Just a little snippet I wrote on the bus on the way home from work to keep myself entertained. Hope everyone enjoys. :-)
Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing related to NCIS.
By: Vanessa Sgroi
"You are sick, yes?" Bypassing her own desk, Ziva David paused in front of Tony DiNozzo's desk.
"I'b NOT sick, no," grumbled Tony, his voice low, hoarse, and reedy.
"Well, you certainly look as if you are. Your eyes are bloodshot and watery. Your nose is red like that…that ridiculous flying reindeer everyone's so fond of at Christmas. You look like…like street death."
Tony frowned in Ziva's direction. "Sweet deaf?" He paused to try and clear his scratchy throat. It didn't work and he coughed. When he was finished, he choked out, "Oh. You mean woad kill."
"Yes! That is what I mean—road kill. You look like road kill."
"Gee tanks, Zee-vah. That's evah so comblimentary."
"I was merely making an observation. McGee, does he not look like road kill?"
McGee, for his part, raised his hands in a I'm-not-getting-in-the-middle-of-this gesture and went back to logging onto his computer for the day.
DiNozzo opened his mouth to reply but stopped when his nose started to tickle emphatically. Sensing the impending explosion, he was able to get his hands up just as he let loose with an epic sneeze. Another followed hard upon its heels. Ouch. That kinda hurt a little. Tony looked down at his now snot-filled hands in disgust before gazing around the bullpen for something on which to wipe them. His eyes locked on Ziva's freshly dry-cleaned coat and he arched a brow in consideration.
"Do not even think about it, Tony!" The Mossad liaison hastily stepped backward, spun on her heel, and made a beeline for the relative safety of her desk.
With a defeated grunt, he seriously debated between just wiping them on his jeans or forcing his aching, tired body up and enduring the agony of trudging to the bathroom. His jeans were seriously starting to look like a good option as his head was now throbbing mercilessly right along with his clogged and abused sinuses.
The decision was made for him when a box of tissues landed with a plunk on the desk right in front of him.
"Go home, DiNozzo," ordered Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, his bright blue eyes trending toward steel.
"But Boss, I'b…"
In the wake of Tony's expected protest; it was always thus when the younger man was ill, Gibbs purposely displayed his fiercest expression. "DiNozzo, if I get one single, solitary sniffle out of this, you're not gonna be a happy camper…"
Gibbs played his trump card. "Do I need to get Abby up here?"
Now that was a true threat. Abigail Sciuto was really, really sweet and all-around wonderful—a fantastic friend. But she was downright militant in her motherhenning. If she got wind of him being sick, she'd drive him home—HER home—and he'd find himself tightly swaddled in blankets and ensconced—lovingly of course—inside her coffin being force-fed chicken noodle soup for a week. Don't laugh. It had happened once before much to Tony's dismay.
DiNozzo wiped his hands with a wad of the proffered tissues then captured another sneeze in a couple of fresh ones. With a congested and forlorn sigh, Tony rubbed his burning eyes with his fisted hands and nodded, for all the world looking like he was a recalcitrant five-year-old. "Going home, Boss."