NCIS The First Snow, Let's Toast

**This drabble is part of the writing challenge created by soul-wanderer on tumblr. _Prompt: first snow (Ziva experiences her first snow in D.C.)_**

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><p>Lugging several full grocery bags, she groans slightly as the strap of her purse begins to slip from her shoulder. She stops abruptly. Her bags land miraculously in front of her with not a single item spilled, save for an onion that threatens a run but is caught by her deft reflexes. She tosses it back into the bag and turns her face heavenward. She allows herself a moment of collection. Deep breath in. Slow, weighted breath out. She pushes her shoulders down to a more relaxed position and takes another breath. The air is cold and crisp. <em>It smells like snow<em>, she says to no one.

She has been living in D.C. for almost six months, but has yet to acclimate to winter. She has been granted a reprieve, however, as the season has been uncharacteristically mild. November passed in a rushed autumn glow; December saw a decidedly non-white Christmas; and January was winding down without much fanfare. But still, _it smells like snow_. She readjusts her purse strap across her body this time, no chance for escape, then gathers her bags and continues her journey home.

The last few weeks have been tiring, back to back cases that included long days of evidence collection and even longer nights of surveillance. Tonight is the first night she can remember when there are no demands on her time other than those made by her growling stomach. She prepares dinner for one, opens a bottle of her favorite wine, and spends the night in her own company. There has been little time since signing on as liaison officer at NCIS to allow for more than compartmentalization and reliance on her training to temper her stress. She is grateful for the solace.

She sleeps well that night and wakes naturally to her body's internal alarm. Her bedside clock reads 0430. She can hear the percolating of her timed coffee maker. She stretches gingerly, toes pointed, arms and hands extended over her head. As she turns to look out her bedroom window, a blinking red light captures her gaze. She furrows her brow slightly, then pulls off the covers. The hardwood is cold under her feet as she makes her way to the window. Pulling back the sheers, she spots the source of the blinking red light. A plow is making its way down her street, which is blanketed in several inches of pure white. She can't help but smile.

She takes her time that morning – warms the cream for her coffee, brings a chair around in front of her living room window, and watches for close to an hour the peaceful stillness of the first snow. Unfortunately, her leisurely morning is interrupted by the shrill of her cell phone. She clambers out of the chair quickly to reach the coffee table and the offending device, answering with a tight, "David."

"Three rings is two rings too long."

She rolls her eyes and gives an exasperated sigh in the receiver. "What do you want, Tony?"

"Watch the tone, Ziva. I'm not exactly thrilled to be up at 0600 on a Saturday either."

She hangs her head resignedly, knowing full well there are only two ways Tony DiNozzo is awake at this time on a weekend. The first, and most likely, would involve slurred speech, a leggy blonde, copious amounts of top shelf liquor, and a noticeable lack of sleep. This morning she is confronted with the second, although the irony is not lost that her gratitude for serious albeit cranky Tony comes attached to dead bodies.

She winces imperceptibly as she listens to him detail the dead petty officer found stabbed outside a bar near Georgetown. "Gibbs wants us down there within the hour. Good thing I had those snow tires put on last week," he gives a snort then offers to pick her up on the way to the scene. She's confused by his kindness, and says as much.

"I didn't offer to carry you there on my back, Ziva. Your apartment is on my way and like I said, snow tires." She considers for a moment, but agrees. Her mini isn't exactly an all-weather vehicle.

"Ok. Can you be ready in 30? We'll probably have to pick up McSnowshoe, too. I doubt the probie even owns a shovel." She chuckles slightly and rushes her thanks before slamming her phone shut.

The team spends several hours bagging and tagging the scene, taking statements, and canvasing the surrounding businesses. The cold feels like its seeping into her bones. The air's heavy wetness leaves her skin slick and chilled. Tony's crankiness level has reached an all-time high, and even McGee has started to snap under their Senior Field Agent's biting responses. The three groan in a grateful, unified response when their boss finally barks the order to pack up. McGee chooses to ride back to base in the truck with Ducky and Jimmy, likely to avoid further interaction with an irritable Tony.

She is grateful for the car's heat cranking at full blast and the quiet lull in conversation as her partner too enjoys the sudden reemergence of warmth. She stares out the window as they drive, watching the previously serene world start to awaken with the bustle of a Saturday morning in the nation's capital. She sighs lightly, wishing she was still curled up on the chair in her living room.

Sensing her discontent and wanting to step away from his own, he regards her cautiously. "Penny for your thoughts, Ziva?"

"I was just thinking that I could really use a cup of coffee." She chuckles in response to his barking laugh.

"You know, Officer David, I think you're on to something." He drives for another few minutes then signals to the right, pulling into a Bess Eaton. He leaves the car running and heat blasting on her still frozen toes as he runs into the shop. He triumphantly returns several minutes later, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

He extends a cup to her and she reaches for it greedily. Popping the lid and blowing lightly on the hot liquid, she quirks a smile as her eyes find his over the rim of her cup. He's watching her intently, the kind of stare he gives her occasionally. The one that makes her stomach flutter and her mind blank momentarily. She can feel that previous chill being drawn from her bones.

"Thank you, Tony," she says with an amused sincerity.

He gives her an easy smile, his previous crankiness having dissipated with the cold. "Anytime, sweetcheeks." She crinkles her nose at the nickname but says nothing, instead taking a long sip from her cup. "Besides, we didn't get a chance to celebrate earlier."

She gives him a confused frown, but he only chuckles. He brings his cup to hers and taps the rim in a cheer, "happy first snow, Ziva."


End file.

NCIS