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Entry tags:
Fic: woman king, sword in hand
Title: woman king, sword in hand
Fandoms: NCIS / Burn Notice
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In the course of an NCIS investigation, Ziva David has stumbled across a person of interest.
Count: 647 words
Notes: Originally written for Lady Fest 2010. Title from the Iron & Wine song.
"So let me get this straight," says the woman. At first listen, her accent is utterly perplexing. "You're a federal agent, you're in Miami searching for the killer of a shish kabobed Marine, and you're--" She tilts her head to one side, still taking slow, measured steps, her wedge heels clicking on the pavement. Her hands may be raised in surrender, but she moves like a cat watching its prey, and her expression and voice are more of the same. She is keeping the car between them. "--Mossad?" she asks, her eyebrows raised.
Ziva holds her service weapon like it's an extension of her locked arms, barrel trained between the stranger's eyes. "Keep your hands up," she says briskly.
"Ex-Mossad," the woman self-corrects. "Oh honey, I saw it the second you went krav maga on that Neanderthal's ass. Very nice, by the way."
"You are Irish," Ziva responds, inching along the length of the car as the stranger does the same on the opposite side. She is overly tanned and very thin, with veins and cords of muscle standing out; she appears to be dressed -- or, more accurately, draped in fabric -- to show as much of her tan as possible. "With significant amounts of time spent in England and the southeastern portion of the United States, and a dreadful American accent."
The woman clicks her tongue. "Now now," she chides, "there's no need to get snippy."
It wasn't snippy; it was matter-of-fact observation, Ziva taking the other woman's measure just as she had taken Ziva's. The stranger slowly begins to lower her hands and the tension flows through Ziva; the thrill of the hunt. "I would not suggest doing that," Ziva says, calm and easy and so dangerous, if you know to listen for it.
"Really?" The woman shoots her an unimpressed look, paused with her hand halfway to the sheaf of papers on the SUV's hood. "It's Miami in the middle of August; is me fanning myself really going to be such a threat?" Ziva should not allow this. But there is a trickle of sweat making its way down the small of her back, and gawkers are beginning to circle up around them, and the stranger's eyes are challenging her. Ziva is historically terrible at backing down from a challenge. She makes a sharp movement toward the hood with her head, and the woman picks up the papers with exaggerated care and then slowly begins to wave them just below her face.
"There," she says with a coquettish twist of her lips. "Was that really so bad?"
Which is when the first charge goes off.
Ziva doesn't falter, even with the distant whump over her shoulder; the way the ground shudders under foot and the shouts that go up around them.
"Wow," says the woman standing under the barrel of her gun, her eyes narrowed in admiration, "you are good."
The second explosion is nearer; close enough for the sound of shattering glass and for car alarms to begin to wail. The woman does not so much as flinch. She stands there with the maddening half-smile that tells Ziva all that she needs to know about who set the bombs that are going off. Ziva begins to round the front of the car, 9mm pistol held at the ready, and then the third explosion roars only three buildings down. The concussion hurls Ziva off her feet. By the time that she rolls onto her stomach to look under the car, it has only been a few seconds, but already, all she can see are a pair of utterly impractical wedge heels sprinting down an alley.
Tony, Ziva thinks as she lunges to her feet amid the chaos and broken chunks of pavement, is never going to let me live this one up, and then she throws herself after the mad bomber.
Fandoms: NCIS / Burn Notice
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In the course of an NCIS investigation, Ziva David has stumbled across a person of interest.
Count: 647 words
Notes: Originally written for Lady Fest 2010. Title from the Iron & Wine song.
"So let me get this straight," says the woman. At first listen, her accent is utterly perplexing. "You're a federal agent, you're in Miami searching for the killer of a shish kabobed Marine, and you're--" She tilts her head to one side, still taking slow, measured steps, her wedge heels clicking on the pavement. Her hands may be raised in surrender, but she moves like a cat watching its prey, and her expression and voice are more of the same. She is keeping the car between them. "--Mossad?" she asks, her eyebrows raised.
Ziva holds her service weapon like it's an extension of her locked arms, barrel trained between the stranger's eyes. "Keep your hands up," she says briskly.
"Ex-Mossad," the woman self-corrects. "Oh honey, I saw it the second you went krav maga on that Neanderthal's ass. Very nice, by the way."
"You are Irish," Ziva responds, inching along the length of the car as the stranger does the same on the opposite side. She is overly tanned and very thin, with veins and cords of muscle standing out; she appears to be dressed -- or, more accurately, draped in fabric -- to show as much of her tan as possible. "With significant amounts of time spent in England and the southeastern portion of the United States, and a dreadful American accent."
The woman clicks her tongue. "Now now," she chides, "there's no need to get snippy."
It wasn't snippy; it was matter-of-fact observation, Ziva taking the other woman's measure just as she had taken Ziva's. The stranger slowly begins to lower her hands and the tension flows through Ziva; the thrill of the hunt. "I would not suggest doing that," Ziva says, calm and easy and so dangerous, if you know to listen for it.
"Really?" The woman shoots her an unimpressed look, paused with her hand halfway to the sheaf of papers on the SUV's hood. "It's Miami in the middle of August; is me fanning myself really going to be such a threat?" Ziva should not allow this. But there is a trickle of sweat making its way down the small of her back, and gawkers are beginning to circle up around them, and the stranger's eyes are challenging her. Ziva is historically terrible at backing down from a challenge. She makes a sharp movement toward the hood with her head, and the woman picks up the papers with exaggerated care and then slowly begins to wave them just below her face.
"There," she says with a coquettish twist of her lips. "Was that really so bad?"
Which is when the first charge goes off.
Ziva doesn't falter, even with the distant whump over her shoulder; the way the ground shudders under foot and the shouts that go up around them.
"Wow," says the woman standing under the barrel of her gun, her eyes narrowed in admiration, "you are good."
The second explosion is nearer; close enough for the sound of shattering glass and for car alarms to begin to wail. The woman does not so much as flinch. She stands there with the maddening half-smile that tells Ziva all that she needs to know about who set the bombs that are going off. Ziva begins to round the front of the car, 9mm pistol held at the ready, and then the third explosion roars only three buildings down. The concussion hurls Ziva off her feet. By the time that she rolls onto her stomach to look under the car, it has only been a few seconds, but already, all she can see are a pair of utterly impractical wedge heels sprinting down an alley.
Tony, Ziva thinks as she lunges to her feet amid the chaos and broken chunks of pavement, is never going to let me live this one up, and then she throws herself after the mad bomber.