Author’s Notes: In the same “universe”, I guess you could call it, as jerusalem bells and if so be it, yield (sort of). I just… really liked the Davids, even if they’re wildly out of character.

Just imagine everything in Hebrew and you’ll be fine.

Girls Just Wanna Have Guns

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Eli David says, folding his arms over his chest, “and it does nothing except prove what I suspected all along: you’re an idiot.”

Tony sighs heavily, clutching his hands to his chest. “Ouch, Pops. That hurts me on the inside.”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

He grins, leaning forward. “What do you prefer? Dad? Daddy? Papa Bear?” The man’s hand twitches towards his belt, where Tony knows a knife is sheathed. He chuckles.

Eli glares, his expression identical to the one that often flits across Ziva’s face whenever Tony mentions her i-n-j-u-r-i-e-s. “You know that I have the authority to kill you, don’t you?”

“But you won’t,” a voice says from behind them as Yael David emerges from the kitchen and takes a seat beside Tony. She levels her husband with a steady gaze, not quite threatening, and gently pats Tony’s shoulder.

Eli’s hands drop into his lap, where they are clasped so tightly that his knuckles are white. “She likes you better than she likes me,” he laments, and Tony leans over to press a kiss to Yael’s cheek, which she accepts gracefully but without reciprocation beyond the barest twitch of a smile. Then, in a lower voice, “Ziva would let me rough him up a bit.”

“Ziva would help you,” the woman in question says, having followed her mother into the den. She lowers herself gingerly onto Tony’s other side, still sore from her wounds sustained during captivity.

Both Tony and Eli stretch towards her, arms outreached. “Do you need—”

“God help me, if either one of you says help, I swear I will start shooting.”

Tony’s eyes flick towards Eli, who shakes his head subtly. I have her ammo, he mouths, but his eyes cut to a familiar spot on her hip, where the hilt of a knife protrudes from her pants. Tony sighs. Too risky, he mouths back, indicating the blade, and Eli shrugs, sinking back into his chair.

Ziva looks over Tony’s head at her mother, and both women roll their eyes.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Yael speaks. “It is Ziva’s birthday next week,” she announces in her usual collected manner, “and as such I thought we should celebrate. I know you aren’t in the mood for a party—”

“Now, by ‘not in the mood’, do you mean she’s still tender from her . . . w-o-u-n-d-s?”

“I can spell ‘wound’, Tony,” Ziva says dryly.

Yael silences them both with a quick glare and continues as if uninterrupted, “—so instead I thought we could all go to the firing range together in the afternoon and perhaps have lunch after.”

Ziva’s smile is wide and open-mouthed, she leans across Tony to kiss her mother’s cheek. “That sounds wonderful,” she says happily, her fingers twitching happily. “I haven’t been able to do any training in weeks besides knife-throwing.”

“I have a meeting in the morning,” Eli says solemnly, “but I will try to end it in time so that we might meet you there.”

“Aw,” Tony whines, “I have to be there again? You know, everyone knows you speak English. I don’t know why you think it’s so funny to make me—”

“Not you,” Eli interrupts, waving his hand. “I assume Ziva would like to be present at her own weapons proficiency test.”

There’s a brief silence. Then—“I get my guns back?!”

In a rare moment of abandon, Ziva leaps from the couch and throws her fists in the air. Then she drops onto Tony’s lap and kisses him, soundly, her mood lifted as she whispers, “Now all that time in the bedroom can be put towards… emotional recovery, instead of target practice.”

He laughs, somewhat nervously. “We’re giving a detoxed Ziva loaded weapons?” he asks, torn between being terrified and the image of Ziva, holding both of her guns and wearing nothing but her shoes (which leads to all sorts of awkward in his pants).

Ziva, feeling the changes below his waist, chuckles and wraps her arms around his neck, settling there partly to torture him and partly to save him from the embarrassment of exposure to her heavily-armed and Mossad-trained father. (Never say she didn’t do anything nice for him.)

“This is the best gift ever,” Ziva sighs. “I feel naked without my weapons.”

“If I knew that was all it took to get you without your clothes—”

“That’s enough,” Eli interrupts sharply, his voice oddly choked. “We’re agreed, then. Ziva will complete her weapons proficiency test and claim her guns of choice, and then we’ll meet you at the firing range to try them out.”

Yael smiles. “And then lunch,” she says. “I have the reservations already. I’ll bring a change of clothes for everyone so that you won’t smell like smoke. Ziva, wear your hair up to the range—it won’t absorb as much of the scent that way and you can easily get it out with some perfume and a hairdryer.”

Tony sits back against the couch, clutching Ziva to him and shaking his head. “I’ll say it again,” he mutters. “This is the weirdest family.”