Title: First Meeting I & II
Word Count: 2,405
Rating: PG-13/R-ish (for now)
Summary: She looked up to the speaker’s face, at a loss for words.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. DPB pwns all, I am mearly a fan. All I share in common with any of this is my name is Jennifer. Though, if anyone tried to call me Jenny, I'd kick their ass. :)
After France, after Gibbs had left, she’d stayed single. Oh sure, men had been interested, but she really hadn’t been interested in them. They all liked to remark on her red hair, something Gibbs had liked, but never felt the need to wax poetic on. That suited her just fine. To hear grown (a loose definition) men going on about her ‘fiery beauty’, well it really just made her want to either vomit, pull out her Sig, or both; God forbid they try to actually touch her hair.
So, for a few years she buried herself in her work. She slowly climbed the ranks and if, occasionally she felt an itch, well she was a grown woman; she could scratch it herself.
Needless to say, she was not prepared the day she was to meet someone with whom she was to work with.
It was a scorching hot day, the temp was already 95 degrees and it was only 9am. It felt as though she were in a huge convection oven, then again; it was Cairo in the middle of summer. She was sitting at a café, a table situated along the street. She watched the traffic as it slowly crawled by. Any one of the dusty, late-model cars going by could house any number of unsavory types.
Lost in her thoughts of suicide bombers and their ilk; she was annoyed with herself when she jumped at the sudden THUMP of a messenger bag being dumped into the chair beside her as a young woman flopped into the chair across from her.
“You are Jennifer Sheppard, no?” The language was Arabic; the voice was staccato and sharp.
She looked up to the speaker’s face, at a loss for words.
She was young, was her first thought; too young. That was followed closely by she’s beautiful and her eyes widened at that.
The young woman leaned forward a little, her right hand going to her bag as her left eyebrow rose up.
“Jennifer Sheppard?” She asked in quiet English.
Jenny nodded, her tongue darting out to wet dry lips, “Yes, yes, I’m Jennifer--Jenny Sheppard. I’m sorry, you caught me off guard.” Her Arabic was nowhere near as good as the young woman’s, but it passed.
“Ziva David,” The young woman offered by way of an introduction, “you should cover your hair, the men they notice.” She glanced at a nearby table of men, annoyance on her face.
Jenny’s hand came up to brush her short hair, self-conscious for the first time in years.
“I was to understand that as an American-“ She was cut off.
“Yes, if you were a foolish tourist, you would be dismissed as such. But you are supposed to be smarter then that. Or so my Father told me.” She waived the waiter off before he even had time to approach.
Jenny felt stupid.
Ziva drew a handful of coins from her pocket and began to count them, tossing them on the table as she rose. “Come. We will go back to my office in the city and discuss the plans your Superiors and my Father have made.”
Jenny rose, mindful of the fact that someone 16 years her junior had just ordered her about as easily as if it had been Jethro. She shook her head, following the dark-haired young woman from the café.
Despite Ziva’s misgivings about her bright hair, Jenny noticed Ziva made no attempt to hide her body. She wore military-style cargo pants and a black tank-top. A gold chain with a Star of David hung around her slender neck. As she swung her messenger bag across her lean body, back muscles flexing Jenny was hit with a sudden realization.
She was soaking wet.
Ziva’s ‘office’ as it turned out was a small two-room apartment in a shabby building in the older part of the city. It seemed that only single women lived there keeping to themselves, their dark eyes peering out over their hijab that they draped across their lower face.
The apartment itself was Spartan to say the least. The tiny bedroom with a double mattress nearly filling the floor space had a small window that overlooked the dingy street below. The main room of the apartment had a refrigerator that was too big for a wet bar, but not exactly standard-size either. There was no oven, only a two-burner stove-top taking up nearly all of the counter-space, a small sink taking up the rest. The living room had a small, battered sofa and a trunk that served as a coffee table on one side and a desk on the other with a printer and what looked like an internet hook-up.
Jenny stood in the doorway stunned. This is where the daughter of the Director of Moassad lived?
“Where’s your bathroom?” She asked once the door was closed.
“Down the hall, it is shared by the tenants of this floor.” Was her matter-of-fact reply.
Ziva grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and handed one to Jenny before twisting the cap off her own.
“According to my intel, you are currently staying in a hotel in the tourist center of town. You must check out of the hotel and then, come back here. You will be staying here with me, for now.” She took a long swallow of water.
For a moment Jenny was lost in watching her throat as it swallowed the water. Then she woke up and her jaw dropped at being ordered about like a Junior Agent.
“No! I will not!” She turned a little, looking over the small space that lacked even a closet. “There isn’t room here for two people….”
“It matters not, my Father has spoken, and your Superiors have spoken as well. If we are to work together, we must live together. Surely you have lived with partners before on assignment, no?” She watched the older woman with cool eyes. Nothing was lost on her. The unopened bottle of water in her hands, the sweat beading along her hairline, the nervous cant of her body; the redhead wanted to bolt like one of her Father’s prized Arab mares.
It was as if Ziva had thrown a switch in her brain, she wasn’t in a stuffy, Cairo apartment; instead she was transported back to an equally tiny flat in Paris, France. It was still summer, but the evenings had a chill in the air. She and Jethro were walking back, hand in hand; bottle of red wine in his free hand. They made love on the tiny balcony, uncaring that anyone could hear or see them. She blinked, shook her head.
“Of course I’ve lived with a partner before! But this is different—“
“Because I am a woman? Because I am so much younger then you? Am I being too bossy?” She took another sip, “Mother says I am too bossy much of the time. I am sorry.” The apology did not sound sincere, it sounded like something that had been pounded into Ziva’s head from a very young age.
Jenny shook her head. “No, it’s none of those things.” Bullshit, her mind supplied, part of it is because she’s a woman, a young one, and beautiful at that.
And you’re attracted to her. She swallowed hard.
“There isn’t room here for two people, Ziva, there’s barely room for you.” Her eyes were suddenly gentle, wondering what life had been like thus far for this girl who was barely a woman.
Ziva huffed out a short breath before finishing her water and tossing the bottle into the trash. “Nonsense, there is more then enough room for the both of us. I will sleep on the sofa, you may have the bed.”
Jenny’s eyes raked over the younger woman, she was taller then Jenny by a few inches, and the sofa was more like a love seat on steroids. “No, it’s your apartment, I’m a guest I’ll take the---“
“Bed. You will take the bed.” Ziva held a hand up, “You are my guest and as such, I offer you the best that I have.” She looked down into the older woman’s eyes suddenly looking away, as if embarrassed that the best that she had was so little.
Jenny nodded, “If you insist-“
Suddenly Jenny became aware of the bottle of water in her hands and opened it. Before raising it to her mouth, she licked her lips then brought the bottle to her mouth. Ziva watched as the long muscles of her throat worked with one another to bring the life-sustaining water into her body. A rivulet of sweat ran down her temple, making a dusty trail down her neck. Ziva was amazed at how pale the American woman’s skin was, considering her time already in Northern Africa.
“Thank you for the water; I didn’t realize just how thirsty I was.” Jenny’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.
“You are most welcome, there is plenty in the refrigerator, you can brush your teeth with the tap water, but do not swallow it.” She headed to the trunk that served as a coffee table and opened it to reveal clothing. She bent over, pawing through its contents until she stood up, pulling a long scarf from the bottom. She glanced at its dark color, then back at Jenny.
“You will wear this to your hotel and back.” She shut the trunk returning to Jenny’s side.
Jenny’s eyes scrunched up, “A headscarf?”
Ziva nodded as she began to settle it over Jenny’s hair, then wrapping and twisting it expertly around her face and shoulders. “Yes, a hijab. You were right; this is a slightly more relaxed city.” Her cool fingers brushed against Jenny’s hot skin, “But with hair such as yours, it asks for trouble. She ran her hand over the back of Jenny’s head as if to make sure the hijab was in place, it felt like a caress.
**”Stay safe and come back to me swiftly.”**
Jenny’s head tilted to the side as she listened to the guttural language coming from Ziva. “What did you say?”
Ziva swallowed, a slight flush staining her olive cheeks. “You do not speak Hebrew?”
Jenny shook her head, “No.”
Ziva nodded curtly, “Well then, in time you shall learn.” She started to lead Jenny to the door. “Now hurry, it is a long way from here and you need to get back before dark. Call me if something happens.” She all but shoved the older woman out.
Jenny smiled and almost chuckled at the sound of the locks being thrown as she walked away.
Ziva stood, leaning against the flimsy door, sweat was gathering along her upper lip. She noticed Jenny’s half-finished bottle of water on the counter, by the door and picked it up.
My God, she is lovely. So small and yet so full of fire, no wonder she has red hair. She smiled to herself, sure that a thought like that would earn a slap from the older Agent. Her tongue lazily traced her lips. She opened the bottle of water and then traced her tongue around the lip of the bottle, as if to taste what little bit of Jenny was left. She finished the water in two gulps, tossing the bottle with the first.
She looked into the tiny bedroom, at the mattress with it’s plain white sheets and quilt that had once been bright but was now faded with time. She really should change the sheets before Jenny came back, and put the newer quilt that was at the bottom of the trunk on as well. As she moved towards the mattress, her right hand slipped the button on her pants and slid the zipper down. Her finger tips brushed against her underwear and she gave a slight gasp. Used to being sweaty nearly all of the time in the heat, she was surprised to find she was wet, not with sweat but arousal for the older woman.
She sank to her knees on the mattress, falling over on her back, eyes staring up to watch the patterns the sun played on the cracked ceiling. As her fingers slipped down into the dampness between her thighs, her mind wandered to her last lover, a man. He was always satisfied with how he came but never with how she did. He always felt she came too easily, too much like man he would say; she was too violent, too strong. She finally dumped him more then six months past.
Her hips bucked up, her palm pressing down against her mound, middle finger slipping in, sliding out, and pulling more of her wetness with it. She moaned softly as she brought the wet digit up and around her clit, rubbing first slow, then with faster abandon.
Her mind wandered, loosing track of the tiny bedroom and the cracked ceiling and men who found fault with her lovemaking. Instead, she imagined what it would be like if a short redheaded woman came home early and found her in her bed, jerking off like a man. Rolling about, eyes closed body sweaty with a damp spot under her bottom where her juices were pooling on the top of the quilt.
Another long moan.
Would she be horrified? Surprised? Would she expect Ziva to be a lesbian?
No. She would watch. Of that Ziva was certain.
She rolled over on her belly, pants and underwear pushed down to her knees, her hand was trapped between her body and the mattress.
One more pass of her finger and she was coming, hard, her face pressed into the quilt, biting hard to suppress the scream. As the crest neared its end, she began again with her fingers, relentless until she was coming again. She was now drenched in sweat from staying silent.
Slowly she became aware of the sound of traffic in the street below. Someone walking in the apartment above hers, a door closing. Her Star of David poking into her collarbone.
She gave a contented smile, not even five minuets. She had time for one or two more before she needed to get up, change the sheets and take a cold shower. Besides, it would be a long time before she could get away with this again. With Jenny as a roommate, she doubted she’d have much time to get herself off.