DiNovia Drones On at The Limer Lounge

Rest in Peace, DAx (Patricia L. Givens)

seftiri — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 18:07:03 GMT

Patricia L. Givens, aka DAx, was the author of the very first piece of fanfiction I ever read on the Internet.

It was 1995 and I was attempting to write a spec script for Star Trek: DS9 in my spare time—just to see if script writing was something I wanted to do. The Internet was new to my household that year and I had just moved in with my first girlfriend. Our laughable “second bedroom” (note: it was a closet with a window and was painted Institutional Puke Green) became our office and contained my Gateway computer.

I entered search words into the Yahoo search engine (this was pre-Google), looking for examples of DS9 scripts. Instead, up popped a story called “Choices” by Patricia L. Givens. Within seconds of reading the disclaimer, I was hooked.

In the interest of full disclosure, I never really shipped Kira/Dax. I read this story by Patricia, wrote a ridiculous and unpublished one of my own, but my heart wasn’t in that pairing. I wasn’t a huge DS9 fan and—while Kira was my favorite character—I didn’t see her with Dax. My preferred pairing for Kira was Deanna Troi. (I wrote one of those, too—also unpublished. It was very, very dark. So was I, at the time.)

I printed “Choices” by Patricia, stapled it neatly, and put it in my filing cabinet. The story made it through several moves intact before finally being lost somewhere along the way. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to open one of a dozen random boxes still stored at my parents’ house and find it now.

What I didn’t realize at the time, but found out this past Sunday, was that “Choices” was Patricia’s first piece of published fanfiction. I would never have known that from the instant hook, the terrific pacing, the deft blend of humor and angst, and the absolute plausibility of the plot line. It was and is a good story.

Later in 1995, I was to discover the stories of Missy Good, the television show they were based on (Xena: Warrior Princess), and a new Star Trek franchise (Star Trek: Voyager began that year). By 1998, I was single again, living alone in Charlotte, NC, and spending nearly all my spare time writing Voyager fanfiction. Patricia was part of that movement, too, penning many, many J/7 stories. Her ability to write so many stories so quickly and cleanly is something I still admire. My wife, the amazing Lisa Countryman, also shares that ability. I, painfully, do not.

Eventually, I parted ways with the J/7 Voyager community to begin VJB and the B/7 community. Lisa Countryman came along with me; Patricia stayed with HerCaptain and the J/7 group. Life intervened and I lost touch with both Patricia and Lisa. VJB stayed alive due to the heroic efforts of Rachel of “Passion & Perfection” fame and was still a vibrant community when I returned to lead it again a few years later.

Lisa had moved on, too, and we--all three--penned stories in other fandoms, cognizant of each other only through what we were writing.

I should have known the wildfire of Otalia that swept through the lesbian fanfiction community a few years ago would bring me back into contact with DAx.

She became one of the most revered and prolific of all Otalia writers and I was lucky enough to be considered an elder along with her and Fewthistle, so much so that we three recorded a podcast with Allaine about writing and fanfiction and Otalia. It was an honor to be counted among such stars of our community.

“The Courtship of Emma’s Mother” shortly became the only Otalia unfinished epic that I followed until the time that Lisa Countryman re-entered my life and Otalia slowly faded away.

I think that’s why I’ve been having such a difficult time with the news that DAx is gone. Though we never met, her writing, her presence, has been a part of my life in one way or another for over 15 years now. She literally introduced me to the concept of Internet-published fanfiction and inspired me to publish my own. She was a part of several of the largest fanfiction communities at the same time I was. She was one of the writers that I admired and wanted to emulate.

Even our personal stories paralleled strangely with cross-country moves, professions in health care, and marriages all playing part at nearly the same time. I moved from North Carolina to California in 2011 to be with Lisa Countryman. Patricia’s wife had moved from her hometown on the East Coast a year before. Lisa became a nurse; Patricia’s career in health care was well known amongst those of us that followed her on Twitter. Patricia and her wife married late in 2012; Lisa and I married in July of 2013.

And now Patricia—DAx—is gone.

On Sunday, there was an impromptu and very sweet gathering of the Otalians in an old chatroom we had populated back at the height of the fever after the news spread about DAx’s death. Two of my Otalian friends, both of whom I have had the pleasure of knowing personally and virtually, invited me to attend. I should have gone.

I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t wrap my head around what had happened and what little we knew. I couldn’t understand how DAx could be gone, how a single Tweet could herald such a deep and unsettling loss. I still cannot fathom the agony now suffered by her wife and her family. The hard lump in my throat that accompanies me still wouldn’t let me grieve with the community to which we both belonged.

I can still feel the tears pressed against the backs of my eyes. Ready. Waiting. I know that grief is necessary and good, somehow healing in its passage.

But there is still a part of me that doesn’t want to feel that grief, a part of me that is so very unwilling to write these few, inadequate words in tribute to a woman who was such a strange, intangible, wonderful part of my life and the lives of so many of us.

It hurts to let her go. It feels too soon.

But I am thankful, grateful to still have her stories. To know that she will be known by them and for them. That they are now her presence in the world.

I send my deep and sincere condolences to her wife and family and to all of you, her friends and fans, at this time of loss.

And I hope that DAx has found what we all hope—that death is not just an ending, but is also a beginning.

The beginning of some new adventure.

The beginning of a new, exciting existence.

The beginning of a new story, with an instant hook, terrific pacing, a deft blend of humor and angst, and absolute plausibility of plot line.

Write on, dear DAx. Write on.

Chanukah Sameach! 2011

seftiri — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 23:31:52 GMT

During this festival of lights, when we celebrate the victory of the few over the many, when we honor the miracle in the mundane, I want to share with you these hope I have for you during this upcoming year. These hopes I have for you and for all are inspired by the lessons I have taken from the two women who gave me my Hebrew name: Yehudit Yocheved.

They are

When you are faced with overwhelming odds and things are at their bleakest, I hope you will act anyway. I hope you will do what is right, you will work for change, you will take bold chances and you will trust in your strength, the strength of your family and community, and the strength of your God or your spiritual path to help you see it through.

Both Yehudit and Yocheved stepped forward in strength when faced with overwhelming opposition and both won the freedom of their entire people.

When you stand up in defense of what is most precious to you, whether that is your family, your faith, your people, or your freedom, I hope you will find the strength to fight whatever battle comes with all that you have: every skill, every talent, and every shred of opportunity, no matter how small. I hope whatever the outcome, you will be secure in the knowledge that you did the best you could do.

Both Yehudit and Yocheved stood in defiance of oppressors, one to protect her community and one to protect her son. Both prevailed and are honored for their successes to this day.

When faced with hard choices, may you find the strength to do what is right even when your knees tremble, even when the voice in your own head doubts. May you find the opportunity to act from boldness. May you find the sweet taste of honeyed courage instead of the bitter draught of fear.

Both Yehudit and Yocheved faced heart-wrenching choices and somehow found the courage they needed, one to slay a fearsome leader with his own stinging blade and one to send her infant son into the mercurial arms of the River Nile.

When you are alone in the moment, beyond all help and all hindrance, may you find that ultimate connection, that oneness with the wider Universe, that place of expansion into the spiritual consciousness of us all and may you honor it. Honor it with words or tears or actions. Honor it with time and devotion and intention.

Both Yehudit and Yocheved stood poised, alone in the silence of a breath. One held a sword raised above Holofernes’ slumbering head, one held her son out of the Nile’s unknowable currents. Each gave that breath to God, with petition and praise, hope and humility, awareness and awe, and each alone knew what that breath gained them.

Happy Chanukah! May this Festival of Light show you the light you are to others and may it reflect back to you, brighter than you imagined it could.

With love,

Erin

Well, We're Still Here

seftiri — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 22:16:03 GMT

In cases of Doomsday Predictions, I like to give each predicted date a +/- 7-day margin of error before “calling it,” as they say.

Okay, no, not really. In reality, as with most of the Human population, I regard such predictions as they should be regarded: as a misguided symptom of the fear that has infected our nation and others over these last years.

This fear is not hard to see. I was driving to work in the pre-dawn hours the other morning and I spied a shiny new bumper sticker on a pick-up truck next to me. The bumper sticker said something to the effect of “Don’t Listen to the Liberal Media” and, as I do whenever faced with one, I sought the face of the person who would make such a simplistic pronouncement. The man driving that truck was approximately 65 – 70 years old, Caucasian, and balding. He had small, oval, wire-rimmed glasses that perched half-way up his rather bulbous nose. He hunched forward in the driver’s seat, his hands in the classic “10 and 2” position on his steering wheel. He wore red flannel, frowned slightly, and seemed to follow the speed limit exactly. Although I cannot confirm this for fact, I want to assume he was listening to Rush Limbaugh (or someone like him) on the radio.

It’s easy to stereotype this man as a right wing conservative pining for the “simpler, safer” era of the 1950s because that seems to be the driving goal of the most vocal members of the conservative movement these days. They characterize the 1950s as some sort of glorious utopia when, in fact, the 1950s were a complex and frightening time—for everyone who wasn’t an American Caucasian male. Even our current prime-time television hits and new movies seem to be reveling in our country’s homogenous past (see the popularity of shows like Mad Men, Pan Am, and The Playboy Club and movies like Captain America, X-Men: First Class, and J. Edgar).

The 1950s were anything but “simple” or “safe.” The decade bore the seeds of the Civil Rights movement, the Women’s Equality movement, the Gay Rights movement, and the decade simply known as The Sixties and ruthlessly attempted to extinguish all of them. McCarthyism, the Cold War, and fear ruled the land and the only reason anyone might now look back at the 1950s as a “simpler, safer” time is because the ruling class of society saw everything then—literally and figuratively—in black and white.

“Simple” and “safe” are concepts that have no bearing on society in any way, in any place, or at any time. Look no further than the oldest intact human remains ever found for the truth in that. Ötzi, the 5,000-year-old mummy of a Caucasian male in his 40s, found in the Alps along the border between Austria and Italy, was probably a hunter connected to a tribe that had begun both agricultural pursuits (he had recently eaten a meal containing einkorn, one of the first-ever cultivated crops) and metal-smelting pursuits (he carried a copper-headed ax that was likely made by an ancestor of his as it pre-dated his carbon-dated age).

He was also murdered.

Evidence shows that Ötzi was shot in the back with a single arrow which pierced a subclavial artery, causing him to bleed out rather quickly. Ötzi’s attacker shot him in the back high in the lonely Alps after the hunter had eaten a large meal. The attacker also took his arrow shaft and left the copper-headed ax, two items that might have identified him, giving credence to one theory that posits that Ötzi was murdered by someone known to him who did not want to suffer the consequences of the act.

How much simpler can life be than living for survival? Ötzi and his people had no money, no banks, no morning commutes, no vacation time, no PTA meetings, no paperwork, no Smartphones, no electoral college, no student loans, no blind dates, no Holiday meals at the in-laws’, no lunch meetings—in short, none of the modern-day societal trappings that make our lives so complex. And yet, Ötzi was murdered by someone known to him and for unknown reasons. The goal of this crime was likely not to acquire the ax, the single-most valuable item that Ötzi carried. It lay by his body, untouched.

Complex? Very. Unsafe? When is murder ever safe?

So it seems that we—the members of modern-day society—have two choices: perpetuate the lie that we can live in “simpler” or “safer” times if only we eliminate X or Y or Z or embrace the complexity of life.

I bring this up because, over the past week or so, the world has experienced some significant global weather events (earthquakes in Turkey and in the US, flooding in Texas and in Thailand, hurricanes in Mexico) and these always seem to generate a spate of claims by “the faithful” that these events herald God’s displeasure with this people or that political state or whatever or whoever best exemplifies that which “the faithful” loathe. This morning, I found myself wondering why we Humans use such natural phenomena to promote our belief that God hates what we hate. Why do we not see these events as a call to help and care for one another?

Again, fear. Encampments of fear. How else would you explain the increase in discussions about the viability of segregation here in this country? How else would you explain the vitriolic rejection of science by our leaders? How else can we possibly justify our country’s treatment of both citizens and immigrants alike who do not fit into very narrow classifications of what is deemed “okay”?

The truth of the matter is this: we can send aid to the people of Turkey and of Texas without supporting their politics or their priorities. We can work together without agreeing 100% on every topic. We can sit next to one another and share a meal without compromising our principles and our truth.

Easy to do? Hardly. But it can be done. For me, the thought of sitting down to a meal with someone like, say, Victoria Jackson, who is such a vocal homophobe, makes me cringe with dread. And yet, there is something in me that says to refuse to sit down to a meal with her would be wrong. It would be unjust. It would be an opportunity lost. For how can she see me as a fellow Human being, with rights and value and integrity, if I stay in my encampment and she stays in hers?

She and I are different and yet we are the same. We have different values, different goals for our lives, different beliefs…but we are also both women, both citizens of this country, both complex beings with lives and loves and ideals that we treasure. Her beliefs do not outweigh mine, nor mine hers. We can hold to both and still work together for the good of all.

It’s not a simple undertaking. No one, anywhere, is truly safe.

Instead of complaining, we should just get to work. There’s plenty of that to do.

Start by dismantling your encampments of fear.

Erin M. Hoagland
October 27, 2011

I Think I Just Leveled Up in World of Real Life

seftiri — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 20:39:28 GMT

I am an ex-WoW player. For those of you who are still uninitiated or culturally unaware, WoW stands for "World of Warcraft", an MMPORPG of massive proportions that has both been praised and villified for its longevity and domination of its genre.

For those of you who do know about WoW, you know how truly rarely someone can claim the description of "ex-WoW player." It's been almost two years since I stopped playing and when I played, I played only once a week, for approximately 4 - 7 hours. I was not, even at the height of my involvement with WoW, what you would call a "typical" player.

You know what? It turns out it doesn't matter how much or how little I played WoW; I still wake up some nights in the middle of the night thinking "I need to go fishing at Menethil Harbor" or "Maybe I could just hang out in Westfall for a little while and mine..." It is, I imagine, similar to what any ex-addict might experience in the middle of his or her night, too. And yes, since quitting, I have read the articles about the theory of gaming addiction and how the game coders specifically design their games to promote a multilevel addiction experience--whether that be adrenaline or Pavlovian click/reward or achievement or fame or all of that and more.

But I think the authors of those articles failed to mention why all of that works, even on people like me: the extremely atypical WoW player.

We're all very disgruntled. That rather goes without saying and, really, applies to every single human being. Who amongst us feels completely in control and powerful about every aspect of his or her life? No one, that's who. If you can find one human being anywhere on this planet who feels right in his/her skin 100% of the time, don't--under any circumstances--tell anyone. That poor person would be hunted down and eradicated before you could whimper "What have I done?" and then where would we all be?

Regarding WoW, though, it caters to several specific types of disgruntled persons.

First are the people whose lives lack structure, clarity, and predictable punishment and reward in proportions that would be a comfort. Basically, me, though the structure, clarity and measurements of punishment and reward in my personal life have stabilized wonderfully comparative to when I first started playing WoW. Unfortunately, I also happen to be very sensitive to the structure, clarity, and measurements of punishment/reward in my wider communities, specifically the national and world political environment, and it is that dysfunctional mess that I believe has me waking up in the middle of the night, pining for Stormwind City and Ironforge.

There's no mystery here. WoW (the non-PvP, non-Guild, casual player option) offers standard factions, clearly demarcated, coupled with mathematically-inspired quests where action X always results in consequence Y. I often adventured solo or worked with very small groups of fellow players who shared a (short-term) goal or who were my friends in real life. Though the actual play (how many shots will it take to kill that stupid Kobold miner this time?) varied, the quests did not. Kill this many X and receive Y. Collect X [insert item here] and give them to NPC Y and move on to the next quest after collecting your just reward. In between quests, use that hard-won gold you've earned to shop for prettier or more useful A, B, C, or D. Or, if you'd rather, learn a skill. Put it to use and earn more gold. Spend that gold on even prettier or even more useful A, B, C, or D.

One of the reasons I left Wow was because I eventually realized there were only so many ways a casual, non-PvP player could experience these equations in the game. When I finally analyzed my expenditure of time and effort versus the perceived (game-based) and actual (real life) reward, the game came up WOEFULLY short.

I sat in a chair, alone, in my apartment, for 4 - 7 hours every weekend, clicking a mouse button. The game-based reward was negligible; 4 - 7 hours of game play a week barely registers as a blip in the MMORPG world. I could neither amass enough gold or the number of levels required to lull me into a sense of achievement. The real life reward was flat nil. In fact, it was negative. I was not physically active, not engaging in social bonding, nor improving my knowledge or my skill-base. I was barely engaging in critical thinking. And yet, it is exactly that lovely, boring, thoughtless predictability that I still sometimes crave, if only to remind me that--somewhere, no matter how fantastical--X + Y will always equal Z.

I wish the real world worked that way, too. I want to go to work, do dishes, fold laundry, make dinner, love my girlfriend and our kitties, sleep 6-ish hours a night every night of the week and have those accomplishments always equal X "gold" and result in nothing unexpected. But real life gives us chaos and the unknown and the unforeseeable in varying measure so that you can do all of those real life "quest tasks" and still end up with a blown carburetor or H1N1 or a parking ticket or--on the other hand--an unexpected refund check or a visit from a long-lost friend or flowers for no reason. Life, by definition, is unpredictable. Which makes predictable scenarios very seductive to those of us who suffer a certain amount of existential discomfort with the unpredictability of life, no matter how well we seem to dispense with it every day.

The second disgruntled type catered to by WoW is the person who feels powerless in one or more areas of his/her real life. For example, someone who feels oppressed or inadequate or "less than" on a daily basis, either in physical prowess, physical attractiveness, intelligence, leadership capabilities, etc. These disgruntled types care less about the predictability of the questing and gravitate more toward PvP battling or the Guild-membership model of WoW. These are the people who either crave the chaotic anarchy of leveling up as a PvP character just so he or she can mindlessly kill other PvP characters more quickly or they are the people who crave building the most powerful team of characters so that they can "win" the game (assuming that raiding the final boss--whoever that is this month--is considered the "win scenario.")

These are the grinders, who play incessantly to level their characters up to the highest achievable level (again--whatever level that happens to be this month), who farm gold in order to buy the best armor and weapons, who basically do everything in their power to create the most perfect being in the game so he or she can either destroy other "perfect" characters or join with them to "win" the game. Their perceived (game-based) and actual (real life) reward are nearly one in the same because so much of their real life is taken up by game play as to be almost indistinguishable from it. These are the people who continue to voice-chat with their guilds in their off-WoW chat clients while they wait out Blizzard's regularly-scheduled maintenance downtime. These are the people who sometimes die from dehydration or other game-induced injuries--or so the media would have us believe. These are the "true believers."

And I get it. I do. I really do.

When I first started this post, I knew where I wanted to go with it. I wanted to level an indictment against a world that would a) make us all feel so powerless and then b) give us a way to waste what precious time we have clicking a mouse button in search of redemption. I even waxed a little ridiculous, thinking how great it would be if there was a game that logged your real life achievements and gave you validation for those. Like a game of the Sims, but not. You'd get points and validation for finding a job for yourself instead of a little animated character. The computer would tell you what a good job you were doing.

But, if you're like me, you don't lack in validation. You get it with some regularity from your parents, your partners, your children, your friends, your co-workers, your teachers, your pets, etc., etc. If you're really lucky, you get a little from yourself, too. The problem is, we're taught not to believe it. We're taught to dismiss it, to ignore it, to be suspicious of it. We're taught to invalidate whatever validation we get. Which then makes us feel powerless or less than or unregarded. Which then makes us disgruntled. Which then sends us to anonymous fantasy worlds in which we hope to recoup our losses.

I don't need a computer to tell me that I'm doing a good job or that I've achieved something wonderful. I need to tell myself that--and I need to believe it.

No, the world is not perfect. I'm 60 pounds overweight, I often feel unattractive, I don't have a colon anymore, and food and I have a very love-hate relationship (I love it and it hates me). There's never enough time or money or motivation to get everything that needs to be done, done. I'm not considered equal under the law in my own country and the world seems to be imploding on every level it possibly can.

But I'm in love with a beautiful woman who loves me back, fiercely, and we have a home and a family and all the necessities. I was able to walk 1.5 miles today at lunch under a cloudless, Northern California sky, accompanied by butterflies and bluebirds, and at the end was a bag of tiny, cow-shaped chocolate cookies that were only 100 calories. I have parents and siblings and nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles and cousins who love me and friends all over the world. I do good work for a wonderful University and I love doing it. My co-workers are generous, happy, decent people and they believe in teamwork and validation. Yesterday, my management team gave me yellow roses for working the weekend. I have a brain and a heart and relationship with God that is mine alone and not something that I would ever hold over someone else. I smile and do so often.

So the next time I have the urge to visit Stormwind City or Ironforge, I think I'll kiss my girlfriend or organize the kitchen or pet the cats instead. And I'll tell myself that's okay.

Because it really is.

Erin Hoagland
::wondering if MMRLRPG has already been taken::

What Happened to Us?

seftiri — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 22:28:25 GMT

And by us, I mean the US in general and all of us specifically.

Did the Me Decade 80s narcissism issue the entire United States a death blow we didn't feel and failed to treat?

I've been listening to the news on the radio to and from work these past few days and each day I feel more and more disheartened. The two most uplifting stories I've heard in the past week were one on the changing face of Egyptian popular music since the change in their regime and the one about the bipartisan Everyman grassroots movement called Occupy Wallstreet growing larger.

That's it.

The rest of the news has been about how group X wants door number 1 and group Y wants door number 2 and no one's going anywhere while they sit and argue about it. Compromise? Teamwork? The Greater Good? Unheard of. Not discussed. Not even considered.

NPR did a retrospective yesterday because it happened to be the 64th anniversary of the first televised Presidential address to our country. The president at the time was Harry Truman. And do you know what the topic of that momentous address was? It was food.

Or rather, it was a plea from the President of the United States for all Americans to exert self-control and eat less during the week so that we, a nation blessed with abundance, could help Western Europe survive the winter and spring of that year. Western Europe, you see, had nothing to sustain them for the fallow seasons because they'd been occupied by war and weren't concerned with harvests and canning and preserving.

President Harry Truman said it was our duty as Americans to do what we could do to help Western Europe and he outlined what would now be considered simplistic measures to cut down on our weekly comestibles consumption. Not eating meat one day a week. Not eating poultry and eggs another. Having one less piece of bread with every dinner. Having restaurants only serve bread and butter upon request.

I expect that these days, most people would say "Let 'em starve!" and worse, considering what I've seen in the comments below some of the most benign and/or heart-wrenching stories on the Internet.

We have some of the most talented, most able, most creative, most driven people in the world here in the United States, capable of solving so many of the world's ills, capable of elevating us all to such great heights.... What do we do instead? We draw lines in the sand and argue about ridiculous things. We watch "reality" television, not caring that it represents no one's reality. We denigrate one another, both anonymously and publicly, expending more time humiliating and besting one another than working together.

This country is fractured. Broken. Almost shattered.

The politicians are so out of touch with their own constituency that there are actually people out there who are fighting for the right to steal from their own citizenry. The government is so out of touch with reality that they've declared corporations to be equal to individuals, selling our country to the highest bidder. The holders of the most capital are so out of touch with reality that they pay their CEOs and CFOs huge bonuses in the times of bailouts and economic collapse and unemployment so massive as to be practically outside our historical frame of reference.

I heard one very angry man say, very seriously, that it was not the responsibility of corporations to work for the good of the country. It was their responsibility to work for the good of their owners, their shareholders, their employees, and their customers! He was so indignant about it, taking offense that the interviewer would suggest that any corporation had any responsibility toward assisting in job creation. And yet, who are these owners, these shareholders, these employees, and these customers if they are not also citizens of this country?

I work in administration in a large University. For 23 years, I have worked in either customer service or administration and one thing is constantly repeated to those of us in these positions: "Everyone is your customer!" Meaning, every single person that you work with should be treated the exact same way as you would treat a paying customer, whether that person sits in the cubicle next to you, answers your call in the department down the hall, or empties your trash can at the end of the day. You work for every single person you work with.

Why is it so hard for all of us to remember this? What are we really fighting about, anyway?

Nothing. What we're doing--collectively--is taking our own hard luck out on those people around us, aiming first for those who are the most different, the weakest, or the ones least likely to fight back. Basically, the entire United States has become infected by bullyism.

No wonder bullies are running rampant in our schools; they're running rampant in our culture!

I don't understand it, either. The same people who claim to be the most devout, the most honorable Christians cheer when the Governor of Texas states that he's proud of his record of presiding over the most state-sanctioned deaths via lethal injection. They jeer when an honorable soldier who has done nothing but fight for this country and represent it with honor and integrity comes out publicly as a gay man. These same people decry spending "their" money to assist those who are worse off in some way, saying, essentially, "I got mine, now you get yours!"

These are not Christian attitudes. According to the New Testament--so named because it was supposed to be the new theology--there are two rules: Love God and love one another as God has loved you. There are no exceptions to that "one another" part. It does not say "Love one another--except for the poorer ones, or the ones who are a different color, or the gay ones, or the fat ones, or the female ones, or the disabled ones, or the ones from a different political party, or the ones of a different ethnic or national background, or the ones that follow another religion--as I have loved you." It doesn't say that. Not in any translation, not by any stretch of anyone's imagination.

"Love one another as I have loved you." In essence, a repetition of something said elsewhere in the Bible: "You are your brother's keeper."

So what's wrong with us? How did we, as a nation, go from being that up and coming young kid with all the great ideas--the one voted most likely to do the most for the world--how did we go from that to being the village bully and the village idiot all rolled into one?

Right now, right this very second, we are SQUANDERING our history, our reputation, our potential and our future--all at the same time!

Why are we standing up for what we have or what we perceive we are or what we think is owed to us? Why AREN'T we standing up for one another?

We are still ONE nation no matter how much we fight about God, or liberty, or justice for all and what that means.

We'd better start acting like it, too, because if there is one thing that has played out over and over and over throughout history, it is the fall of nations divided internally.

Is that what we want?

That's not what I want.

I want to elevate others, I want to help people out when I can, and I want others to offer to help me when I need it. I want to be considered equally valuable under the law by my fellow citizens even though I may be different from them. I want us to work together to solve our problems so that we can work together to be the great nation we once were.

Because, let's face it, we're NOT great right now. We're not even close.

But we can be. We can be great again.

Every day is a new day for every single one of us to start over again.

Let's not wait until those days go away before we recognize our legacy.

We have a choice. We can play "Whoever has the most toys wins" or we can play "the three-legged race." Sure, the three-legged race is awkward, it's messy, it's difficult, but if it's done right, it's fun and funny and everyone gets over the finish line.

That's the United States I want; the one where everyone gets over the finish line.

Erin M. Hoagland
Part of the 99%

And So it Begins....

seftiri — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 04:16:59 GMT

It's official! I gave my notice today and am leaving for CA and the love of my life on Sunday, 8/14.

I can't wait! My past, present, and future are finally meshing well and I'm ready to start a new life.

Am I a little anxious? Yes. Am I waaaaaay excited? Hell, yes! Am I a little sad? Yes. Am I so very happy that I'll have family and friends on both coasts now? YES!

So, those of you wondering what the Hell is going on with me, here's your update:

I'm head over heels for a beautiful, amazing woman and we've decided that our little family doesn't need to be bi-coastal anymore.

I have procured a new career position at a wonderful academic institution and will start there at the end of the month.

In the meantime, I have given notice at my current position, I have packed and sorted and downsized, and I am ready to hop in my car--with said girlfriend--and we'll be off for home on 8/14.

I'll try to update you a little more recently from now on, okay?

Twoodles!

Erin

Well, of course! I am a Chaos Manager, after all!

seftiri — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 03:20:48 GMT

Donna Noble
Take Which Doctor Who companion are you? (girls) today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Personality Test Generator.</p>

You're Donna Noble!

Oi! Wotch it, Martian boy! The Doctor thinks he can spout all kinds of ridiculous technobabble and 'Last Time Lord Angst' at you just because he's from outer space, huh? Well, you're not having any of it! You've got a heart of gold and a will of iron, and you're a rather boggling combination of a romantic idealist and a staunch realist. But you never let logical paradoxes get to you; you prefer to shoehorn the universe into a little box of your own perception. More often than not, it fits... probably because the universe is too intimidated to argue!

Hell yes!

Nobody better. Yay!

Erin

A Rare Meme, Day Eight

seftiri — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 02:05:59 GMT

A Rare Meme, Day Seven

seftiri — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 23:15:38 GMT

A Rare Meme, Day Six

seftiri — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 08:08:26 GMT

A Rare Meme, Days Four and Five

seftiri — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 23:04:58 GMT

Ooops!

Was incapacitated and forgot to do this. So you get two for one!

So, each day, you are supposed to answer one of these:

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Feel free to do your own!

----------------------------------

Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.

(I sort of wish I could do this in pie chart form.....)

Okay, yeah. That's not seven. You're right. ::sigh::

1. My love....
2. The urgent world-wide need for transporter technology.
3. The plight of the honeybee. Where are they all going? Is it nice on their home planet? Will they come back? What do they know that we don't?
4. The shape, color, and clarity of my personal theology.
5. "What am I going to have for.... (breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack)?"
6. The ways that I plan to spoil my love the next time that I see her.
7. "Is there chocolate nearby and can I have some?"

---------------------------------------------------

Day Five: Six things you wish you had never done.

1. I wish I hadn't ruined my brother's belief in Santa Claus when he was only three. Ruining a kid's magic is a terrible thing to do.
2. I wish I hadn't beaten up that kid when I was twelve. He was a bully, yes, but there were really good reasons why and I didn't know them until much later.
3. Boston. Nearly in its entirety. Although it is a lovely place.
4. Wingate College. We were SO not a good match.
5. I wish I hadn't failed to comply with my medical regimen when I was in my 20s. If I'd only understood what the stakes were, I might have been able to save myself some significant health issues.
6. I wish I hadn't let fear keep me from trying again with Lisa for so long. And yet I wouldn't trade a single minute of what we've built together now. A definite conundrum.

----------------------------------------------------

More later!

Erin

A Rare Meme, Day Three

seftiri — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 03:59:30 GMT

So, each day, you are supposed to answer one of these:

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Feel free to do your own!

-------------------------------------------------------

Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart. (These are written to the one who won my heart.)

1. You wrote to me, about me, for me, and with me. Writing is such an intrinsic part of my nature and sharing that passion with me is a sure way to tug at my heart. It helps that you do it so very well, my darling.

2. Your gorgeous laugh. The capacity to feel and express joy is essential to me and the workings of my heart. Your laugh never fails to inspire joy in me and is one of the best and most beautiful indications of your joy.

3. You hold my hand or put your hand on my back or arm when we're in public. It may be anti-feminist of me, but I love the way it makes me feel: connected to you, chosen by you, regarded, special, and protected.

4. You tell me that you need me. You ask for my help and for my opinions. My deepest sense of personal accomplishment comes from being useful to others, from helping to make others' lives easier. Making your life easier makes my life wonderful.

5. You cook for me. Not only are you a fabulous cook, but when I had special dietary restrictions, you adapted favorite recipes to those restrictions and pre-tested them to make certain they were acceptable for me to eat. Again, this may be anti-feminist of me, but you are so beautiful when you are cooking. It totally has nothing to do with the cooking but rather with your complete focus on your task and your confidence and the way you move when you are so focused.

6. You support me spiritually. You embraced my conversion to Judaism wholeheartedly, even accompanying me to services, researching linguistic rules, synagogues near you, and customs and songs for the various holidays. You cooked me my first Shabbat dinner and you ask questions when something is confusing, which helps me to think more about my faith and makes me a better Jew.

7. You worry about me and take care of me when I'm sick. I know that may seem like it's all the time sometimes, but you are so good at taking care of me when I'm not feeling well. I never feel judged or as if I'm a burden to you. Never. Just those two things alone help me to feel better much faster, I think.

8. You believe in me. You believe in my dreams and in my abilities and you encourage me to pursue them. You are my biggest cheerleader and my biggest defender. You don't let me sell myself short and you never give up on me when I do fall short. You help me to be a better person by focusing on the positive and encouraging it.

A Rare Meme, Day Two (Late)

seftiri — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 05:49:40 GMT

A Rare Meme, Day One

seftiri — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 07:07:52 GMT

Stolen from ariestess .

So, each day, you are supposed to answer one of these:

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Feel free to do your own!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.

1. I have never loved anyone nor felt as truly loved by anyone as I love and feel loved by you. I'm so deeply happy we found each other again and so incredibly amazed by the fact that you chose me, are choosing me. Every day with you is a beautiful day. My heart aches from missing you, my darling. Soon, I will be home in your arms again.

2. You are the best friend I've ever had and the most lost. I look forward to watching you really come into your own. You're already so special, so amazing. Once those walls come down and you believe that about yourself, you'll be unstoppable.

3. It's taken me a long time to understand that I never lost your love. Sometimes, I grieve for the child I was who spent so much time searching for ways to please you, to win you back. It never worked, but for entirely different reasons than I thought. I am so glad that I made it to this age and figured it out so that we can have the relationship we have now. Your presence in my life now and your support are gifts I never expected.

4. Sometimes I wonder what happened between us to drive us so far apart. I don't feel like I know you very much these days and that saddens me. However, you are raising stellar, intelligent, beautiful, and thoughtful children and it is my privilege to know them. Thank you for that.

5. The fact that we get along so amazingly well and that you approve of me makes me happier than I feel comfortable telling you right now. I think you are an amazing human being and I love being around you and your family. I promise you will never have occasion to hate me or my actions. I will never, ever risk disappointing you or hurting her. Never.

6. I miss working with you, but more than that, I miss your daily presence in my life. Your calm and open nature has always been an inspiration to me and something that I aspire to emulate. I loved being your assistant and now I adore being your friend. I just miss you a lot.

7. Our friendship had a serious power differential problem for which we were both equally responsible. When I ended it, it was because I needed to do so in order to rediscover my own power. I dreamed about you today and I have a sense that what we had is unfinished. The dream made me think I should contact you but my ego is afraid of looking weak to you. I'm working on it, though, and you may be hearing from me soon.

8. I wish I could have known you at all, but especially in the way she knew you. By honoring you, I am able to honor her place in this spiritual journey of mine, of which she's been such an important part. Thank you for the gift of her. I don't think she has any idea how wonderful she truly is, but I know you knew. I know much of you shines through her. So maybe, in a way, I do know you a little.

9. None of you three know me, but I know you. I know you by your deeds and they and you are evil in my eyes. It is hard for me to say this, but you cannot be redeemed. You have caused too much pain and taken too much cruel pleasure in the causing of it. I cannot decide which of the three of you I loathe more than the others. It may be good that you don't know me. My hatred for you is cold, searing, and unquenchable. May you find your way back to whatever god you think claims you. Do not cross my path, though. Trust me on this.

10. It has taken me so long to get to this point and it is only the beginning, not a destination. This inspires awe in me--the awe of the ages. You have given me so many gifts that I am undeserving of, You have lifted me when I could no longer stand on my own, You have shown me the way to return to you when I was lost. I promise to keep studying and learning even after April 13th and to make this life you've given me count for something in Your eyes. Todah rabah, for everything.

2010 In Review

seftiri — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 03:16:26 GMT

I have a little bit of time tonight between work and Skyping with my gorgeous girlfriend and I couldn't decide what to do with it. I have so many projects, so many things that need to get done, but I found myself really wanting to do one of these again. Although I don't think I could possibly find words to do justice to what an amazing year this has been for me.

January 2010

I contract H1N1 and pneumonia; they completely knock me on my ass for more days than I care to remember.

February 2010

I have a major self-esteem breakthrough that gives me three months of sunshine bliss.

My nephew, Nash Thomas (don't ask), is born 9 weeks early on February 28th and spends weeks in Duke's NICU. He is so small that when I hold him for the first time, he weighs less than a bag of rice. I sing Or Zaruah to him over and over.

March 2010

A woman I've met on one of those dating sites wants to go out. This presents a huge problem for me because there is someone else that I would rather be dating--someone who I've wanted to date for over a decade. With much trepidation, I tell Lisa how I feel and she tells me she feels the same. We start planning a trip to make it a reality.

My job finally comes through with the first part of my salary adjustment and overnight I double my take home pay. I'm thrilled.

April 2010

Lisa comes to NC for five days. We have Shabbat dinner in my home (my first ever), she accompanies me to synagogue, she wows all my friends with her brilliance and her sense of humor. She is so beautiful, so amazing, I have a hard time believing I'm good enough for her. She takes my breath away.

Our first kiss happens on the same day that the BP oil spill happens. I draw no connection between the two events.

May 2010

Gina, who has become my best friend over the past six months, gets ready to graduate from residency. She decides to take a job here in NC rather than return to PA at the moment and I am thrilled.

June 2010

We hit some service milestone(s) at my clinic and every employee gets a $300 Visa Gift card. The award allows me to purchase a plane ticket to surprise my girlfriend on her birthday. It is the first time I've ever seen Northern California and I fall in love with the area. The only thing more beautiful than where she lives is my girlfriend herself.

Gina graduates and I attend the ceremony as her guest, along with her mother, her sister, her aunt, and her grandmother. We take a picture together that is one of the best pictures ever taken of me. It hangs in my parents' house.

July 2010

After being sick for weeks, I finally break down and see my GI doc, who orders a scope done of my pouch and small intestines. He diagnoses me with Crohn's Disease.

In a stunning turn of events, my therapist of two years goes absolutely batshit crazy when I cancel an appointment with her in anticipation of having to see my GI doctor emergently. In a heated email, she tells me that my illnesses are illusions and that I am only sick because it is a way for me to get validation and comfort from my environment/peers. When I discontinue our therapeutic relationship, she tells me that I'll be back because she loves me and I love her and some really long, rambling story about each of us carrying the other around in the backpacks of our hearts. A significant portion of her work with me is suddenly called into question and I realize I almost estranged myself from my parents for no good reason at all. I head into a spiral of depression that it takes me weeks to pull out of, with much assistance from Lisa, Gina, and my parents.

I catsit for Kiki, Gina's cat, for six weeks while she visits Croatia. I love having a cat again.

I get sicker.

August 2010

I spend a week in CA with my gorgeous girlfriend before she begins nursing school. I visit Berkeley's Graduate Theological Union in anticipation of getting a Master's there. We visit San Francisco, spend a lot of time swimming and exploring the area, and I discover hot tubs, which I had never experienced before. We attend synagogue in Roseville together and are made to feel quite welcome.

I begin to take Humira and azathioprine. The former seems to do me some good, while the latter poisons my liver and puts me in the ER for 10 hours. Gina comes to sit with me and laughs when I get morphine. I heart morphine. I'm taken off the azathioprine.

I levy a formal complaint against my therapist with her oversight board.

My niece, Zoe, turns seven. SEVEN.

I get sicker.

September 2010

Lisa studies and studies and studies, which shows because she makes consistent As on her exams in nursing school. I discover ways to help her study from 2800 miles away, which makes me very happy. One of her professors, however, takes to singling her out in a negative way and this makes me very UNhappy. Grr.

I get sicker. So sick, in fact, that I go into the hospital for 8 days while they try to stabilize my symptoms. While there, one of the meds they've put me on drops my heart rate into the upper 40s, low 50s and I can no longer stand or speak very well. Lisa figures out what it is three days before my doctors do. I rediscover why I hate hospitals so much. On Yom Kippur, the hospital sends me a plate of food with bacon on it even though they know I am Kosher. My rabbi visits me in the hospital on the night of Kol Nidre and prays with me.

I discover that I'm intolerant of treenuts and remove them from my diet.

October 2010

Gina starts her new job in Durham on her birthday.

My nephew, Gabe, turns five. FIVE.

November 2010

I host the oneg at my synagogue the weekend after Thanksgiving. Everything on the table is gluten and treenut free.

My birthday is one of the best yet, a total turnaround from last year, due mainly to my wonderful and amazing girlfriend who kept me on Skype until midnight on the 28th just so she could be the first to wish me a happy birthday. My parents get me a chanukiah and candles for my birthday so I can celebrate Chanukah, which starts the next week.

December 2010

I reach the 200lb mark and am officially a size 16 for the first time since high school.

I celebrate Chanukah every night by lighting candles, saying prayers, and talking to my girlfriend on Skype. She finds me Chanukah songs and articles and recipes to help me celebrate.

Lisa rocks her final exam and makes an A for the whole semester, making her one of two students to do so from her class. The other A is her study partner.

My mother retires from nursing after 20 years.

I spend Christmas and New Years in CA with Lisa and her family and fall in love with all of them all over again. Her family is an amazing group of people and I spend hours talking to them, answering their questions and learning more about Lisa from those who love her best. She and I go to the North Coast for a romantic getaway that includes an ocean view room with a private hot tub, we explore tide pools and redwood forests, we see and photograph a bobcat out for a stroll, we exchange presents and attend parties and grocery shop and she makes me gluten-free brownies for my birthday that are to die for. Every moment of our time together is beautiful and passes too quickly and when it's time for me to go home, I don't know who dreads it more--me, Lisa, the kitties, or Lisa's family. On my first flight as I leave, I sit next to two young military men who couldn't have been more than 19 years old. On my second flight, I sit next to a very, VERY lovey dovey gay male couple and cry like a girl because I miss my girlfriend so much. When I get off the plane and meet my parents at the end of the walkway, I sob, "I want to go home!"

12:13am Christmas morning becomes etched into my heart. The memory of that moment still takes my breath away.

-----

All in all, 2010 has been a fabulous year for me. There have been challenges, to be certain. Some of them I manifested for myself, some of them came from outside sources, but all of them helped me to grow and to change.

I have found love and joy and friendship and family. I have rediscovered so much. An old friendship and lost love returned to me, brighter, more amazing, and more wonderful than I ever imagined possible. She makes me want to be the best person I can be, not only for her, but for everyone. She inspires and supports me in ways I cannot hope to explain fully. She is always the most beautiful and most brilliant woman in any room she inhabits and I am so lucky to have this second chance with her.

I rediscovered my parents after estranging myself from them at the behest of my therapist (who had never met them, by the way). I found them adult-to-adult finally, scraping away those illusions we--as children--grow up believing. Our relationship is so much richer and more equal than it ever had been before.

I have discovered a friendship--a kind of sisterhood of the soul--with someone so unexpected that I still sometimes question it. Gina was the first person that I actually believed accepted me exactly as I am (even though now I recognize there were others who did so, too) and she has taught me so much about life and relationships and about trusting myself.

I have found more members of my family that I never new about before and I love them all. I can't wait to see them again.

Hopefully, as 2011 goes forward, I will achieve all the goals that I wish to achieve, including becoming as healthy as I can.

In the meantime, I am incredibly grateful for what I have.

Todah rabah, Adonai, for all the gifts you have bestowed upon me.

Erin

NCIS, Ziva/Abby: Wake Up Call (Part 3)

seftiri — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 06:04:08 GMT

Title: Wake Up Call (part 3)
Author: DiNovia
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Ziva/Abby
Rating: NC-17
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.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Tony held his hands up as if wanting to stop an oncoming train. “You mean those swabs actually helped the case?”

Abby Scuito grinned. “They broke the case, Tony! Swabs 41, 53 through 67, and 111 all had trace elements from the explosives they were using in the bombings. And the divers found bomb components in the influent tank. Which they expected to find, of course. But all of this together found the one thing we couldn't find before!”

McGee stared blankly at the Goth. “The connection to the Truman?” he asked hesitantly.

Abby turned to speak but Gibbs, sweeping into the lab with Ducky on his heels, beat her to it.

“Abby made the connection to the Truman,” he said, frowning. “What the swabs found was the Marines' motive.”

“And, by extension, their first victim, I'm afraid,” added Ducky.

“First victim?” Ziva took a step forward from where she'd propped herself against Abby's microscope counter. It was her new spot to stand when she was in the lab now. If anyone equated it at all to any sense of possessiveness they suspected the Israeli woman felt toward the self-proclaimed Goddess of said lab—well, they didn't mention it. Much. “A victim outside the victims claimed by the bombings?”

Gibbs nodded. “Seems there was another conspirator. And if he hadn't been stupid--”

“So, SO stupid!” said Abby, interrupting. “I mean, on a stupid scale of Gibbs to Tony, where Gibbs is, well, Gibbs and Tony is, uh, not--”

“HEY!” said the outraged and offended senior agent, bolting out of the chair he'd commandeered and was swinging side to side like a five-year-old.

“--this guy was a drooling mouth breather. PFC John Hoof.”

Ziva looked at Abby quizzically. “Hoof?” she asked. “As in...the foot of a ungulate mammal?”

Abby beamed at her brilliant lover. Ducky nodded approvingly. Everyone else just stared at Ziva blankly.

“Exactly, darlin',” said Abby. “Hoof. The moron who flushed direct evidence into an aircraft carrier's influent tank, apparently thinking it would be dumped overboard with the rest of the tank's contents when they were in open waters. Which is, by the way, what aircraft carriers do with all that sh--”

“Abs,” said Gibbs mildly, directing the Goth back to the topic at hand.

“I'm just sayin'. Knowing that aircraft carriers have 5,000 sailors on board—each!—and that they offload their sewage in open waters--”

“Abby!” McGee looked vaguely green and Tony scowled, apparently rethinking his love of seafood. Only Ziva looked amused.

“Anyway, some of what he flushed was denser than the waste water and it stuck around—so to speak—in the tanks. Lance Corporal Fredrickson, the first marine I investigated, apparently tried to...um...assess their dilemma when he found out what Hoof was doing. On the stupid scale, Fredrickson was maybe a McGee--”

“HEY!” said the outraged and offended probationary officer.

“--so he figured out almost right away that Hoof had pretty much preserved the evidence against the conspirators instead of successfully getting rid of it.”

“Oh.” McGee looked somewhat mollified by Abby's comparison. Tony did not. “So what am I on that scale again?” asked McGee hopefully. “A...three?”

Abby just smiled.

Gibbs ignored the banter and picked up the narrative. “Fredrickson took that information back to Master Sergeant Derek Wilson, who was the brains of the operation--”

“A Ducky on the stupid scale!” supplied Abby helpfully. The coroner in question smiled at her in return.

“--and he decided that Hoof was a liability.”

“A useful liability,” said the coroner. “That is why I suspect they secreted poor Private Hoof where they did. They believed he would come in handy later, as a scapegoat for their nefarious activities.”

“Where was he, Ducky?” asked McGee.

“Freezer storage at the base, my dear Timothy. They found the poor man in a crate of pork chops.”

Gibbs nodded. “Wilson and the others killed Hoof after his stupidity on the Truman, but made it look as if he went AWOL. Then they all transferred to different commands. Ones nearby where they could keep in touch.”

McGee picked up the narrative, piecing together the Marines' plan using what he knew from their communications. “Then they continued with their original plan—bombing liberal Democrat campaign headquarters and organizations—but kept Hoof on ice. Literally. They were going to have Hoof with them at the last big target, weren't they? To make it look like he was the bomber and had blown himself up.”

Gibbs nodded. “They had an apartment in Tyson's Corners rented under Hoof's name and evidence linking the private to the bombings. They thought that would be enough.”

Ziva smirked. “Wilson is definitely not Ducky on Abby's scale, then. He did not realize freezing the private would change his muscle tissue on a molecular level. Abigail would, no doubt, have discovered the differences immediately.”

“Yeah?” countered Tony sourly. “And where does Abby fall on the stupid scale then? Where do you fall on it, for that matter? Hmm, Ziva? Are you the number two spot, under Gibbs?”

“Oh, she's not on the scale, Tony. Neither am I. I mean.... That would be...” Abby bit her lip, trying not to look too smug. “It's just not the same at all.”

“Not the same,” repeated Tony. “What do you mean it's 'not the same'? Why aren't either of you on the scale?”

Ziva grinned at her partner. “Do not take it personally, Tony,” she said, patting his cheek patronizingly, her eyes sparkling. “We are simply better than you.”

Even Gibbs couldn't help but laugh at that. Especially when combined with the look on Tony's face just before he stormed out of the lab.

All in all, it was turning into a pretty good day.

--

One Year Later

Abigail Sciuto puttered in the kitchen that she and Ziva David called “theirs”--even though it had started out as Ziva's and Abby had only sorta taken it over by slow increments. It was Monday and Ziva had left before dawn for her usual morning run, careful not to wake a slumbering Abby. Now though, as Abby started their coffee and pondered which bagels to toast, she wondered if Ziva was okay. The young Israeli was usually back by now, was usually showered and dressed, ready for a quick breakfast before their commute to work.

Abby glared at her watch, then frowned at the gurgling coffee maker. “Where is she?” she wondered aloud.

The sound of Ziva's keys unbolting various locks at the front door turned Abby's frown into a smile.

“Where have you been—” she began, only to stop short upon seeing her lover shoulder her way through the door, weighed down by three small but seemingly heavy boxes. The Israeli woman thunked them down on the dining room table and—for a second—Abby thought the Ikea special would collapse.

“What's that?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Ziva only grinned. “Open them,” she suggested, handing the Goth a small but deadly knife.

Abby took it carefully. “Do I even want to know a) where you got this and b) where you were hiding it?” She glanced meaningfully at Ziva's abbreviated running “uniform” of black, form-fitting bicycle shorts and a matching sports bra. There didn't seem to be many places in which to hide a deadly weapon, but Abby never knew with Ziva.

Her lover's embarrassed grimace was all the answer the Goth needed.

“Okay, gotcha. Shouldn't have asked 'cuz you ain't gonna tell.” She ran the exquisitely keen-edged blade through the packing tape on the first box and lifted the flaps. Then she blinked.

“Um, Z?”

“Yes, Abigail?” The NCIS agent tapped her bottom lip rhythmically with a black Sharpie pen she'd retrieved from the drawer next to the stove. She smiled enigmatically.

“This is a box of forensic journals.”

“It is.”

Abby pulled the top five magazines from their cardboard container, glancing only at the journal's title printed in large block print at the top. “In fact, this is a box containing approximately 25 copies of Forensic Science International.”

“It is.”

“Are they all—?” The pony-tailed brunette gestured vaguely to the other boxes.

“They are.”

Ziva's Cheshire-like grin only served to unnerve Abby more. She shook her head, utterly bewildered, until realization dawned in her eyes.

“Oh my God!” she said, scanning the cover of one of the magazines for familiar words, finding none. The journal only printed the editorial board on the cover. Abby flipped hurriedly through the first few pages until she found the table of contents. “They printed my article finally?”

“They did,” said Ziva proudly, pointing at the third article on the list. It was entitled “Using Your Head: Extracting Decaying Plastic-Bonded Explosives Residue from Samples Taken from the Toilet S-Curves on an Active US Aircraft Carrier.”

“And you bought 75 copies because...?”

Ziva uncapped the Sharpie and handed it to her lover. “For you to put your John Hammock on them! You are famous in the world of forensics now. Everyone will want an autographed copy of this journal.”

“Hancock, darlin',” corrected Abby. “It's my John Hancock. And I've always been famous in the world of forensics, Z. At least, I'm pretty well-known in DC anyway. One little article in Forensic Science International isn't going to make me—”

Just then, Abby's cell rang. It was her default, unknown caller ringtone—the X-Files theme song. She stared at it briefly before picking it up off the counter and answering it.

“Hello?”

She listened for a second, then answered, “Yes, this is Abigail Sciuto.” She listened for a few seconds more before her eyes started to widen. “Are you sure you want me—?” She fell silent again, then said, “Absolutely! Can you call me at my lab later today? I'll have--” Another brief silence. “That would be perfect. Thank you!”

She clicked the phone off, staring absently into space. The coffee machine gurgled happily on the counter. It was the only sound in the kitchen.

“Abigail?” Ziva watched her lover carefully. “Who was that?”

Abby snapped out of her reverie, blinking as if she'd just come from an underground mine shaft. “Who was what?” she asked. Then she shook her head and grinned. “Oh, the phone! It was the dean of Graduate Studies at Yale, Science and Medicine. She wants me to come do a graduate lecture on chemical forensics.”

Ziva's eyes widened. “Today?!”

Abby laughed. “No, darlin'! She's working on the lecture schedule for next semester. She'll call later with more details.”

“This is good, yes? To give a lecture at Yale?”

Abby beamed. “It's freakin' AWESOME!” she said. “I mean, Z, this is Yale we're talking about here. Yale! Where half the crazy politicians and military officers in this town went to school! I'll be giving a lecture to future elite law enforcement types and lab nerds. That's so cool!”

Ziva grinned at her lover's enthusiasm. “Where did the other half of the crazy politicians and military officers in this town go to school?” she asked innocently.

Abby quirked an eyebrow. “Well, for military, West Point is really big. For politicians—who seem to all start out as lawyers these days—it's actually pretty evenly split between Yale, Harvard, Stanford, Columbia, and Georgetown—”

The X-Files theme interrupted Abby once again. She snatched up her phone and looked at the display.

“It's a Boston area code!” she whispered, cradling her phone hesitantly in her outstretched hands as if it had become an alien artifact of some kind.

“I will take a shower,” said Ziva with a sexy smile. “When you are finished accepting Harvard's offer, turn off the phone and join me in the bedroom, yes?”

Abby knew that look. She also knew it was a Monday.

“We'll be late for work!” she protested, feeling stupid as soon as she said the words. She knew Gibbs wouldn't care, not really. She'd earned a few free passes over the years. But she'd never been late to work a day in her life and the thought of starting now troubled her. Even when the reason was just that good.

“I called Gibbs when I found the journal. He has given us the morning off...to celebrate.” Ziva winked and headed toward their room. “Answer the phone, Abigail,” she reminded as she disappeared down the hall.

Abby stared after her lover, dumbfounded, before scrambling to jam the green button on her phone.

“Hello?” she said, a little more impatiently than she had intended. She looked down the hall longingly. “Yes, this is Abigail Sciuto. What can I do for you?”

“What's this?” asked Tony as the thick, glossy magazine hit his desk. He scowled down at the offending item briefly before pinning Ziva with an annoyed glare. She continued passing out the journals, unfazed by her partner's mercurial attitude. She opened her mouth to answer him, but was interrupted by McGee.

“It's an autographed copy of Abby's issue of Forensic Science International. Cool!” The probationary officer opened his copy immediately, diving eagerly into Abby's article. “Thanks, Ziva!”

Ziva gave McGee a warm smile. “You are welcome, McGee. I am glad to see you enjoying it.”

“Autographed?” Tony scoffed. “She actually autographed that geeky science journal that printed her article about toilets?”

Ziva's eyes flashed but before she could do anything—like, toss one of the three knives secreted on her person at her idiot partner—the senior agent got a sharp rap to the back of his head.

“Hey!” he protested, rubbing the offended spot as he twisted in his chair. “What was that for?”

“You're being an idiot, DiNozzo,” said Gibbs as he crossed to his desk. He gave his copy of the journal an appreciative once-over. “Knock it off.”

“Am I the only one who doesn't understand why anyone would autograph an article they wrote about what they found in a toilet?” whined Tony. “Seriously? C'mon, McGeek, back me up on this.”

McGee didn't even glance up from his copy of the journal. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “It's a good article.”

“And this morning alone, Abigail has been asked to give lectures at three major universities, has been invited to join two editing teams, has been offered six jobs, and has been asked to write a chapter in a new forensics textbook.” Ziva's pride was obvious for all to see.

“What, no partridge in a pear tree?” asked Tony sarcastically.

“Six jobs where?” asked Gibbs, his brows crowding very low over his pale eyes.

“Chill, Gibbsmeister,” said Abby, walking into the bullpen, her own grin matching the one on the skull on her form-fitting black tee-shirt. “I turned 'em all down. And it really doesn't count as six job offers when three of 'em were from the same person. Hetty offered me my own Caf-Pow machine.” She smirked at Gibbs. "Do you have any idea how much more work I could get done if I had Caf-Pow on tap?"

“Must be some article if the LA ops manager defied my 'hands off my forensics specialist' order three times in one morning.”

“Caf-Pow on tap, Gibbs. It was very tempting.”

“If you had Caf-Pow on tap, how would we reward you?” Gibbs asked. He leaned over and kissed the Goth’s cheek. “Good work on that article, Abs.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, but that was the closest to a smile he got.

“Thanks! But I couldn't have done it without Tony, you know. He did all the dirty work.”

Ziva crossed her arms over her chest and gave her partner her most innocent look. “Perhaps this Hetty could use a new agent. One with extensive experience on air craft carriers perhaps?”

“Ha ha,” groused Tony. “Admit it Zee: you couldn't live without me.” He flipped the journal open. “'Using Your Head,'” he read. “'Extracting Decaying Plastic-Bonded Explosives Residue from Samples Taken from the Toilet S-Curves on an Active US Aircraft Carrier.' Catchy, but can you dance to it?”

Abby ignored Tony. “The article should have been published in the last issue but my original title was...um...rejected.”

“Why?” asked McGee, finally looking up. “What did you call it?”

Abby bit her bottom lip and gently swung her ponytails. “The original title began 'Getting Your Shit Together,'” she said, trying to look innocent. “That got sent back to me with a very stern note.”

“She is right,” said Ziva, nodding. Her eyes were very round. “It was a very stern note. The editor-in-chafe was very upset.”

“In chief, darlin',” corrected Abby. “It's editor-in-chief. Chafing is what happens sometimes when we—”

“Abs,” Gibbs said mildly. He never had to raise his voice to get Abby Sciuto's attention.

“Sorry, Gibbs. Private information. Gotcha.” Abby tried to look contrite, but it just wasn't a look she could pull off. A contrite Goth was kinda....scary.

“Hey, I wanna know!” said Tony, leering. “Chafing is what happens when you two do what? Tell me. And it better involve pillow fights.”

A look and a nod passed between Abby and Ziva and the Israeli woman stalked over to Tony's desk, leaning provocatively over his Mighty Mouse stapler. “It happens when Abigail and I...celebrate, Tony.” She seductively traced one finger over the stapler. “Which we did many times this morning, while you were here, writing reports. We celebrated six—no, seven times. Unless....” She turned her head, her long braid swinging like a silk rope with the movement. “Ahuvati, does what we did in the shower before coming to work count as one time or two?”

“Okay! Okay! I surrender!” Tony put his hands over his ears. For all his sexist and sex-starved talk, the fact was he thought of Abby as the little sister he never had. Hearing about her sex life with his partner actually unnerved him greatly.

Ziva smirked and stood up, brushing her hands on her low-slung cargo pants. “Be careful what you ask for, Tony. As God says, 'take what you want...but then pay for it.'”

Abby smirked at Tony as his discomfort increased. "So I guess the real question is how much credit do you have with Z right now, Tony? Think you can afford the truth?"

Tony gulped. "Check, please?" he said weakly.

"How are you three coming on this month's case reports?" asked Gibbs pointedly, annoyed by the banter.

“Uhhh....” Tony stammered.

"I submitted mine three days ago," said Ziva mildly. She pulled another stack of Abby's journals from a box on her desk.

"Of course you did." Tony frowned from behind a mountain of neglected files. Even McGee cast a withering glance in the Israeli's direction. "Is there anything you don't finish three days ahead of schedule?" the senior agent asked grumpily.

"Abs, don't answer that." Gibbs hadn't looked up from his computer, but Abby's mouth snapped shut audibly. "When your girlfriend's finished handing out copies of your latest professional achievement, have her help you with the lab inventory." He glanced over at them. "It'll slow you both down."

Abby perched her hands on her hips, incensed. "Wait! Why would that slow us down?”

Gibbs smiled enigmatically. “Do I really need to explain that, Abs?” he asked.

Ziva's expression became almost predatory. “No, I do not think so.”

“Ohhhh.... 'Help with inventory,'” Abby said, using air quotes. “Gotcha. And yes, that will slow us down.” She beamed.

"Go,” said Gibbs with a sigh. “I have to explain to the Director—again—why these two—” He jerked his chin toward the male agents. “—are too distracted to get their paperwork in on time."

Ziva hefted the journals. "Let us go, Abigail. We can visit Jimmy and Ducky. I have not given them their copies of your article yet. Then we will...." She gave Abby an appreciative once over, her gaze lingering on the very short Catholic school girl's skirt her lover wore. "Complete your inventory." She shifted the magazines over to one arm and held out her free hand.

Abby took it and grinned over her shoulder at Gibbs as the two of them headed out of the bullpen. "See you later! Much, much later!"

Tony and McGee watched the women disappear into the elevator.

“Gee, and I thought they had already 'taken inventory' this morning,” said Tony, using air quotes, too. “Six times. Or was that seven?”

"Finish your reports, DiNozzo."

"But—"

"Reports. Today, DiNozzo." Gibbs rose and stalked out of the bullpen, carrying his too-long-empty coffee cup toward fresh, hot caffeine.

Tony sighed. "Right, Boss. Reports. Sorry.”

There were three minutes of blessed silence where only the sounds of typing could be heard.

Then McGee ruined it, softly stating, “You're still jealous.”

Tony scowled at the not-so-probationary probationary officer. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about.” McGee looked up from his monitor. “It's been over a year. They're living together now. They're happy. Let it go already.” He shrugged affably. “I did.”

Tony picked up a pencil and threw it into the pen cup at the front edge of his desk. “You and Abby, what you had was...casual.”

“And you and Ziva had what...exactly?” McGee wasn't trying to be mean, but Tony's logic—especially where it concerned Ziva—was known to be fuzzy. He was trying to help a friend.

“Nothing real; I know that. Not for her anyway. But it was real for me. For a while. It was.” Tony picked at a spot on his desk blotter for a long moment before finally looking up. “It's why I went to Somalia, McGee. Because of what I thought I felt.”

McGee stared across the bullpen quietly until Tony made eye contact. “You know the only reason Abs didn't go with us was that Gibbs wouldn't let her.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Whose arms did Ziva fall into when she walked back in here?”

“That really bugged me. Makes sense now.” Tony nodded morosely and sighed. “I get it. I really do. I feel like an ass every time I'm a jerk to them, McGee.” He sighed again. “I just don't know what to do,” he said honestly.

“Stop being a jerk. It doesn't change the fact that they're together and—you're right—it makes you look like an ass.”

Tony grimaced. “Gee, thanks,” he said sarcastically.

McGee shrugged again. “You said it first,” he pointed out, chuckling. He watched as Tony rolled is eyes, then added, “You know, some people might say this is all your fault.”

DiNozzo's eyes hardened instantly. “What's all my fault?”

“Ziva and Abby. If Abs hadn't overheard what you said to Gibbs the day Ziva got shot, she might never have told Ziva how she felt. That whole thing was kind of her wake up call.” McGee turned back to his monitor and continued with his reports. “Maybe if you stopped being a jerk long enough, they would see that and actually thank you.”

Tony sat silently for a moment, staring at the pile of reports on his desk. Finally, he looked at McGee. “So, what's the traditional gift for hooking your partner up with the love of her life? Muffin basket? Nah.”

“Cheese of the month?” suggested McGee.

“As if,” Tony scoffed. “Season tickets to the Wizards would be a good start. Even though they suck.”

McGee smirked, happy his friend was finally showing signs—however small—of moving on. “Maybe you should just be thankful Ziva hasn't stabbed you...yet.”

Tony furrowed his brow. “Muffin basket,” he said, looking a little pale.

McGee's eyes widened as Abby reappeared in the bullpen with Gibbs-like stealth.

“Gah!” said Tony, almost falling out of his chair. “Can't you put a bell on that collar or something?”

Abby crossed to Tony, smiling too sweetly. “You know, you had court-side seats for the Wizards' season opener with the Bulls before that bell comment. The Georgetown professor who wants me to speak there next year said he had a friend—Flip Sanders?” She tilted her head to one side. “I wonder if he's related to the Colonel?”

“Flip Sanders would be the head coach of the Washington Wizards,” supplied McGee helpfully. “No relation to the Colonel as far as I know.”

Tony looked like a child on Christmas Eve. “I'm getting court-side tickets to the season opener!” He jumped to his feet and stalked over to McGee's desk. “Did I mention when I played basketball for Ohio State University, we made it to the Final Four? Stupid UCLA.”

McGee rolled his eyes. “Yes. You lost by one point. We've all heard that story. Trust me.”

“Actually,” said Ziva, appearing suddenly from around the corner, “you're getting a muffin basket. No one teases Abigail about her collar.” She gave Tony a withering look. “If you are nice, I might throw in the cheese of the month.” She took her lover's hand and tugged her away, hiding a smile as she turned away.

Tony deflated visibly, looking more like the child that had just found out that Santa wasn't real. He went back to his desk and sat down dejectedly, resting both elbows on a smaller stack of files.

“At least I didn't get stabbed,” he said.

“YET!” called Abby as she and Ziva entered the elevator. She giggled as the doors shut. She gently looped her arms around Ziva's neck, pulling the smaller woman in for a lingering kiss.

When they parted, Ziva raised dark, troubled eyes to meet Abigail's. “He is trying,” she said, sighing softly.

Abby rested her forehead against Ziva's and smiled softly. “I know,” she said simply. “The tickets are on their way. They'll be here within the hour. I figured we'd surprise him in a few weeks. That is, if he hasn't reverted to his usual asshat ways.”

Ziva's brow furrowed. “Why would you wear a hat on your ass? Would that not be considered a pair of pants?”

Abby laughed but didn't answer. “Shut up, Z,” she said tolerantly.

“Shut up?” Ziva scowled. “These are valid questions. Your American expressions make no sense.”

“No, Z. I meant shut up, as in we have better things to do with our mouths right now.” Abby's wicked grin sparked heat in Ziva's blood and the look in her lover's eyes seemed to raise the temperature in the small elevator car by at least ten degrees.

“These better things....” she said, eyeing her lover speculatively. “I will show you mine if you will show me yours.”

Abby raised an eyebrow and reached back, activating the emergency stop. “Deal,” she said, leaning in for another kiss.

Later, no one was brave enough to mention them “taking inventory” in the elevator, fearing the possibility of being introduced to one of Ziva's many knives.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs did not fear Ziva nor did he fear her knives. He did, however, fear that any question asked of Abby would be answered gleefully and in excruciating detail.

Using the elevator was going to be hard enough for the next few days, until he forgot about the emergency stop. If he had to hear about it, he'd never get in the damned contraption again.

He looked up from his musings with a scowl. Ziva stood before his desk, looking impossibly formal in her at-ease stance.

“Nothing happened in the elevator,” she said simply, getting right to the heart of the matter.

Gibbs took a sip of his coffee. “Good,” he said non-committally.

Ziva's features took on a more serious, less certain look. “I am aware you regard Abigail....highly,” she said. “I would never dishonor her.”

Gibbs almost smiled. “Didn't say you had, David,” he replied.

Ziva nodded. “We are careful to limit our...activities when we are on duty. Especially when we are on government property.” She grimaced delicately. “I did not want you to think that we would take advantage of your...leniency...with our relationship. The most we do is kiss.” She blushed and cleared her throat. “Perhaps a little heavy perking.”

Gibbs' scowl returned. “Petting. The term is 'heavy petting.'” He was beginning to regret this conversation. “And you two are in different command structures,” he reminded Ziva. “There's no problem with your relationship as far as the government is concerned. As long as it doesn't disrupt my team....” He left the thought unfinished, his implications clear.

Ziva's eyes flashed with a radiant light. “It will not,” she assured him.

“Good,” he said again. He eyed her speculatively. “Then why are you still standing in front of my desk?”

Doubt once again made its presence known in Ziva's features. “Abigail and I have been dating for over a year. We have been living together for eight months.”

“I know, David. Everyone knows. Even Vance knows.” He raised both eyebrows in dubious consideration. “He's the one who sent that Mossad-issue Welcome mat for your front door.”

Ziva's lips twitched into a brief smile. “I had deduced that already,” she assured her boss.

“Then why are you telling me information that I already know?” Gibbs asked.

Ziva faltered. “I.... I am attempting to preface a request with information you might find pertinent in your....consideration of it.” The young brunette looked almost shell-shocked while relating the simple, though confusing, sentence.

Gibbs glowered at her meaningfully. “David,” he said, drawing the name out, sternly encouraging his agent to just spit it out, whatever it was.

“IwouldliketoaskyourpermissionforAbigail'shandinmarriage,” Ziva spluttered, her eyes wide. Her heart thundered in her chest and she couldn't hear a thing over the blood rushing through her ears. She realized she was holding her breath and she didn't know whether to continue to do so or to break the solemnity of the moment by taking in a huge, inelegent gasp of air.

Gibbs solved that one for her. “Breathe,” he ordered, looking at her with concerned eyes. When she did, he gazed at her pensively. “You do know that Abs' father is still alive, right? You should be asking him this question.”

“I did.” Ziva's grin was impossible to contain. “His enthusiastic response was...quite memorable.” Watching understanding dawn on Abby's father's face as she haltingly signed her request to marry his only daughter was a memory Ziva would cherish for the rest of her life. Being pulled into his arms for an impromptu dance after he'd signed back “Yes! Of course!” was another.

“Then you don't need me,” said Gibbs simply, dismissing Ziva's question with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Ziva's eyes hardened to glints of mocha steel. “I told you I would never dishonor Abigail. Such an important request requires the permission of both her fathers,” she admonished.

Deep emotion shone in Gibbs' eyes for a split second—just before a smirk broke his stoic features. “Did you clear the whole 'asking permission' thing with Abs?” he asked casually.

Ziva's brows dipped low over her eyes in confusion. “I did not. My proposal is to be a surprise. Why?”

A very familiar, very perturbed voice from behind Ziva answered the question. “Because I am nobody's chattel, darlin'!”

Ziva slowly turned and faced her lover, her eyes wide as she saw Abigail standing with her hands firmly on her hips, a scowl darkening her features like a storm about to break. The grinning skull tee-shirt the forensic analyst wore did nothing to inspire confidence in the Israeli, either.

“I don't care how many middle-aged daddy-figures you line up and ask for my hand—no offense, Gibbsmeister—they don't get to give or deny me permission to marry the woman I love! Are we clear, David?”

Gibbs held up his hands in surrender while Ziva gulped.

“I—I apologize, Abigail,” Ziva said hurriedly. “I just—I wanted to do everything properly. Your father is a very traditional Catholic from Louisiana. And I could not disregard Gibbs' place in your life. I did not mean to imply—”

Abby shook her head tolerantly, her twin pony tails swaying with the movement. A small smile broke through the clouds in her eyes and she sauntered over to her love, her ruby lips curving slightly against the pallor of her skin.

“Shhh...” She placed a finger over Ziva's lips, then drew her fingertips down the shorter woman's arms, ending by taking Ziva's hands in her own. “Silly spy, I'm the only one who can say yes to that question,” she chided.

The worry in Ziva's eyes did not abate.

“Ask me,” whispered Abby, spelling out what she wanted.

“But—” Ziva looked to Gibbs, terror in her eyes. She was not prepared. Her idea of the perfectly romantic marriage proposal did not include standing in front of 1970s-era press-board furniture in the bull pen at NCIS. She didn't even have the ring with her! It was back at the apartment, hidden in her gun safe.

Gibbs read Ziva's distress, guessed at its cause, and snapped into action. “David,” he said urgently, grabbing a small item from his desk set. After a second or two of quick, furtive movements, he handed his agent a small, silver circlet.

Ziva—shell-shocked—took the manipulated paperclip with shaking fingertips and turned to her lover. She guided Abby to the edge of her own desk and had her sit there. She, herself, dropped to one knee.

“I...” Ziva fought the urge to scowl at the bull pen, every cell of her being protesting asking this intimate, delicate, utterly important question in such pedestrian surroundings, but she saw no way out. Well, no way short of a national emergency or an errant meteorite. Neither were forthcoming. She gulped. “Abigail Immaculata Sciuto,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I love you more than I can say. Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

She slipped the ersatz ring onto Abby's finger, noting that it fit almost perfectly. She made a mental note to ask Gibbs how he had managed that particular feat...later.

Abby held her left hand out and scrutinized the paperclip-ring intently for a long moment. Then a grin as bright and as amazing as sunshine after a Gulf Bay hurricane overtook her pale features.

“Of course I will, silly spy,” she said, chuckling softly. Suddenly she stilled, her gaze intensifying as her grin faded. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against Ziva's, reaching up to cup the Israeli's cheek in her hand. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice deepening as emotion overtook her. “Yes, Ziva Naomi David. I will be your wife...if you will be mine.”

“It is all I have wanted, all I have been able to think about for months now,” admitted Ziva.

“Then I guess we're getting married,” said Abby, giggling. “You can get up off the floor now, darlin'. I think you've made your point.” The dark-haired forensic analyst winked saucily at her lover, holding her hand out to help Ziva stand.

“My point?” Ziva's brows contracted over her dark eyes as confusion set in. “What point?”

“It's okay, love. You can be the butch one if you want. I don't mind.” Abby smiled beatifically, patted Ziva's cheek once, and turned to leave the bullpen.

The Israeli stood there, slack-jawed, as she watched her new fiancée saunter off. “The butch one?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual. She hurried after Abby, clearly agitated. “What do you mean 'the butch one'? Abigail? Neshomeleh?”

Gibbs smirked. “She means you are so whipped, David.” He paused. “Not that I'd ever say that to your face.”

He paused again. “Well, not and live.”

Gibbs went back to work, reaching absently for his coffee. Just before he took a sip, though, he glanced after the two women.

“L'chayim!” he toasted softly, raising his mug in silent salute. Then he shook his head tolerantly. “And about damned time.”

fin

I hope you enjoyed it!

Twoodles!

DiNovia

NCIS, Ziva/Abby: Wake Up Call (Part 2)

seftiri — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 06:03:32 GMT

Title: Wake Up Call (part 2)
Author: DiNovia
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Ziva/Abby
Rating: NC-17
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.

“Ziva....”

“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.

“Tony.”

“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.

TBC

I hope you enjoyed it!

Twoodles!

DiNovia

NCIS, Ziva/Abby: Wake Up Call (Part 1)

seftiri — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 05:55:04 GMT

Title: Wake Up Call (part 1)
Author: DiNovia
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Ziva/Abby
Rating: NC-17
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.

What a cloisterfuck, thought Ziva as she shoulder-rolled behind a luggage transport and came up firing. She didn't even have time to wonder how sex in a convent had made it into mainstream American slang. Two more suspects were down. Her eyes swept the seemingly deserted hangar for movement but she saw nothing.

Three targets in the wind, she thought, scowling. And I am separated from my partner. How can this get any worse?

As if in answer to her rhetorical question, something caught her attention to the left. She pivoted to confront whoever it was; it turned out to be her missing partner. The distraction allowed one of the rogue Marines to pop up from behind a cargo crate to her right. The report of his Beretta was loud in the cavernous bay.

Three shots and she heard them all. She threw herself backward and down on instinct alone. The first shot missed her by inches, leaving the acrid smell of hot lead heavy in the air. The second one caught her in the left deltoid muscle and pitched her forward. The third one grazed her left temple, dropping her to the pavement.

More shots rang out and Tony shouted, "Ziva! Stay down!"

She wasn't stupid, but she also wasn't helpless. Ziva rolled onto her belly and took aim beneath the luggage transport. She saw her shooter down and one of Tony's loafers kicking the Beretta away from his unmoving hand. Blood pooled thickly around the motionless Marine.

Two targets left, she thought, one hand reaching up to wipe her own blood from her field of vision. She kept low, following Tony's movements as best she could, watching him tiptoe through the hangar. She bellycrawled to a new location, taking cover beneath a forklift. She knew she was leaving a trail of red a mile wide but was glad to have a ton of steel between her and the two remaining suspects.

She picked up Tony's 20--his loafers were at least unique, if not practical--then scanned the area for other movement. She saw two pairs of combat boots coming up behind her partner's location, one pair shearing off and moving to flank him.

"Four o'clock!" she shouted, diving out from under the forklift. She rolled and came up firing. Two shots caught the flanking Marine at the base of his skull. Tony whirled to face the last target. Both men fired but Tony's trigger finger was faster. Tony's bullet hit the last Marine in the throat just as the man fired. The suspect collapsed backward and his bullet careened left, missing Tony by mere inches.

Tony looked toward Ziva, a relieved smile plastered on his face. His expression crumpled when he saw his partner drop to her knees. Blood matted her hair and stained her orange Henley dark on one side. He lunged forward and dropped to one knee in front of her, his cell already out.

"Gibbs," he shouted. "Ziva's down. We need EMTs at the hangar now!" He dropped his phone to the concrete without waiting for a response. "Easy, David," he said, reaching out to steady her. She looked up at him with glassy eyes.

"All targets are neutralized," she said dully. "My wounds are superficial, however, I may be going into shock."

"Ya think?" asked Tony sarcastically. He pulled off his tie and wadded it up against her shoulder, firmly pressing it into her wound. Ziva hissed in pain but did not push him away.

Tony focused on applying pressure to her bleeding shoulder. Ziva's ragged breathing was the only sound in the vast warehouse. Finally, the sound of sirens, distant but growing louder, broke the silence between them and Tony looked away. "Geeze, Ziva, I'm sorry. We got separated and--"

"It is not your fault, Tony," she said absently, staring into the middle distance with an unreadable emotion staining her eyes. She looked down at her hand, at the blood drying black on her palm and on the hilt of her Sig. Her blood. Blood from a head wound, no matter how superficial.

A buzzing discomfort started behind her eyes and soon spread to the rest of her body, sapping the strength of her limbs, making her feel as if she were suffocating. She tried to focus on her breathing, on the stinging throb of her shoulder, on anything...anything but a pair of cat green eyes and a smile as wide as the world.

Unbidden, the name came to her lips. "Abby...." she whispered and her pain receded.

"Abby?" repeated Tony, bewildered. "Abby's fine, Zee. She's back at the lab, safe as a bug in a rug." He grimaced a little. "A really tattooed and Gothy bug in a rug, with spikes and pigtails. But safe nonetheless."

"Take me to her, Tony." Ziva pinned her partner with a pair of cocoa-colored eyes. The blood on her forehead and temple made her look of determination stark, almost bleak. "Please. I need to see her."

The sirens stopped outside. Tony turned to wave the EMTs over to Ziva. "Medical attention first, David," he said, watching the medics hurrying toward them.

"After, then. Promise me, Tony. Promise me you will take me to Abby when they finish with me. No matter what."

Tony opened his mouth to say something smart-assed, but stopped abruptly when he saw tears well in Ziva's eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure, Zee. Whatever you want.”

She nodded and looked away, one hand coming up to swipe at tears so rare, Tony wondered if maybe Ziva's wounds weren't as superficial as she said they were.

Everything was fine, thought Abby, frozen. She looked around her lab, completely at a loss.

“Everything was just fine!” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

Gibbs had been standing in front of the plasma screen, watching stoically as she had explained the composition of the explosives sample they had retrieved from the last victim. He had been holding a cup of coffee and had taken exactly two sips of it during her rambling litany of chemical compounds. He had said little.

Until his phone had rung.

He'd answered it with his patented monotone identification. “Gibbs.”

Then all Hell had broken loose practically under their feet.

One second, he'd been listening to the caller, and the next, he he'd been running out the door, dialing a new number, shouting over his shoulder for Abby to find Ducky, to have him standing by.

“For what?” she'd cried, reacting purely to Gibbs' overt distress.

“Ziva's been hit! She's at the hangar—”

That was all Abby had heard, and it changed everything.

One minute, her world had been utterly normal. The next, it was as if someone had reached into her chest and ripped out her lungs.

To her credit, Abby waited five whole minutes before calling Gibbs, yelling at him as she paced the length of her lab over and over.

“How bad is it, Gibbs? Because you went running out of the lab, Gibbs, and you just don't do that. You don't run. Gibbs? Tell me she's okay, Jethro. Please? Please, tell me it's—”

“Abs! I don't know. All Tony said was that Ziva was hit. I'll call you when I know more.”

Abby could hear his tires squealing as he took a corner too sharply.

“No! Don't hang up on me!” She spun and paced back and forth between her samples fridge and her desk.

This can't be happening again, she thought, beyond panic now and well into hysteria. Not again. How many times can people get freakin' shot around here? Too many times! Too many!

Her breathing changed dramatically as grief flooded her system.

Kate. Jenny. Ziva.

Ziva, the hardest death of all. Ziva, the woman she was in love with. Ziva, the death that had nearly broken her.

But I got Z back!

Tears slipped over her long, kohl-black lashes and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. She wanted to yell, wanted to scream into the sky, into the Face of God Himself.

I just got Ziva back! You can't have her! Not yet!

She doubled over, her shallow, frantic breaths robbing her of the oxygen she needed to remain upright. Panic washed over her. She felt like she was drowning. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

“Abs!” Gibbs' tires squealed again as he braked hard to avoid an oncoming MP's jeep. “Abs, you need to calm down. You're hyperventilating. Abs. You're going to pass out. Abby!”

He cursed a blue streak under his breath, relaxing only slightly when he saw the hangar come into view. An ambulance was already on site, its lights cutting angry, red slices onto the corrugated steel of the hangar's walls.

“Abby, I'm here. I see DiNozzo. Hold on.”

Gibbs rolled his window down, trying hard to ignore the sound of Abby choking on shallow sips of air. He failed miserably.

“How bad?” barked Gibbs.

DiNozzo, shocked by the vehemence in his boss' voice, blurted his response. “Head shot, Boss,” said the younger agent abruptly.

Gibbs remembered too late he still had Abby on the line. He heard her burst into sobs, her grief a living, wailing thing. He closed his eyes and slowly disconnected the call, hoping Abby would forgive him someday. But he couldn't listen to her sob for another lost friend. Not again. Especially not this one.

“And shoulder,” added Tony belatedly. “Both superficial. The EMTs are patching her up. The shoulder graze was a little deeper than the head one....”

Gibbs' eyes shot open. “Ziva's alive?”

Tony looked taken aback. “Well, yeah, Boss. I'd be a hell of a lot more broken up if she wasn't, don't you think?”

Gibbs grabbed Tony by the collar and practically dragged him into the car via the window. He gave him a sharp slap to the back of his head and then pushed him roughly away.

“Dammit, Tony! I was on the phone with Abs. She heard that.” Gibbs jammed a speed dial button and pressed his phone to his ear. “Pick up, Abby. Pick up. Pick up.”

When she didn't answer, Gibbs shoved his phone at the shocked younger agent. “Text her, DiNozzo. Tell her Ziva's alive. Make it convincing or I will shoot you myself.”

Tony opened the phone and started typing as if his life depended on it—which it clearly did. He finally managed to press the tiny keys in the right combinations. He sent: DiNozzo's an idiot. Head shot was a graze. Ziva's fine. Repeat, Ziva's FINE. EMTs patching her up. I've already headslapped Tony once. Will do it again on your say so. G

Abby watched her phone bounce across the floor where she'd dropped it, vibrating violently as Gibbs tried to call her back. She couldn't answer. Her grief had driven her to her knees and she was trying to keep from folding up into a fetal position under her desk. It was a losing battle.

Then her phone beeped, the sound it made for incoming texts, and she looked at it. Gibbs never sent text messages. She wasn't sure he knew how. Her sobs lessened as confusion took over for the moment. She reached across the cold, tiled floor and picked up her phone. She read the text twice, her heart filling with hope that she dared not give free rein.

She called Gibbs back.

He answered on the half-ring. “Ziva's fine. It was a graze. They're stitching her up now.”

“You promise?” she asked, her voice very small. She pulled Bert the stuffed hippo off the rolling evidence cart where she'd stashed him earlier in the day and hugged him hard.

“Abs, she's cussing in three languages and I'm pretty sure she just threatened to kill one of the medics.”

Abby let out the breath she was holding. Three languages and death threats meant Ziva was irritated. Irritated was good. Cursing in three languages was better. That meant Ziva was breathing and breathing meant she was alive and alive was very good. Of course, death threats directed at the EMS personnel, while probably not welcome by the personnel in question, were the best. Hell, they were practically music to Abby's ears.

“Abs, you there?” asked Gibbs.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I trust you, Gibbs.” She thought about the woman with bark brown eyes as deep as any forest, with fine, bronzed skin and long, curled ringlets that begged to be wrapped around Abby's fingers. She thought about the woman with whom she had fallen in love and her heart returned to life, beating again as if for the first time. She made a decision and wrote it in stone: no more hiding. When she saw Ziva again, she would tell her how she felt. Finally. Once and for all. Consequences be damned.

“Bring her back to me,” whispered the lab tech, only half aware that she'd spoken the words aloud.

“Will do,” said Gibbs, nodding with the conviction of one taking a solemn vow.

“And Gibbs?” Abby's eyes narrowed with menace. “Let me take care of Tony, okay?”

Gibbs relaxed, a smile creasing his eyes for the first time in what seemed like hours. “You got it, Abs,” he said, grinning. “He's all yours.”

Gibbs stole a sideways glance at the battered Israeli woman in his passenger seat. He'd volunteered to be her escort back to NCIS, partially because he wanted to keep an eye on his agent and partially because he figured he owed it to Abby to personally deliver the object of her desire. And he held no illusions on that score whatsoever: his Abby had fallen head over heels for the enigmatic Ziva David some time ago. He wondered if this latest near-death scare would be the leverage she needed to finally tell Ziva how she felt.

He also wondered how Ziva would take it if she did.

"I'd be more comfortable if you were in the hospital, David," he said gruffly, eying her bandaged shoulder in its sling and the gauze square taped to her temple. The base MPs had given her a drab tee-shirt to replace her ruined Henley. Gibbs was unapologetically happy about that. Presenting Ziva to Abby with that much blood staining her clothes...well, that was just a bad idea every way he looked at it. The tee-shirt was better...even if it was about six sizes too big for Ziva's slight, wiry frame.

"No hospitals," Ziva said, repeating a tired refrain Gibbs knew well. "I know what precautions I should take with these wounds. They are not remotely life-threatening. I will be fine." Her gaze dipped down and away from Gibb's intense eyes. “Besides, I need to speak to...someone.”

"Gotta see a man about a horse?" he asked lightly, expecting a frustrated diatribe from the woman on the rigors of nonsensical American sayings. What he got was vastly different.

"I...." Ziva turned and looked out the passenger window at the city rolling by. She swallowed the tears knotted around her throat like a garrotte, all those long, lonely, excruciating nights in Somalia rushing back to her in one sickening wave.

Torture? She'd been trained to withstand physical pain and psychological manipulation. That core of her self, her soul, had been impervious to fists and razor wire and pistol-whipping, to freezing water and near-drowning, to sleep deprivation, to sensory overload, to heat and cold, to humiliation, to terror and intimidation.

Only one thing had threatened that core of strength. Only one thing had the power to shred her soul to tatters....

The knowledge that she would never see Abigail Sciuto again, would never be able to show Abigail the shape and heft of the heart she had stolen from Ziva, would never be able to whisper the fierce grandeur of her love for the beautiful woman into a pearly, shell-like ear during the deep, golden hours of a tender night....

And yet, Ziva had survived and was rescued. Had survived only to discover something about herself that she never expected to find.

She was afraid. Afraid of showing her unguarded truth to Abigail only to be rejected. Afraid of tearing down walls that she knew she did not have the strength to rebuild. Afraid of being severed from the source of sunshine in her life.

She looked at Gibbs fleetingly, a wild something in her eyes.

"I need to speak to Abigail," she said, her voice roughened by unshed tears. "I must.... There's something...." Her thoughts came in fits and starts and this disorder frustrated Ziva David so intensely, she balled her good hand into a fist and pounded her thigh with it.

"Kusemek!" she swore, and Gibbs' eyes went wide. It was the harshest thing he'd ever heard Ziva say. Ever. He put a comforting hand on her knee, if only briefly.

"Whatever it is, David, she'll understand." He glanced at her with stormy blue eyes. "It's Abby," he said by way of explanation. Which made perfect sense...as odd as it sounded.

Ziva looked up at Gibbs with troubled, cinnamon-colored eyes.

"Will she?" she asked plaintively. "Will she understand?"

There was Gibbs' answer, painted so clearly in a pair of tear-rimed eyes that it nearly took his breath away. Ziva David was so deeply in love with Abby that she seemed in danger of strangling on the words she was trying so desperately to contain.

“She will,” he said. “She does,” he added, whispering as if to himself.

Ziva nodded but looked unconvinced. Gibbs wanted to laugh; it was so absurd. Two women in love with one another and neither one with the courage to tell? He shook his head.

Outside Abby's lab, Gibbs pulled Ziva aside.

“I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, David,” he said, reaching out with uncharacteristic tenderness to tug at one of her ringlets, “but whatever happens, you owe it to yourself to tell her the truth. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, straightening as if going into battle. Except she'd just come from a battle. One that hadn't gone particularly well.

Gibbs' lips thinned into a determined line. He took point and entered Abby's domain, his eyes steely.

Abby turned at the sound of him entering, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, tears still drying on her cheeks. She looked...wilted. Haunted. Hanging by a thread. The sight cut Gibbs to the core.

“Where is she?” the Goth whispered, her voice thick with tears.

Gibbs stepped aside, revealing Ziva to Abby's eager yet worried gaze. The taller woman took one look at Ziva's bandages and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She rushed forward without thought, but stopped abruptly when she realized what she was doing. She locked green eyes with Ziva's darkening brown ones and leaned forward, curling her hands into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

Gibbs wondered if Abby had made the fists in anger or in a desperate attempt to keep herself from reaching out to take Ziva's face in her hands. He suspected a bit of both.

“You two need to talk,” he said. “When you're done, David, you're on med leave until Ducky clears you.” His eyes twinkled, unseen by either woman. “Make the most of it,” he added.

Ziva didn't even look at him. She nodded absently, but kept her eyes on Abby, drinking in the woman's unorthodox beauty as if for the first time. She licked lips made suddenly dry by longing and leaned forward herself, drawn like the rising tide toward Abigail, the moon.

“Talk,” repeated Gibbs pointedly. “I'm sure you two can figure out a way to get Ziva home when she's ready.”

Neither woman seemed to have heard him and he shook his head, smiling as he turned to leave.

Alone finally, Abby tried to jump-start herself out of her stupor.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly. Her worried gaze flitted from the gauze at Ziva's temple to the bandage and sling on her arm.

“I have had worse injuries,” replied Ziva matter-of-factly. “I will live.”

Tears unexpectedly flooded Abby's eyes at the words. “Good,” she said, her voice strangled by emotion. “I'm so glad to hear that.”

The women stood there, frozen and silent, both unsure what to do next. Tears slipped down Abby's cheeks unchecked and Ziva ached to wipe them away. She did not. She could not make her feet move, could not tear herself from the place where she was rooted.

Eventually, the electric intensity between them became too much for Ziva and she averted her eyes, a blush rising into her cheeks, a shy smile bowing her lips.

“Gibbs suggested we should...talk,” she said, glancing at Abby for the briefest of moments before returning her gaze to the floor.

Abby swallowed. “Yeah,” she said, nodding.

Silence stretched between them until both of them spoke at once.

“You first.” “You first.”

Abby rolled her eyes and Ziva chuckled. “You first, Abigail,” she said, humor lacing her voice.

The taller woman gasped lightly. “Oh,” she said breathlessly. At Ziva's hawk-like and questioning look, she explained, “You said my full name.”

“Yes,” said Ziva carefully, wondering if she should not have crossed that particular threshold at this juncture.

“I really liked it,” admitted Abby, a blush of her own rising into her cheeks. Ziva, emboldened, took a step closer.

“Then I shall make a point of calling you by your full name more often,” she promised, her voice a low and sexy purr. “Abigail.”

Abby's eyes fluttered shut. “Mmmmm....” she hummed, getting lost somewhere in her mind's eye. Somewhere very, very nice. The touch of Ziva's fingertips on her cheek brought her back to the present.

“Tell me,” breathed Ziva, her eyes liquid with longing and desire and fear all at once.

Abby's heart thrashed in her chest like a wild bird in a cage and she trembled from head to foot. Her own eyes became hooded, shimmering to the brim with so many emotions that they spilled out in the form of a brightness Ziva wished she could hold in her hands, it was so beautiful.

“I can show you,” she whispered, leaning forward....

“Ziva! God, are you okay? Tony told me what happened!” McGee's worried exclamation drove the women apart instantly.

Abby whirled toward her microscope to cover her sudden need to calm her breathing. She had only one thought: I almost kissed Ziva!

Ziva pivoted toward McGee, her eyes hard yet forgiving. How could she be upset with McGee? He was worried for her, concerned about her injuries, her well-being. He could not help that his timing was as refined as a crystal goblet made in Taiwan.

“I am fine, McGee,” she assured the earnest man staring at her with such concern. “I am certain Tony made it sound worse than it is.”

“He probably also lied about how badly he screwed up,” scowled the agent. “You two should never have split up in there.”

“That was not part of the plan. It was an accident.”

“An accident that almost got you killed!” exclaimed Abby, enraged, whipping around to join the conversation, however belatedly. “Was he playing James Bond again? Ziva, did Tony run off and leave you, trying to be a hero?”

Ziva shook her head sharply. “I do not think he had any such intent. We did not even know the Marines were there. We simply became separated. I do not remember how.”

“Hmpf,” grunted Abby, not convinced. McGee's dubious expression conveyed his own doubt as well.

“Maybe his mistake wasn't in getting separated,” he said grudgingly. “Maybe it was in how he distracted you when you guys met up again.”

Ziva said nothing. That told Abby everything she needed to know.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “That's it, isn't it? He startled you after you'd already been fired on, didn't he? You turned to face him, thinking he was a threat, and—and—”

“And the real threat made the most of the distraction,” finished McGee disgustedly.

“The marine was not successful,” said Ziva slowly, looking from Abby to McGee and back, both worried and flattered by their anger on her behalf. “And Tony is the one who neutralized the threat.”

“Only because you'd been shot!” Abby shouted, waving her hands angrily. Suddenly she stilled, an icy calm washing over her. “I'll kill him,” she said quietly and evenly. “They'll never find the body.” She turned to leave the lab, but Ziva rushed forward to grab her gently by the shoulder.

“Abigail, please....” she pleaded. When Abby turned toward her, Ziva let everything she was feeling flood her eyes.

Please do not do this. He is my partner and a good agent. He made a mistake. Killing him will only separate us. I cannot bear to be without you for one moment longer, let alone for a lifetime. Please....

Abby remained rigid and unmoved by the plea in Ziva's eyes for exactly five seconds. Then she sighed, the rage leaving her in one long exhalation. She reached up to cup Ziva's cheek in her palm.

“Okay,” she said simply.

Ziva smiled with relief and Abby smiled back, more shyly than before, a tint of pink rising in her cheeks again.

McGee blinked. “Oh,” he said, seeing the change in the two women and what it implied as clearly as if he was reading it from a book. “I was...interrupting. Before. Wasn't I?”

Neither woman acknowledged his question in any way, so intent were they on staring into each other's eyes.

“That would be a 'yes,'” he said. “I'll just...um...go.” He looked from Ziva to Abby and back again, his shock slowly fading into an indulgent grin. “Yeah. Going now.” He turned and fled the lab as quickly as he could.

“I believe you were going to tell me something very important before we were interrupted,” said Ziva softly.

“Unh-unh,” corrected Abby, drawing the smaller woman toward her. “I was gonna show you....”

She dipped her head and closed her eyes, her breath hitching with desire just as she—

“My dear Ziva!” exclaimed Ducky, sweeping into the forensics lab with his bag like an aging demi-god, his face a mask of dire concern. Abby and Ziva leaped apart like startled lemurs. “Jethro told me what happened. Let me take a look at you.”

Abby blinked as if punched between the eyes. Ziva crossed her good arm over her chest—to hide the obvious physical evidence of her too-often frustrated desire—and scowled. Again, the look had no real bite. Ducky was simply concerned for her well-being, as McGee had been. She could not truthfully say she had expected anything less.

“I am fine, Ducky,” she told the coroner. “My injuries are superficial and not worth your time.”

Ducky clucked remonstratively. “Let me be the judge of that, my dear. Gun shot wounds, no matter how superficial, are nothing to sneeze at.”

As completely weirded out as Abby was by twice being interrupted while trying to kiss Ziva David, she had to agree with Ducky on this point. “Let him look,” she said softly. When Ziva's eyes met her own, she added, “For me.”

Ziva saw the adoration and worry in Abigail's expressive eyes and she turned, nodding to the coroner.

“Very well,” she said. “You may look.”

Ducky put his bag on Abby's evidence cart and opened it.

“May I have a pair of gloves, Abigail?” he requested, surprised when the forensics analyst handed him a pair almost before he was finished with the question. She had taken up a position nearby and seemed to be ready to act as his assistant. She had already donned her own pair of gloves.

Ducky began with the graze to Ziva's temple, removing the small, soiled gauze square with infinite gentleness. He examined the still-oozing wound, probing the discolored skin around it carefully, noting the four stitches and the skill used to place them. He was mostly satisfied by the work of the EMTs—it was serviceable and neatly done—but stitches would scar her skin and the thought of Ziva's oft-battered body marred by yet another blemish made Ducky frown.

He retrieved an alcohol wipe from his bag, opened it, and cleaned the wound again before replacing the bandage with a fresh one.

As if reading the thoughts from his eyes, Ziva whispered, “I do not mind the mark.” She looked at Abby sadly. “I will wear it as a reminder to not waste time. I have wasted too much time already.”

Abby gave Ziva one of her patented, wide-as-the-world grins and nodded. “Me, too,” she mouthed over Ducky's shoulder.

The coroner gave Ziva a genuine smile. “Well, that's wonderful news, Ziva dear! Time is too precious to waste, for whatever reason.” He glanced at Abby over his shoulder, offering her an enigmatic and knowing smile. “Don't you agree, Abigail?”

Abby almost swallowed her tongue. “Um...well, yeah. I do, actually.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Now let me take a look at this other injury, Ziva, and then this old man will get out of you ladies' way. Shan't take long.”

He helped her out of the sling and pulled the ruined sleeve of her borrowed tee-shirt away from the larger bandage on her deltoid muscle. He removed the packed gauze and examined the larger wound with exaggerated care.

“You're lucky this didn't shatter the humerus,” stated the coroner as he probed for the depth of the wound. “Another dozen millimeters and you would be in surgery right now.”

“And yet, I am not,” said Ziva pointedly, directing the comment to a very upset-looking Abby.

“No, you aren't,” agreed the hoary-headed doctor. “As I said, your luck holds.” He opened another alcohol wipe. “Did they have to do any subcutaneous sutures on this, my dear?”

Ziva nodded. “Four, dissolving, in the muscle structure.”

Ducky nodded. “As I suspected.” He cleaned the wound and efficiently replaced the bandage. “Is the sling really necessary?” he asked, tucking the cut sleeve of the oversized tee-shirt around the wound again.

Ziva shrugged with her good shoulder. “I did not think so. The EMTs felt differently.”

Ducky handed the ridiculous thing to Abby. “Dispose of that, Abigail dear, won't you? I trust Ziva's assessment of her needs over those of medical technicians I do not know.”

Abby grinned and took the slip of crisp, periwinkle cotton from Ducky's outstretched hand, pivoting quickly and disposing of it in one of the many trash receptacles in her lab.

“Done,” she said, her voice thoroughly laced with the pleasure of accomplishment. The sling had made Ziva's injuries seem more dire than they apparently were and Abby was all too glad to get rid of it.

“Good.” He disposed of the contaminated materials from his examination in a nearby bio-hazard receptacle and closed his bag. “I'm pleased to see your injuries are, indeed, superficial, Ziva. If you should have any trouble with them, please let me know immediately, won't you?”

“I will,” promised the Israeli, her eyes drifting to Abby's, already halfway lost in their depths now that they were about to be alone again.

“Excellent. Well then, ladies, allow me to retire to my office. I will shortly have quite a few guests in my autopsy bay—thanks to you, Ziva, my dear...and Mr. DiNozzo—and I should prepare. Have a lovely afternoon.”

Oh, we will, thought Abby as she reached for Ziva's good hand, entangling their fingers. She needed the comfort and reassurance of Ziva's presence more than she needed anything else at the moment and she didn't care who saw it.

Of course, had she known Tony was going to walk in at that moment....

“Good, you're still here,” said the dark-haired team lead to the ex-Mossad. “I need to talk to you.”

McGee rushed into the room behind Tony, looking positively white with dread. “Tony, I told you...this isn't such a good idea.”

"Yeah, yeah," said Tony dismissively. "I heard you the first three times, McGeek. The problem is, I'm not listening." He nodded at the other two people in the lab, barely acknowledging them, his focus almost solely on Ziva. "Abs. Ducky. So, is Ziva in the all clear, wound-wise?" he asked.

"That's not for me to say, Mr. DiNozzo," replied Ducky slowly, confused by the agent's tone.

Abby had already moved from "confused" to "hinky" on her interpretation of Tony's tone. She wasn't sure what exactly it was, but something was setting her teeth on edge. "Yeah," she added, her features darkening. "And it's not really any of your business." She tightened her hold on Ziva's hand and was relieved to feel the gesture reciprocated.

"I'm her partner!" said Tony, affecting a wounded air. "Of course it's my business!"

McGee rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Ziva took a single step forward, but did not let go of Abby's hand.

"I am fine, Tony," she assured him. She knew her partner well and his behavior had the feel of something new, something unwelcome. She kept her voice even and cold, hoping to discourage whatever it was. A knot of worry, of suspicion began to grow in her middle. "I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary."

Tony had the good sense to look contrite...or as contrite as he could manage when the emotion overlaid another one in his features: a sense of entitlement that had no logical origin.

"But it is necessary, Zee," he said, averting his eyes, the picture of boyish penitence. "It's my fault you got shot. If I hadn't--"
Feeling Abby's grip tighten even more, Ziva hastened to interrupt her partner. "As I said before, you could not have known the Marines were in the hangar. Neither of us did. Therefore, my injuries are accidental and not due to negligence on anyone's part."

Tony grinned, seemingly relieved. "See? I knew there was a reason I...." Whatever he was about to say faded away as he glanced at the other occupants of the lab, noticing them as if for the first time. "I need to talk to you privately, Ziva," he said finally, reaching out to tug on her good sleeve.

"Stop, Tony. Just stop," said McGee under his breath. Ducky heard and glanced at the probationary officer sharply before turning his gaze on Tony. Suddenly, he had a sinking feeling, the implications of which made him almost pity the younger man. Almost. He considered Tony with new understanding and decided to do his best to assist the poor man before he became intimately acquainted with the jealous wrath of one Abigail Sciuto. It would be a shame to lose such an experienced agent, no matter how oblivious he seemed to be.

"Mr. DiNozzo, perhaps you and I should have a word--"

"Not now, Ducky," hissed Tony, never taking his eyes from Ziva. "Kinda busy here." He tugged on Ziva's top again and motioned toward Abby's office. "It will only take a minute, Zee," he coaxed. "I just wanna say something to you that I should have said a long time ago."

McGee's features paled just as much as Abby's features darkened. The Goth, realizing instantly what Tony wanted to say, opened her mouth to snap at him, but Ziva interrupted once again. Her fears about Tony's unusual behavior realized--and in the worst possible way--Ziva was desperate to minimize the potential for imminent conflict, something that could only be achieved if she stopped Tony before he made an ass of himself. Or more of one.

"Whatever you have to say to me may be said here, in the presence of my friends...and my lover," she said, her gaze sliding shyly to Abby.

The fact that she and Abby hadn't even kissed yet was not lost on Ziva David. It was a problem she planned to remedy as soon as humanly possible. And as often. However, referring to Abby as her lover was the quickest and most efficient way to divert Tony from what she suspected was going to be a declaration of love. An ill-timed, ill-conceived, and ultimately false declaration of love at that. Ziva knew her partner very well. Whatever he thought he was feeling for her paled in comparison to what he'd had with Jeanne Benoit.

Tony reacted as if he'd been sucker-punched. He jerked his hand away from Ziva and looked from her to Abby to their joined hands and back again, shock and disbelief widening his eyes. "Your lover?" he repeated, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. "Wha--?"

Abby reacted very differently. Her gaze shifted from Tony to Ziva and her features softened considerably, a wide grin that could only be described as "goopy" dominating her face. She closed the distance between Ziva and herself and put her arm gently around the younger woman's waist. She nuzzled the ex-Mossad agent's temple, brushing her lips against the tender, uninjured skin there, delighting in the scents of sandalwood and bergamot which belonged to Ziva's shampoo.

"Yeah," she murmured dreamily, her heart hammering in her chest again. Heat suffused her entire body as she contemplated all the beautiful, sensual, and erotic implications of the word. "Lover...." Then her gaze snapped to Tony and she scowled at him menacingly. "Problem?" she asked pointedly.

“Trust me,” said McGee, stepping between Tony and the women. “He has no problem. None.”

“But--”

“Mr. DiNozzo is a modern man,” agreed Ducky hurriedly, clamping one hand on the younger agent's shoulder with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. “He applauds diversity in all its forms.”

“But--”

A fourth voice added his particular thoughts from the doorway. “Still here, David?”

“Ack!” Tony cried, turning to look at his boss. He wondered how something that had seemed so right just a few moments ago had managed to fall apart right in front of his eyes.

“I thought I sent you home on med leave,” added Gibbs, entering Abby's domain with a fresh cup of coffee. He took a sip and raised an eyebrow at Ziva.

The ex-Mossad had the sense to look abashed. “I was just negotiating transportation options with Abigail,” she said quietly. “If that is acceptable.”

Gibbs shrugged. “Works for me. I'm gonna be in meetings all day with SECNAV and the Sergeant Major of the Marines, both of whom would like to know what the hell was going on right under their noses.” He tipped his cup toward the coroner. “Ducky has five autopsies to perform...and I want them all completed before anything comes to you, Abs. The official word from on high is 'hurry.'” He frowned. “You know how much I hate to rush a case.”

“Illiterate Appalachian coal miners know how much you hate to rush a case, Gibbs,” said Abby, chuckling.

“So David gets to go home for the rest of the day and Abs gets to go with her?” whined Tony. “How is that fair?”

McGee shook his head, wondering whether Tony had an actual, identifiable DSMV-IV condition or if he was just that stupid.

Gibbs took a menacing step toward his senior agent but Ducky halted him with a raised hand.

“Allow me, Jethro,” he said pleasantly. Then he slapped the back of Tony's head. Hard.

“Hey!” Tony rubbed the spot, annoyed.

“Thanks, Ducky,” said Gibbs to the coroner. He turned to Tony. “And it's fair because she's the one who got shot, DiNozzo. She goes home, you write up the incident report. Period.”

“But they're going to—to—” Tony's indignation evaporated as Gibbs advanced on him, a cold fire in his eyes. There was a line that one did not cross with Leroy Jethro Gibbs and Tony was good at toeing that line without crossing it. Right now, though, he was very close to finding out what happened on the other side of it.

“To what?” he ground out, daring Tony to continue that thought.

Tony swallowed heavily. Saying that Gibbs treated Abby like a daughter was one thing. Seeing it in action was a completely different thing. Especially when Gibbs was about to go all Old Testament on his ass.

“Uh...nothing, Boss,” he said weakly. McGee felt like applauding. Backing off that train of thought was the first smart thing Tony had done all day.

Gibbs nodded sternly, then turned to look at the women. “You two have today and tomorrow off. Abs, I'll need you back on Thursday to start processing the rest of the evidence. David, check in with Ducky Thursday morning. If he clears you, you come back. If he doesn't, you go home until he does. Understood?”

The women looked at each other briefly before nodding, identical shy smiles on their lips.

When they made no move to leave, Gibbs raised both eyebrows at them. “Your feet glued to the floor?” he asked. “Go.”

They hurried to obey him, stopping only when Abby did, the Goth pulling away from Ziva long enough to wrap her arms around Gibbs' neck.

“Thanks for bringing her home to me,” she whispered, then she pressed a kiss to his cheek. In the next instant, she was back at Ziva's side, gently tugging the field agent out the door and down the hall toward the elevator.

Gibbs watched them go, a wistful smile making his storm blue eyes crinkle. Eventually, he turned back to the three men, two of whom were puffed up like proud brothers. Only Tony looked as if he'd been sucking lemons. Dipped in salt.

“I should go and see how our young Mr. Palmer is doing with our guests,” said Ducky. “I told him to begin evidence collection and body preparation. If I don't assist, it could take all night.” The dapper coroner took his leave, humming a jaunty tune as he went.

McGee took one look at Gibbs' stony features and beat a hasty retreat himself. “I...uh...I still have about three thousand emails to go through on these guys, so I'll just be...uh...yeah. Going now.” He ducked out while the ducking was good.

Tony stood his ground, eyes defiant and wary. “I guess I should start my incident report,” he said, a hint of a smirk coloring his tone.

Gibbs' hawk-like gaze kept him rooted to his place.

“Ziva may not blame you for what happened today, DiNozzo, but Abby sure as hell does,” he began, his voice tight with anger. “If Ziva's injuries were any more serious, if Abby needed me to pick up the pieces of her life again—”

“Again?” Tony looked up sharply. “How long has this—this been going on?”

“Does it matter?” Gibbs knew now that Abby and Ziva both had been harboring unshared feelings for at least a year, possibly longer. That they had only just discovered that bit of common ground was not something Tony needed to know.

Tony sagged where he stood and looked away. “I guess not,” he said, defeated. “It's just....”

“Just what?”

The younger agent made a self-deprecating sound. “I thought I loved her,” he admitted. Hearing himself say the words for the first time, he was struck by his own hesitance.

“That's the difference between you and Abby, DiNozzo.”

Tony looked up, a question in his eyes.

“Abby doesn't think she loves Ziva; she knows she does. Right down to the bottom of the three-inch-soles on her boots.” His eyes darkened with old sadness. “I had to watch her deal with Ziva's death once and I may have to again. There are no guarantees around here. But—” Gibbs' gaze pinned Tony with laser-like fury and he jabbed a finger at him. “—if you're ever that sloppy again and Abby loses Ziva, you will deal with me. You understand?”

Tony nodded, completely cowed. “Yeah. Got it, Boss.”

Gibbs glared for a minute longer, then let it go, his hand dropping back to his side. He looked away contemplatively. “Go,” he said, his voice less hard. “You and McGee take off for the afternoon. Box it out. Get drunk. Do whatever you have to do to get her out of your system. But be back tomorrow morning ready to be a grown-up about it.”

Tony's shoulders relaxed considerably and he hazarded a lopsided grin. “Thanks, Boss.”

“Go before I change my mind.”

The younger agent nodded and fled, not wanting to test fate twice in one day.

Gibbs waited until Tony was gone before shaking his head.

TBC

I hope you enjoyed it!

Twoodles!

DiNovia

Weirdest. Gmail Web Clip Ad. Ever.

seftiri — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 18:49:12 GMT

So I have my Gmail set to send me daily, as-they-happen updates on a few things. The happenings of Diane Neal are one of them. Sue me.

Lately, I haven't been following Diane so closely...so just now, when I got an update, I opened it to see what it was. It was not so helpful, actually, but Gmail, in its creepy Big Brother way, also posted above the email a webclip ad. For a company by the name of Lime Crime Makeup. (limecrimemakeup.com)

No. Seriously.

All you Limers out there will, of course, recognize our early battle cry when we were yet a small but earnest rag-tag group of fans of one Diane Neal.

Lime is not a Crime! made its way onto several avis, icons, signature templates, gifs, etc. See my own above.

Which is why it was so very STRANGE to have that particular web clip ad appear over an email about Diane Neal. Did I mention that the email did not reference the word "lime" at all--not even once?

Maybe I shouldn't be as creeped out by this as I am, but something like this happened to me once before. I had sent an email to a friend where I referenced my brother by his first name only. The web clip ad that appeared over my friend's reply was for my brother's software design company. My brother doesn't even have the same last name as me (long story short: neither was happy with their last name, no hyphenation was wanted, so he and his wife created a new last name), so somehow Google's relevance software picked up my name, my brother's first name, and what? Made an assumption?

The email where I referenced my brother, by the way, did not reference his company or his job or anything. I'm almost certain I was talking about one of his kids. But somehow Google pulled a webclip ad for his company out of its virtual ass and put it over the email. And that's the only time I've ever seen an ad for my brother's company anywhere.

Seriously, people. What kind of relevance software are they using over there in Googleland? O_o

Twoodles!

Erin

PS....I'm thinking about writing again. A lot, actually. Original works this time, though. I have too many good ideas that I need to get down on "paper."

This might mean that I'll be resurrecting my original works LJ community sugaredlimes. Be on the look out for new posts there next year after I get back from seeing and spoiling my brilliant girlfriend in CA. ;)

For those of you who will no doubt respond with well-crafted pleas for me to finish Hide Beside Me, I'm not saying I will never finish it. But I haven't been able to get back into it since the fandom crashed and burned over the release of Venice and the tweeting foibles of CC. I just cannot reconcile the character of Olivia in my head with what happened in real life. I apologize. Hope is not fully dead, though. Just remember that.

I have one NCIS piece that I have promised to post before the 23rd and I will do so. After that, I am going to focus on publishable material.

Grazie!

I Think He's My Geico Rep

seftiri — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 01:48:52 GMT

This is Leonard.
Lenny, for short.
He joined me on my easy chair about an hour ago,
as I was answering email.
He is either a Thanksgiving visitation akin to Scrooge's Christmas visitations
or he is my Geico rep here to sell me renter's insurance.
All I know is that he matches my shirt almost perfectly
and he is amazingly content to wander
the alien landscape of me, reclining with laptop,
and to be photographed.
He is not skittish of the paparazzi, apparently.
I have discovered other things about Lenny.
1) He's an excellent jumper. No, really. Olympic caliber.
2) He's exhausted! Poor thing took a nap on my knee.
3) He's a good listener. Only yawned during my interrogation of him once!
and
4) He was originally attracted to the heat cast-off from my laptop vent and would still be basking there happily
if I didn't insist upon moving around, like a human being, rather than laying perfectly still, like a friendly rock.

I propose a toast!
To Lenny!
Long may he roam!

I Simply Do Not Understand

seftiri — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 03:57:21 GMT

I do not understand the appeal of Angie Harmon whatsoever.

Many lesbians seem to flock to her despite her socially conservative politics, the fact that she apparently voted in favor of Prop 8 (I tried to find voter lists corroborating that claim, but could not find them), and her admiration and love for Sarah Palin.

No, seriously. She admires and supports Sarah Palin, including the woman's bid for presidency in 2012. And apparently the admiration is mutual.

Check out the links below:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/01/angie-harmon-republicans_n_181781.html
http://www.thesarahpalinblog.com/2009/04/support-angie-harmon.html
http://newsbusters.org/blogs/noel-sheppard/2009/05/16/actress-angie-harmons-favorite-website-newsbusters
http://www.conservatives4palin.com/2009/03/angie-harmon-not-afraid-to-call-out.html
http://usconservatives.about.com/od/hollywoodconservatives/p/AngieHarmonBIO.htm

Consider this quote:

While defending former VP nom Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol Palin, and her controversial pregnancy (unwed teenaged mother), Harmon stated that "one of the greatest things about the Republican Party is the understanding, we don't point fingers and we have class."

Um, really? You (Repubs) don't point fingers? Do the words "Ground Zero Mosque" mean anything to you? Because Republicans sure do seem to be pointing fingers there, some of them--including your precious Sarah Palin--equating the entire Muslim religion with terrorism.

Note to Angie: This is not classy. Trust me. Neither is claiming that if you stay in LA, your three daughters will be strippers with "full sleeves" by age 8.

(The full quote from the above is: "I think that if you have boys, it is a different thing. Boys are tougher, stronger, you know. If I don't get my girls out of LA, by the time they are like 8, they are gonna be strippers, have full sleeves....")

"We just had another baby and I've got three little girls now," said Angie Harmon. "So my husband and I were going to move out of Los Angeles and go somewhere in the South, where I can raise some strong Southern women with morals, ethics and values."

Yes, because the South is so much better for children. It has the highest rates of high school drop outs, the highest rates of obesity, and the highest rates of teenage pregnancy, combined with the lowest national educational prowess. Yeah, the South is better, Angie. If you want your girls to be fat, uneducated, pregnant teens. But classy ones who won't point fingers, we're sure.

I'm not trying to say here that the South is a bad place to raise children, by the way. I live in NC. My niece and nephews are being raised here. My point is that it is difficult to raise children ANYWHERE. Every city/region/state is going to have its challenges. The onus for raising one's children with the morals and standards one deems most important lies with the PARENTS, not the location in which they are raised.

And speaking of Prop 8, Angie said this in defense of Carrie Prejean, the beauty queen who spoke against same-sex marriage in her interview question and lost her crown: "I just don't understand how we've gotten to a place in America where, if someone doesn't agree with everyone, then they are punished for it."

Does that include gays who support same-sex marriage and fight for those rights, Angie? Because I personally think there's a big difference between a beauty queen losing her crown and the violence and hatred that continues to haunt the LGBT community following the Prop 8 legislation and subsequent appeals.

Aren't there better women for us to idolize? Ones who don't thumb their noses at our fight for equal representation under the law? Ones who don't pledge their support to a vitriolic, hateful, crooked, undereducated, wolf-shooting ex-beauty queen with delusions of grandeur?

If we're willing to boycott corporations such as Target, Walmart, Exxon, and Cracker Barrel for their support of anti-gay initiatives, why are we not boycotting Angie Harmon? Instead, many of us are supporting her financially by watching her shows and writing fanfic which will possibly increase her shows' popularity amongst lesbian viewers.

Can someone explain this to me?

And the response "She's hot; get over it." is not acceptable. There are PLENTY of hot women on TV and in movies who support our community and do not pander to Republican politicians and their ridiculous rhetoric.

Write fanfic for them. Watch their shows and movies.

We deserve better fictional representation than Angie Harmon's characters.

And before anyone starts whining to me about Angie Harmon's or Sarah Palin's First Amendment rights, the First Amendment says this, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

That means they have the right to say what they want on any topic (within the limitations of state and local law) and I have the right to respond according to my conscience and my morals (within the limitations of state and local law). The government cannot stop either of us from speaking our mind.

Erin Hoagland
(aka DiNovia)

FEMSLASH CON 2010 APPROACHES, MY LIEGE!

seftiri — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 23:37:30 GMT

Hello? Anyone still paying attention? ;)

It's time for the First Annual Femslash Con and guess who's going to be on two leeeeeeeeeeetle panels? Yep, moi.

So get your cute little buns over there and figure this all out, okay?

You need to go here: http://www.femslashcon.com/home for information about the con and you need to go here: http://www.paltalk.com/download_auto.shtml (if you are a PC user) or here: http://www.paltalk.com/express/?refc=83190 (if you are a Mac user) to understand the chat room functions. I highly suggest you do so before Saturday just to get used to things. It will make it easier on you and on us. Trust me.

I will be on two panels. The first one will be about VJB, my ten-year-old B'Elanna/Seven Yahoo Group that is still active and wonderful and amazing after all these years and that I created with the gorgeous and wonderful Lisa Countryman. Lisa and VJB's Captain, Ralst of Passion & Perfection, will be there too, helping me to remember the early days when things were rustic and scary and we were all alone in the wilderness. Perhaps I have that confused with my days in the Girl Scouts. Hmmmm....

The second one will be an NCIS panel that I will basically be a fangirl in because my two Ziva/Abby stories are as yet unfinished and Lisa Countryman really has the literary chops in that fandom anyway. She will be the chief facilitator in that panel. I'll just wax poetic about how wonderful "Close Protection Officer" is and try to get my first Ziva/Abby story finished by that morning.

So, you! Femslash readers, writers, and other femslashy types! You are hereby ~~ORDERED to attend~~ cordially invited to FEMSLASH CON 2010!

Be there or be slashed with an icky boy. Who may or may not sparkle. ;)

Twoodles!

Erin/DiNovia

Ask And You Shall Receive

seftiri — Wed, 12 May 2010 11:33:52 GMT

So....

June 14th is my girlfriend's birthday and--for a week now--I've been figuring out how I can get there for it because my trip to CA to see her next was originally scheduled for August and it's a little bit expensive to fly 3000 miles twice in two months.

Two days ago, I asked G-d for a little help on that score, because nothing was working out quite the way I wanted it to be working out.

Yesterday at work, my supervisor handed me (and everyone else, too) a VISA Gift Card for $300. Completely out of the blue and unexpectedly.

This morning, I have a plane ticket to CA for the weekend of my girlfriend's birthday.

Allow me to take this moment to say Halleluyah, Adonai! Todah rabah!

...

...

Do you think it's too early to start packing?

O_o

29 days....

Just 29 days until I see her again....

::dreamy sigh::

Twoodles!

Erin

Fic: NCIS, Ziva/Abby, two shorts, one by Lisa Countryman, one by DiNovia

seftiri — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 05:07:45 GMT

So, these are the evils of Skype. Lisa Countryman and I have been spending a little time together on Skype working on our respective NCIS epics and, when we get stuck, we sometimes give each other "challenges".... On this particular day, the "challenge" was to use the following four words (of which we each picked two) in a fic written in 30 minutes. Here are the results. We would like to extend the "challenge" to all of you. Please feel free to join in.

The words chosen were: lemur and sunrise (Lisa's words) and aloha and twist-tie (DiNovia's words).

We look forward to reading your contributions!

Title: Lemur Sunrise
Author: Lisa Countryman
Rating: R
A/N: Challenge response.

--

Ziva stood in line at the convenience store and let out a frustrated sigh. Abby had sent her out to get bagels. Bagels, when she could be in bed with her lover, rather wife. They’d been married since 3:17 the day before. And now, at 5:32 a.m., on the island of Hawaii, Ziva David was standing in line and the “Aloha” market, looking for blueberry bagels.

She purchased the bagels, and made her way back to the private beach two miles away. She was not happy with her new wife. She wasn’t particularly thrilled with being sent on an errand on her first day as a newlywed. And worst of all, Tony DiNozzo would certainly call her whipped. She saw their small cabin on the beach and hurried inside. The sun was not up yet, and Ziva yawned as she came into the living room.

“Hey, Mrs. Sciuto,” Abby said with a huge grin. She was in a fluffy white bathrobe and standing next to the sliding glass door that looked out onto their secluded beach.

Any anger Ziva had been feeling evaporated and she knew exactly why she’d been at a convenience store, out of bed before the sun was out of its resting place behind the horizon. Any momentary discomfort was a tiny price to pay for the smile that greeted her. “I found your bagels,” Ziva said as she held out the bag.

“Thanks,” Abby said as she crossed to where Ziva was standing. She took the bag and tossed it onto the counter and spun to take Ziva’s face in her hands. “I love you, Mrs. Sciuto,” she answered and then kissed her wife.

No matter how many times they kissed, both women were still feeling by the weight of emotion that crashed down each time they came together. Abby whimpered and after three more kisses, she pulled away. “I made coffee, strong just like you love it.” She picked up the bagels and put them into the toaster.

“Thank you, Abigail.” Ziva felt oddly nervous, as if she wasn’t quite certain how to interact now that they were married. She glanced down at the simple titanium band and smiled. She and Abby had exchanged vows in Washington, D.C. with Gibbs, Ducky, McGee, and yes, even DiNozzo, acting as witnesses at the courthouse. And now, six thousand miles away, they were on their honeymoon.

“Remember when I asked you?” Abby turned once the bagels were toasted.

“Of course,” Ziva said. She took the coffee cup Abby had placed on the low counter and took a sip. “Mmm,” she murmured. The strong, acidic coffee met her tongue and sent heat down her throat.

Abby nodded and turned toward her wife. Abby had shaped the twist-tie into a circle. She stepped forward and slipped it over Ziva’s finger and they both smiled. Abby had asked on the spur of the moment, and had used a twist-tie to seal their engagement. She’d promised to get a real ring, but had never found the perfect one. They’d agreed to not settle for anything other than perfect.

“Come with me,” Abby whispered. She grabbed the plate with two bagels and led Ziva to the table on the small patio overlooking the beach. A candle lit the table, but the sun was nearing the horizon, painting the sky orange. She guided Ziva into a chair and sat across from her.

Abby sipped a glass of juice and smiled at the mug she'd grabbed. It was from the Honolulu zoo on Oahu, and had two smiling lemurs on it.

Ziva stared at her wife, amazed that she had somehow managed to build a life with her, with anyone as perfect for her. As the bright gold of the sun sparked across the water, Abby stood and moved to Ziva, and then knelt in front of her and took her hand.

“Abigail?” Ziva asked.

“This is the first day of our life together, Ziva.” Abby pulled a ring from her pocket. “I know this engagement ring is late, but I wanted your first sunrise as my wife to let the sun hit this ring.”

Ziva looked down and saw a titanium band with a deep green diamond channel set in the ring. A smaller white diamond on each side accented the center stone that was exactly the color of Abby’s eyes.

Ziva leaned down and kissed Abby, and then stood and spun Abby so they were both facing the sunrise. She squeezed Abby close and sighed. “It is perfect, Abigail.”

-----

Title: Aloha Twist-Tie
Author: DiNovia
Rating: R
A/N: Challenge response:

--

“Aloooooooha, darlin',” stage-whispered the forensics analyst as she leaned over the bed. Abby drew out the word and made it sing-songy, well aware that she was being obnoxious and too cheerful and that the bed's current occupant would not be pleased.

Brown eyes popped open. “What is that light?” asked Ziva, looking toward the plate glass wall that overlooked a private, white-sand beach with sparkling, clear blue water. Or so the brochures said. Currently, all she saw was a velvety darkness with a hint of gold running along the underside, like bleach leeching color from one of Abby's impenetrably black tee-shirts.

“Um...the sunrise?” said Abby, sliding back into the bed behind her wife, draping herself over bare olive skin. She sighed with the rightness of how they fit together, sighed with the utter magnitude of her love, carved into her soul as into stone, giant, towering letters proclaiming, “I love Ziva David!”

“Ugggh,” Ziva groaned, burrowing into her down pillow covered in the finest satin, hiding her eyes. “You know I could kill you with a twist-tie from a loaf of bread, right? Why am I up at this hour, Abigail?”

“Because I missed you,” said Abby simply, drawing her fingertips down Ziva's side, watching in the growing auric light as gooseflesh followed in their wake. “We've been married now for, like, almost eighteen hours and I practically can't believe how in love with you I am.” She bit her lip, smiling shyly against Ziva's shoulder. “Forgive me?”

Ziva turned in Abby's long arms and kissed her, long and slow and deep. When they parted, she sought Abby's apple green eyes with her own, brushing dark hair aside. “You are forgiven, Mrs. David,” she said huskily.

“Remember that later, okay?” said Abby, leaning in to lay a trail of burning kisses along Ziva's throat.

The young Israeli pulled her own hair away from her neck and tilted her head to give Abby better access. “What is happening later?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as Abby nipped at her sensitive ear lobe.

“Lemurs,” murmured Abby as she rolled Ziva onto her back and slid her hand between caramel-colored thighs. “Lemurs are happening later.” She gasped as her fingers found Ziva's searing, silken desire. “But they can wait,” she said finally, her voice shredded by her need. She arched into Ziva, heart pounding.

“Thank God,” gasped Ziva. “Because I cannot.”

And Abigail David was so not the type to keep her wife waiting.

--

Hope you enjoyed them!

Twoodles!

Lisa Countryman and DiNovia</span>

ANNOUNCEMENT: New Femslash for Fans Interview Coming Soon!

seftiri — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 23:32:57 GMT

"Now (Star Trek) Voyager" - Cohosts Allaine and DiNovia Talk With Authors Lisa Countryman, Katrina Blau, & Evilbunyovrlord

Thursday, 2/11/10 at 10:00pm ET

Having recently discussed Xena: Warrior Princess on my show, F4F turns to another fandom that continues to live on despite the fact that the original series ended its run in the spring of 2001. "Star Trek: Voyager" was UPN's flagship program when the network debuted, the first Trek to air on prime-time since the original series, and the only show to survive UPN's disastrous first season. It went on to last for a highly influential seven seasons, introducing such firsts as the first female Starfleet captain and the first Borg cast member. (Not to mention, first Borg to become an instant sex symbol.) And fittingly, Voyager was the first Trek series to have a large femslash following in the fanfic community, most of it centering on its three most popular female characters - Kathryn Janeway, B'Elanna Torres, and Seven of Nine. I'll be talking to three of the most successful authors from that community - "Wonders of the House Presba" coauthor Katrina Blau; "She Who Hesitates" writer Lisa Countryman, and extremely prolific author Evilbunyovrlord. Only this time, I'm going to have help. DiNovia, who earlier appeared as a guest during my Otalia discussion, has graciously agreed to lend me her experience as the writer of Voyager fics like "Queen of Hearts" and serve as my cohost for this night's show.

For more information: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/allaine

And, yes, folks, I'm co-hosting.

So put this on your calendars!

Twoodles!

DiNovia