A/N: Muse feeling a tad… funky… as of lately and this line had been bugging me since I saw "Under Covers" a couple of weeks ago (I know, old news, but my parents rented the season DVDs to keep my amused while recovering from surgery, so…)
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"Nothing personal, mate, but it's my wife who's the trained Mossad assassin, not me"
Tony didn't know what scared him the most: the fact that he had been playing house with an assassin, or the fact that the word "wife" had rolled off his tongue with such ease. Both scenarios boggled the mind, no matter which way you sliced it.
Undercover work was not new to him. He'd done his share of it while he was in the force, and he'd played the game a couple of times since he'd joined NCIS. There was something about pretending to be someone he wasn't, about making up a whole life, so different and yet so similar, to his own, that it was intoxicating, addictive. And if he was honest to himself, he did his share of "undercover" work in his personal life itself. Wasn't he always the one to figure out which part of his personality would be best to play up in order to get the girl he wanted? The sensitive guy with a tortuous past, the new-age James Bond walking on the wild side, the All-American hero fighting for justice and freedom, the Italian stud wanting to find the right girl to start his own big traditional family… the possibilities were as endless as the number of single girls out there, ready to fall at his feet as soon as he flashed that charming smile of his..
The world was his oyster and he was the world's most renowned jeweler when it came to cultivating pearls. Ziva should be no different from every other girl, except she hadn't really fallen at his feet on her own will. Tony tried convincing himself that therein laid the attraction he'd been feeling for his coworker the past few weeks.
Ziva intrigued him. Everything about her was mysterious and exotic and a wee bit dangerous… the kind of dangerous that has you coming back for more instead of running for covers, which is what common sense would dictate in such cases – instinct of survival tended to cease functioning properly when you dealt with women like Ziva. That was probably a good thing, if you thought about it, since you were going to end up dead anyway, so what better way to go that enjoying the last moment you had?
Things would be much easier if there weren't that thick layer of innuendo that seemed to cover all their interactions. And every time he thought he'd have the last word, she'd spring an amazing come back that would leave him speechless… and craving for more. For much more.
Tony had been amazed when she'd agreed, no, demanded actually, to presenting the farce in the most realistic manner possible. He had expected her to be wearing one of those flesh-colored leotards, like the one a former colleague had worn the last time he'd gotten to pretend domestic bliss. He'd been shocked when she disrobed only to reveal the tiniest of g-strings and nipple pasties. It had taken him ten minutes of remembering the goriest of both movie and real life crime scenes to keep his reactions within the acceptable and professional.
She had told him she was a screamer, and she had proved her words to be true, even if she was faking it. Tony cursed his maleness for thinking she wouldn't have to fake with him, and then second guessed his prowess in bed. And then he wondered why he'd even think about her in bed with him in the first place.
He had been very careful to avoid full body contact while pretending to be making lo… having sex. He was a man, an Italian man, not a saint, and he was pretty much alive and willing, thank you very much. The fact that she was an attractive woman hadn't helped much. The fact that she was an attractive woman squirming under him had made things REALLY difficult. The moment came, and more than once, and there certainly was no pun intended there, unless some cosmic influence was having a field day on his expense… but that wasn't really important. Thing was, he hadn't been able to stop getting aroused in a painful and obvious way.
Of course she had felt it… it would have been impossible for her not to. And of course she'd brought it up as soon as it was possible, and in a quite unromantic fashion. What was it about knees and groins, anyway? Tony couldn't think of anything worse or more painful. Unless… he cringed as he remembered an Asian action movie where this extremely hot police officer, kung fu expert, actually kicked the bad guy in the… it had looked painful. REALLY painful. Maybe he ought to be thankful that Ziva had only chosen her knee and not her gun.
He wished she was different…. who was he kidding? He liked her just fine the way she was. More than fine. And there might be a time, sometime in the future, that he'd be able to tell her just how fine he liked her and then some.
But for now he'll make do with his wife, the Mossad-trained killer, if that's all right by you.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! Short, fluffy and not too gooey, I hope!