nipples until, mouth watering, Abby couldn't stand the suspense any longer.
She wrenched away from a searing kiss to take one of Ziva's aching nipples into her mouth, burgundy lips stark against creamy, pale skin the color of café au lait.
“L'zayin!” swore Ziva. She arched her back, winding her fingers in long ebony hair to hold Abby to her, made breathless and wanting by the Goth's talented mouth on her. “Abigail!”
Abby grinned around Ziva's nipple, nimble fingers struggling with the closures on her cargo pants while her mouth continued to work magic where it was. Eventually the cargo pants slackened around Ziva's waist and the younger woman arched her hips off the bed, allowing Abby to push them and the lacy boyshorts underneath them, down Ziva's thighs.
Ziva made a sound of frustration and scissored her legs, trying to push the pants all the way off without disturbing Abby's ardent work. Abby groaned and pulled away from Ziva's breast, helping with Ziva's task until the younger woman lay bare beneath her. She took a moment to admire the perfect vision of her lover's body before she bent again to Ziva, bronze skin hot against her tongue as she took the neglected nipple between garnet lips.
“Gorgeous,” she murmured adoringly. “God, Ziva, you're a freakin' goddess....”
Storms of wanton desire ravaged Ziva's body. She fisted her hands in Abby's tee-shirt, seeking purchase against the raging obliteration that threatened her. Then she opened her eyes, the significance of the tee-shirt penetrating a lust-addled brain.
“Off...” she breathed, clawing at the fabric, trying to draw it up and over Abby's head. “Want your skin, Abigail.... Please....”
Abby exploded upward and grabbed the hem of her tee with both hands, tearing it off. The action made her unbound hair a wild, dark halo around her head for a split second. She undid the front catch on her black bra and shrugged out of it, tossing it onto the floor with the rest of their discarded clothing.
“Av Sh'bashamayim,” breathed Ziva, openly admiring skin the color of cream and its inked adornments.
The Goth grinned, pleased. “I know what you said,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows. “I don't need to understand Hebrew to know when someone says 'God in Heaven!'” She sat to unbuckle her boots one by one, dropping them to the floor with heavy thuds before shimmying out of the rest of her clothes. All that was left was the simple collar she'd worn to work that day, just a strip of black leather around her throat. “You like?” she whispered when she finished, presenting herself to Ziva shyly, the younger woman watching her with rapt attention.
“You are so beautiful, Abigail,” said Ziva, her heart shimmering in her eyes. “More beautiful than I ever imagined. More beautiful than seems possible in this world....”
Abby melted, her eyes filling with unwelcome tears. “Sweet talker,” she admonished softly, lowering herself next to Ziva and capturing the mouth in question in another bruising kiss. As their connection deepened, Abby lifted herself over Ziva, pulling away from the younger woman's mouth in order to lay kisses like oases along skin burnished gold like the desert at sunset.
Ziva closed her eyes and gave herself over to the feel of Abby's mouth on her, to the hammering thunder of her blood and heartbeat, to the heat coruscating along her skin like sparks, to the delicious ache consuming her. Every touch of Abby's tongue on her skin drew an answering moan from Ziva, every playful nip, another whimper.
She felt Abby kiss her belly again, but this time it was an altogether different sensation. What had been reverent and tearful was now decadent and lascivious. When the Goth raked her teeth gently over the swell of it and around her navel, Ziva gasped and her hips thrust upward of their own volition, wanting what Abby was hinting at, desperate for it.
Abby grabbed one of Ziva's hands and twined their fingers together, seeking to ground the younger woman who vibrated beneath her with unbridled anticipation.
“I've got you, darlin',” she whispered, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the inside of Ziva's thigh.
Ziva wound the fingers of her free hand in Abby's long, unbound hair, chest heaving with every breath. She felt the gentle pressure of Abby's free hand part her thighs, heard Abby's low, sensuous moan as her most intimate self was revealed, felt another chaste kiss pressed to heated skin, a tender beginning....
Then it was as if a flash grenade went off inside Ziva's skull, eradicating all conscious thought, all rationale as Abby kissed her more deeply, her tongue deft and precise, languid and earnest all at the same time. First, she was just a woman in love, a woman rooted in a pedestrian reality like so many others, tied to earth, to stone, to wood, unimaginatively common no matter how uncommon others might think her to be....
It was Abby's love, Abby's unfathomable devotion and the way Abby touched her, with such singular focus and an inexpressible depth of emotion, that raised Ziva up, lifting her out of the primordial tedium of humanity, ensorcelled and enraptured, blinded by starlight in that airless height.
Abby groaned into Ziva, wondering how she would ever be able to describe the taste on her tongue--at once sweet and complex, at once rich and heady, at once fiery and aequorial. The groan, though, was a low, aching sound that Ziva both heard and felt deeply and she arched to meet it, gasping when Abby chose that moment to slip two fingers inside her.
“Abigail....” Her voice trembled, a shadow of its usual musical timbre. Every stroke of Abby's tongue against her, every gentle, shallow thrust of her fingers urged her higher on that ladder to Heaven that she had once believed to be just a fanciful Torah story. But now, now as she climbed it, breathless, her skin glimmering with the effort, keening with unbearable pleasure and delicious pain, she understood why Jacob had seen angels when he had ascended it.
But it wasn't until she finally reached the top of the ladder, her orgasm propelling her through the silky haze of clouds crowding her reason, launching her directly into the heart of the sun, that Ziva understood...everything.
The pattern of her life, the weaving of her fate, the purpose in every action that had brought her to this moment....
Ziva finally knew that she existed in the world to love Abigail Sciuto with all the perfection afforded her by God, and as the thrashing of her blood slowly receded, like the moon-driven tides, she gazed at her lover with wide, unblinking eyes.
Abby slowly withdrew from the mysteries of Ziva David, kissing her gently, softly, making her way from between strong, olive-toned thighs, over the creamy swell of her belly, and upward, until their gazes met and her breath caught, awed by the look Ziva gave her. Ageless. Eternal. Sacred.
Her own soul leaped into her eyes, rushing forward joyfully. Whole lifetimes of possibility danced in their jade depths. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ziva silenced her with her fingertips, rising, drawing Abigail to her with the slightest tug. Their mouths melted together and they drowned in this one kiss, pouring everything each wanted to say, to do, to believe into it, letting it spiral in ever-widening circles of emotion, until Ziva's hands began their own exploration, fingertips drifting down Abby's arms and across her belly; over her hips and up her spine....
“My turn, Abigail,” she breathed, lowering Abby to the disheveled bed, lowering her mouth to Abby's glorious body in worshipful supplication. She pinned Abby with a heated gaze.
“I will make you scream,” she promised huskily.
Abby bit her lip, hard, and groaned, knowing that Ziva never made a promise lightly. It was something she cherished about the young Israeli.
Now more than ever.
Darkness fell and, with it, all the walls between them. Silence did not reign supreme in that darkness, though. It was broken again and again by sounds indicating that a skilled craftswoman was at work and that the object of her attentions—Abigail Sciuto—found those attentions to be absolutely...orgasmic.
At that exact moment, Ziva had Abby stretched out, prone, and the younger woman was mapping the large, Gothic cross tattoo on Abby's back with her tongue and her teeth. Ziva's blood was a river of flame and it pounded through her veins, stealing her reason, blinding her to everything but Abigail writhing beneath her, her pleasure winding out from her body in a decadent purr.
Ziva's hands were splayed around Abby's hips, holding her still—or as still as she could manage—while she poured all of her considerable attention to detail into the task. When she gently bit the edge of the hollow at the base of Abby's spine, the Goth threw her head back and groaned deeply. Even her feet curled and flexed, attesting to the depth of her ache for the woman loving her so completely.
Ziva followed the nip with the soothing heat of her tongue and Abby began to pant.
“God, Z,” she begged breathlessly, . “Please....”
Ziva uncurled her lithe body and practically slithered along Abby's back until she was pressed up against her, the heat of her skin scalding the Goth everywhere they touched. She leaned in close to Abby's ear.
“As you wish, my love,” she whispered, her voice low and dark and rich.
Abby's eyes fluttered shut. “Unnngh,” she moaned, blindly searching for Ziva's mouth, relieved when the younger woman captured her lips in a searing kiss. When they parted, Ziva guided Abby's hands to the metal bars of her headboard.
“These are very strong,” she whispered roughly, lust rendering her voice a tattered remnant of its usual strength. “And do not hold yourself back, Abigail. Be as...vocal as you need to be.” She took a steadying breath and her own eyes fluttered shut briefly. “Please....”
Abby nodded, her skin alive with desire, her body throbbing with unrealized need. She felt Ziva's hot mouth on her shoulder and her whimper turned into a keening cry when the younger woman proceeded to mark her.
Ziva slid her left hand between Abby and the bed at the same moment, fingertips tugging at a rapidly pebbling nipple. She let the fingertips of her right hand drift almost lazily down Abby's spine, tracing circles over tingling skin, heightening Abby's anticipation with every pass.
Abby gripped the bars of the headboard so tightly her knuckles were bloodless. Her skin was stretched so tautly over them, it almost creaked. She began to rock her hips into the bed, seeking some relief for the ache that arced outward from her center like a star-burst. Her breath came in needful sobs and when she felt Ziva's fingertips drift lower to tease and tempt the curves of her buttocks, Abby lost the ability to breathe altogether.
Ziva knew she had Abby right where she wanted her: at the height of her need. Any further delay would be cruel, so Ziva gently parted Abby's thighs.
“You are so beautiful, Abigail,” she whispered as she slipped three fingers deep into Abby, groaning when she felt how wet her lover had become.
Abby dropped her head to the mattress. “Oh, yes....” she breathed, half in relief and half in ecstasy from being filled so completely, so deliciously. She rocked her hips to meet Ziva's thrusts, sighing her lover's name into the night.
“Every day.... You do not know how difficult it was to see you, to have you smile at me or look at me with those beautiful eyes. You do not know how many times I almost said something only to have my courage leave me. And now.... Now we are here and you love me.”
“I do.... Ziva, I've loved you for so long....” Abby turned to look at the younger woman, that love glittering in her eyes.
Ziva kissed the spot below Abby's ear. “And I love you, Abigail. More than I can say.” She lowered her mouth to Abby's skin, suckling the spot where Abby's creamy neck met her trapezius, laving it with the flat of her tongue, employing her teeth with the greatest restraint, not wanting to harm her lover but needing that connection, raw, ravenous and free.
A strangled cry tore itself from Abby's throat and Ziva pulled her mouth away from its ardent task long enough to beg, “Please Abby...let me hear you. You do not know how deeply hearing your pleasure affects me.”
Abby tried to nod, tried to communicate her understanding to Ziva in some coherent way, but she couldn't. All she could feel was Ziva's fingers driving into her, deeper and deeper with each thrust. All she could feel was the desperation of her hips as they thrust backward to meet Ziva's passion.
“Please.... Please....” she begged, panting as a coiling spiral of light twisted in her belly and beneath her skin. She threw her head back and cried, “Fuck! Yes, Ziva!”
Ziva pulled her mouth from Abby's neck and pressed her cheek to heated skin. “Oh God, Abigail,” she groaned, the strength of her love guiding her hands, driving her onward. “Scream for me, neshomeleh....”
The desperation of Ziva's plea unleashed the lightning coiling inside her and Abby felt the explosion of light and love like a detonation in every cell of her body. Her cries filled the night and when Ziva heard them, she was caught in the explosion as well, shuddering with her own orgasm, curled around Abby's body, her answering keening cry a lyrical counterpoint to Abby's release.
Ziva brought Abby to climax again and again, hungry for the sounds of her desire realized, until—spent and trembling—she finally stopped, collapsing next to Abby in a glistening, quivering heap. Both gulped air into abused lungs, unable to speak, unable to move. Their hearts thundered in time with one another.
Finally, Ziva withdrew from Abby's depths and they both whimpered with the loss of their intimate connection.
“I am so in love with you,” breathed Abby, turning her bright eyes to Ziva, the depth of her heart clearly visible in that gorgeous expanse of jade green.
“And I with you, Abigail Sciuto. Desperately so.” Ziva's serious features seemed so stark to Abby that she grinned in response and tried to reach out a hand to cup Ziva's cheek. She made a sound of pain, though, when she tried to let go of the headboard. Her fingers refused to do her bidding, so tightly had she gripped them around the bars.
“Abigail?” Ziva heard the pain in the cry and her brows crowded over her eyes as concern flooded her. “What is it?”
“My hands,” said Abby, chuckling, embarrassed. “I can't get the fingers to move.” She blushed. “I held on harder than I thought I would, I think. You said they were strong. Guess I was trying to test that.”
Ziva rose up onto her knees. “Let me help you,” she said, easing Abby's hands from the bars and massaging the cramped muscles in her fingers.
Abby rolled onto her back and watched silently as Ziva worked.
“Why did it take us so long to find our courage?” she asked finally, her voice soft in the darkness.
At first, Ziva didn't answer. She simply continued to work the aches from Abby's fingers. After a few moments, she whispered, “We are human? I do not know. For me, the thought that revealing my feelings might disgust you and cause me to lose your friendship was too much to bear. I sought to retain what I had rather than risk it for something unknown.”
Abby sat up, then, and pulled her hands from Ziva's, cupping the younger woman's face with them. She brushed dark ringlets away from the bandage on Ziva's temple.
“It was the same for me,” she explained simply. “And it only took you nearly dying—again—for me to wake up.” She frowned, tears welling in her eyes. “I wasted so much time!”
Ziva leaned forward and kissed Abby, slowly, tenderly. When they parted, she rested her forehead against Abby's and sighed. “We both did,” she corrected. “The important thing is we are not wasting any more time, yes? That we took the risk.”
Abby pulled Ziva into her arms. “Yeah,” she said, nuzzling Ziva's neck before placing a tiny kiss there. “I guess that is the important thing.” She pulled back a little and smiled, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “But also important is the fact that we have 36 more hours for a little...catching up.”
“Have I ever told you that I adore the way your mind works, Abigail Sciuto?” purred Ziva as she let herself be lowered to the bed once more, Abby's mouth painting her with fire all over again.
“Nope,” said Abby, grinning into a torrid kiss. “I believe you mentioned something, though, about my tongue...at one point.”
Ziva laughed. “Oh, trust me, Abigail. I adore the way your tongue works, too.”
“Good,” said Abby as she dropped kisses across Ziva's collar bone. “Maybe you'll get a repeat performance of that tonight.”
“I had better,” breathed Ziva, her eyes fluttering shut. “That is an order.”
Abby winked. “Yes, ma'am,” she said, kissing her way down Ziva's gorgeous body. “Yes, ma'am.”
Early Thursday morning, Abby Sciuto woke in the pre-dawn darkness to the sensation of something soft and silky being swept over her back again and again. She groaned appreciatively and arched with feline decadence. Her lover was straddling her and caressing her with her long hair.
"Good morning, my darling," whispered Ziva, placing tender kisses to both the devil and angel tattoos on Abby's shoulders.
"Mmmmm," hummed Abby lazily, stretching carefully under Ziva's ministrations. "Good morning, chère. Is this my wake up call? 'Cuz I could get very used to this if it is." She grinned over her shoulder, green eyes twinkling in the growing half-light.
"I am happy to wake you in any way you prefer, Abigail," promised the ex-Mossad agent. "I am only sad when doing so means us parting."
Abby's stomach fluttered at Ziva's earnest words and warmth suffused her whole body. "Jeez, Z," she said. "Who knew that you were such a closet romantic?"
Ziva smiled wickedly. "You know so many of my secrets now. What is one more?"
Abby rolled underneath Ziva and the younger woman accommodated her, ending up at Abby's side with their bodies entwined. Abby yawned.
"What time is it, anyway?" she asked, looking at the windows. Ephemeral sheers caught the pale yellow light of dawn as if in a web and spun it out like silk to fill the room.
“It is late. Almost six.”
“You didn't run.” Abby was surprised. Ziva hadn't run yesterday because, well, they were otherwise engaged when her alarm had gone off. Otherwise very pleasantly engaged. She was sure that Ziva would run today, though.
“I had planned to go, yes,” she said mildly. Then she looked at Abby, a shy smile curving her mouth. “But I was making out with lost time by watching you sleep."
Abby leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to Ziva's, smiling into the kiss. "It's making up for lost time, darlin'. Not making out with." She gave the younger woman a crooked grin. "But I totally see why you were confused there."
Ziva blushed. “Yes, well.... I might have been engaged in a little...reminiscing,” she said slyly, her voice a half octave deeper than it just had been. She cut her cinnamon-colored eyes at Abby, the look in them smoldering, and the Goth caught her breath.
“Oh yeah?” asked Abby, her voice a purr. “What were you...reminiscing...about exactly, darlin'?”
Ziva leaned forward and whispered huskily, “The sounds you make when my fingers are inside you....”
Abby groaned and captured Ziva's mouth in an insistent kiss. “God, Z,” she said, finally wrenching her mouth away from the intoxication of her lover. “Fuck me.”
“We cannot,” said Ziva, her breathing ragged and uneven, her heart racing like a thoroughbred coming into the last turn in the Triple Crown. “You will be late for work....”
Abby shot Ziva a very displeased look...until she had a brilliant idea. “Not if we're efficient,” she said, smiling smugly.
“Efficient?” Ziva quirked an eyebrow at her lover.
Abby exploded out of the bed and took off across the room. “Race you to the shower!” she yelled, more than half way there already. It took all of Ziva's considerable skill to let Abby win the race, arriving steps after the Goth. Steam began to fill the room and Ziva's head as she thought about Abby's bare, beautiful body, slippery with soap, heated skin flushed, their tongues entwining as she pushed her against the shower wall and claimed her all over again.
“I could take matters into my own hands,” teased Abby from under the spray, watching as Ziva's eyes became hooded. “But I'd much rather put myself in your very capable hands....”
Ziva David did not need another invitation.
Almost exactly two hours later—at 7:59am—Abigail Sciuto stood in the security line at the NCIS building with her Caf-Pow and a brown paper bag, wriggling somewhat comically toward no discernible end. Or so Timothy McGee thought when he saw her.
“Hey, Abs,” he greeted, using his boyish charm to cut in the line right behind his friend and ex-lover. “New dance moves?”
“No!” Abby's exasperation exploded out of her with the word. “These underwear are smaller than I thought they'd be and they keep riding up in all the wrong places—if you know what I mean.” Her face darkened and she growled, trying to force herself to stop moving. It was only making things worse. “I thought having a girlfriend would be easier that way, you know? Being able to borrow each other's clothes?”
Timmy stared at Abby, dumbfounded, unsure where to start. Any comment by any man would be wrong, he knew. However, since he was Abby's ex, he had a much shorter lead chain available to him, and he knew that, too.
Should he say that he was happy for Abby and Ziva? He was; it wouldn't be a lie. But following Abby's revelation that she was wearing a pair of Ziva's underwear with a jaunty “Mazel tov!” would probably earn him a glare...at the very least.
Should he commiserate with her, stating that he, too, would have thought borrowing Ziva's clothes more convenient than borrowing, say, his? That, also, wouldn't be a lie. It might, however, insinuate that he was making comparisons where comparisons should not be made and that would mostly likely earn him a scowl and a smack. Deservedly so.
He instinctively knew not to even bother questioning the logic behind assuming Ziva's underwear would fit (considering the considerable differences in height between the two women) because nothing good ever, ever, ever came from any discussion of a woman's size, especially in relation to another woman. Especially when those two women were seeing each other. Disaster lay down that path. Disaster with added tears. His own, too, probably.
Finally, offering to go out and buy a pair or two of underwear in Abby's size would, he knew, earn him a very slow and painful death at the hands of one former-Mossad agent who had access to any number of weapons, both legal and illegal, and who would not hesitate to use them if the occasion called for it. Which it definitely would, in her opinion, if he did any such thing.
With no safe response available to him, McGee simply did what came naturally. He excused himself and fled to the back of the line.
“Hmpf,” mumbled Abby, watching him go.
She made it to her lab three minutes late, expecting to see Gibbs standing in his usual spot with a cup of coffee and a disapproving glare. Instead, she found five bankers boxes on a rolling cart and a Super Big Gulp Caf-Pow with a note. The note was from Gibbs.
Abs, there are more boxes and Caf-Pow for you when you finish with these. This is what we recovered from the body and the barracks on this guy. Let me know if you need anything. G
Abby frowned at the note and put the extra Caf-Pow and the little paper bag she was carrying—it contained her lunch—into one of her samples fridges. She returned to the boxes and lifted the lids off two of them, taking a sip from the Caf-Pow she'd brought in with her. A faint but very distinctive smell hit her nose and she ignored the first box to rummage through the second, stopping only to don a pair of gloves. She pulled the offending item from the box almost immediately. Or rather, items.
The combat boots were not the pair that Lance Corporal Joshua Fredrickson was wearing when he had died. In fact, they didn't appear to have been worn in some time—though appearances, Abby knew, could be deceiving. She was relatively certain, however, that the last time they had been worn, they'd come into contact with the contents of an influent tank at a waste water treatment plant.
She opened the rest of the boxes but found no more shoes of any type worn by the late, great Joshua Fredrickson. A quick call to Gibbs confirmed her suspicions that a diving team had been called in. They were searching the influent tanks at all the waste water treatment plants to which the Marines might have had access.
“Including the ones on the Truman which is, I believe, back in port in Norfolk?” she asked sweetly, referring to one of the Navy's active aircraft carriers. She grinned at hearing Gibbs swear just before he hung up on her. She closed her phone and waited, humming a bar or two from the Evil Cookie Whores' newest release to pass the time. Two minutes passed before Gibbs called her back.
“I'm moving the diving team to the Truman,” said Gibbs. “They'll be hip deep in an hour. All five Marines had a connection to that ship and it was in port when the last bombing occurred. Good work, Abs.”
“The nose knows, ya know?” she said, tapping the proboscis in question with her index finger.
“You have the best nose in the Navy, Abs. I'll get you more Caf-Pow--”
“Actually, Gibbs, I'd rather have what you promised me Tuesday.”
There was a brief pause on the line.
“Yes.” Abby's voice was hard and clipped.
There was another brief silence on the line, then Gibbs' sighed. “What do you want, Abs?”
“Swabs from every S-curve from every toilet on the Truman.”
“Too many. Every enlisted head. None of our guys were ranked higher than sergeant.”
“Deal. Then send him to me.” Abby narrowed her eyes menacingly.
“Your girlfriend know about this?”
Abby's wide-as-the-world smile split her features suddenly and without warning. “Nope!” she said cheerfully. “This isn't about her. This is between me and Tony.”
“And everyone thinks Ziva's the most dangerous woman in the building.” Abby could almost hear Gibbs shake his head.
“Then they don't know me very well. Now stop stalling. Tony, qtips, toilets! Chop chop!”
She closed her phone and went back to humming the Evil Cookie Whores song, opening the rest of the boxes labeled Lance Corporal Joshua Fredrickson and sorting through the evidence contained within.
The faint stench of Tony's little project reached Abby's nostrils before the man himself entered Abbyville and the Goth smirked, but didn't look up from her microscope.
“Abs, whatever I did, I'm sorry--”
“Did you get the swabs, Tony?” she asked harshly, interrupting his apology. She wasn't ready for his apology yet. She wasn't sure she ever would be.
Tony DiNozzo held up a large, pristine paper bag. The top had been folded over once and the chain of custody seal had been placed with exacting precision. He had even donned a fresh pair of gloves with which to handle his “precious” cargo. He had spent seven hours procuring all 143 swabs and he sure as Hell didn't want to do it again—especially for some idiotic reason such as he hadn't sealed the bag correctly. If he never saw another toilet bowl on an aircraft carrier again, it would still be too soon.
Abby scowled when Tony didn't answer, then she frowned—more at herself than at him—and looked up from her work.
Tony DiNozzo was the picture of boyish remorse and contrition and the worst thing about it was that he didn't even know why he was being punished.
“I got them all, Abs. Just like you asked.” He held the bag further out toward her. “All 143, perfectly labeled and sealed.”
Abby crossed her arms over her chest. “Put them on the cart,” she said tersely, jerking her chin at the steel contraption to her right.
Tony jumped forward, eager to do as she asked. He hated being in the doghouse with Abby. Hated it. It was the ultimate head slap—like being rebuked by Mother Teresa or disappointing a Golden Retriever. Though her spiked collars generally suggested Rottweiler, Abby was all Golden Retriever—loyal, smart, and devastatingly sneaky when it came to vengeance. Golden Retrievers were patient creatures who, when offended, would wait for days until you had abandoned your favorite pair of $300 Italian leather loafers at just the wrong moment, reducing them to shreds in seconds. That was Abby's style. Not that he would ever, ever openly compare Abby to a Golden Retriever—or any other dog, for that matter. Not and live, anyway.
“And again, Abs, whatever I did, I am so--”
“See, that's what really pisses me off, Tony,” said Abby, sounding more tired and defeated than pissed off. “You don't even know what you did.”
Tony closed his mouth and looked at the floor. When he lifted his head finally, he looked Abby squarely in the eyes. “No, Abby, I do know. I'm sorry for trying to come between you and Zi--”
Abby's bark of laughter caused Tony's face to crumple into an irritated frown. “What?” he asked defensively.
“That's not what this is about at all, Tony,” said Abs, shaking her head and grinning at the same time, her smile taking the sting out of her words. “At all. You could never come between Z and I. So not worried about that.”
“Then what did I do to deserve that—that—disgusting torture?” whined the agent as he pointed to the offending bag.
Abby put her hands on her hips. “What do sailors call bathrooms aboard ship, Tony?” she asked pointedly.
Confusion crept into Tony's features. “Heads?” he asked, sounding not at all certain. Even though he was. He'd been Agent Afloat. He knew exactly what the bathrooms were called. You only made that mistake once.
“Right. And maybe me asking you to get swabs from all the toilets on the Truman to which our suspects had access was my head shot. Or head shots. So to speak.”
Tony stared at Abby as if she'd suddenly began to glow purple with pale orange spots. Then understanding dawned in his eyes.
“Oh,” he said.
Abby frowned. “Yeah. 'Oh' is right.” She advanced on him and poked him in the sternum with one very angry finger. “I thought Z was dead once. I remember every single minute of every single day of every single month of that time. It wasn't fun, Tony. You—of all people—know that.”
Tony nodded morosely, remembering his own barely contained grief when Ziva's ship had gone down off the coast of Africa and they believed the Israeli woman to be on it. All the empty months afterward had run together in one long, seemingly-endless nightmare.
“So when you said 'Head shot, Boss,' when Gibbs asked you how bad it was—and I know you didn't know I was on the phone but still, Tony! Seriously? When someone asks you something like that you should be more—more precise! Because you never know who's listening, Tony. You never do.” The strength of her poking began to wane the more distraught she became. “You never do,” she repeated, sniffling. “And whoever's listening might be falling apart on the other end, Tony. Thinking that the woman she loves is dead on some cold concrete floor....”
Abby dissolved into tears and Tony pulled her into his arms.
“I'm sorry, Abs,” he whispered. He closed his eyes against his own stupidity.
Abby stayed in Tony's embrace for just a moment before sniffling loudly and finally pulling away.
“Yeah, well, don't let it happen again, Mister,” she said, poking him again, but this time without ire. She glanced up at him for just a moment and then turned away. “Now get out of here before I decide to challenge you to a duel for making a play for my girlfriend.”
Tony laughed. “A duel? Abs, you don't shoot—”
“Injured party chooses the weapon. How are you at tasers, Tony? 'Cuz Ziva gave me mine and I'm really good with it. Ask anyone.” She narrowed her eyes. “I'm sure there are bits of you—to which you are very happily attached—that you do not want me to fry.”
Tony held up his hands in instant and abject surrender. “Going now. And again, you have my most sincere apologies.” He began backing toward the door. “I'll even put them in writing. Or I'll do a press conference.” He slipped through the door and into the hall. “Whatever you want, Abs. Just say the word.”
“Bye,” she said, waving at him sweetly.
“Bye,” he replied, turning to make his escape.
Abby watched him go. When she was certain that he wasn't coming back, she reached for the bag of swabs he'd delivered and was about to throw them into the nearest bio-hazard waste receptacle when a thoughtful look passed over her face. She took the swabs over to her work table and breached the chain of custody seal.
“Can't hurt to see what he found,” she muttered to herself, realizing somewhere deep in her unconscious that this was her way of punishing herself for torturing her friend. No matter how much he deserved it, she still felt a little guilty. She prepared a small assembly line of test tubes, enzyme solution, and slides and methodically began the long process of identifying the chemical compositions present on each swab.
“Men,” she said tolerantly as she worked. Her ponytails bobbed when she shook her head and the small smile that tugged at her mouth made her green eyes shine.