Archive of Our Own

Maui, 1984

Anthony DiNozzo Jr woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door of his hotel room. He opened his eyes only to notice that the sun was high up in the sky and the watch he took off the night prior told him it was 1:29 PM. Something wasn’t quite right, he thought to himself. Weren’t they supposed to leave by ten? Why didn’t Senior wake him up? Were they staying longer than anticipated? Somehow, the thought of spending more time with his father did not sound as appealing as it should have.

“What the heck?”, he murmured, still confused and barely awake, before ruffling his own hair and slowly sitting up.

The knocking at the door continued, an unforgiving reminder of something that should not have happened. With an annoyed snort he sat up and quickly went to the door, only to be confronted with the irritated frown of the cleaning lady.

“Check out was three hours ago”, the older woman complained, before taking a look at the room and adding: “You will have to pay an extra night, if you don’t leave the room in the next half hour”.

Anthony looked at the woman, unable to string a whole coherent sentence together. What was happening? Where was his father? Why was he there alone ? For the umpteenth time, Anthony DiNozzo Jr felt the bitter aftertaste of disappointment coating his tongue, while the merciless realisation of what had happened slowly settled. His father had forgotten about him being there, probably following that business opportunity he was talking about the evening prior. Needless to say,  he had deemed it way more important than his own child. Speechless he simply nodded, while dread and resentment settled in his stomach, and started fetching his clothes to throw them in the suitcase as fast as he could. His vision became blurry, his breath irregular and laboured, while he started looking for his toiletries. He shook his head: DiNozzo men did not cry, not over being left in Maui by an absent father that had sent him to boarding school as soon as his mother’s casket had been laid to rest.

He thought about his beautiful mamma and about the many excuses she’d had for her husband’s behaviour. She had always tried to sweeten the bitter truth of the matter: Anthony DiNozzo Senior could not care less about his son.
“Your father is working hard to provide for us”, she used to tell him every time the man did not show up for them, “We need to be conscious of that. We need to be grateful, Anthony”.

Tony closed the zipper of his suitcase, before moving to the door and looking at the cleaning lady.

“I am sorry”, he murmured, lowering his gaze, “I overslept”.

The woman nodded, before taking a good look at the dejected child in front of her and conceding: “Have a nice day, Mister DiNozzo”.

Once he reached the elevator, the young boy waited for the doors to close before looking at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was disheveled, his eyes red and his gaze way too hollow. He pinched his own cheeks and brushed a few blond strands with his fingers, trying to regain some control in a situation he could have never predicted and yet should have seen coming.

“Excuse me, can I use your phone?”, he asked the concierge at the front desk, desperately trying to keep himself together despite the weird mix of rage, disappointment and resignation that seemed determined to gnaw at the most tender parts of him.

The man nodded, before showing him the telephone and leaving him alone. With trembling fingers, Anthony pressed a few numbers on the keypad and waited, silently praying for someone to be home.

“ Pronto… Hallo?”, the voice of a man, metallic because of the dodgy phone lines, answered after a few seconds, “ Chi è? Who’s there?”.

“Uncle Vincenzo, it’s Anthony Junior”, the young boy murmured, “Can you help me, please? Dad has left without me”.

Hours later, after his uncle had arranged for him to fly back to the States, Tony was sitting in the back of a car driving him to the airport. His eyes were dry, his mind blank and his head pounding with the very first migraine he could remember. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the pain, before opening them and fetching the notebook he brought with him in the hopes of doing some homework. He opened it to a new page and started writing.

I will…

never leave my son alone in a foreign place

never forget about my family

tell my kids that I love them

Incapable of keeping himself together any longer, Anthony let a single tear fall. It landed on the written page, mixing itself with the black ink of his pen. Holding the notebook close to his heart, he took a deep breath and tried to swallow a sob. 

“I will never hurt you like this”, he murmured to himself, “I will not”.

Cairo, 2003

“Do all Americans say thank you like this ?”.

Naked, sweaty and deliciously aching, Ziva David turned around just in time to witness the woman laying next to her frowning, clearly bothered by her words. She smiled indulgently, still slightly dazed, before reaching to caress the other one’s arm. Her skin was soft, with a few freckles around her wrist, her hands way too delicate for an Intelligence Operative working in the field. There were no calluses on the pads of her fingers, not even the smallest sign that she was used to firing a gun. Luckily for them, an impressively good aim and her astonishingly quick reflexes were more than enough to contradict Ziva’s previous observation.

“I was joking, Jennifer Shepard”, she murmured delicately, then took her hand to kiss it, “I am not complaining”.

The other woman turned on her side, her red hair shining in the late afternoon sun, before nodding. It was a short, stiff nod. It was the same head’s movement  Ziva’s father used to save for the long uncomfortable meetings he used to complain about, shortly after having been appointed Deputy Director of Mossad.

“Thank you for saving my life”, the redhead stiffly acknowledged, before sitting against the headboard of the bed and covering herself with the white bedsheet.

Ziva nodded, eyeing her carefully, before sitting as well and offering the older woman an unopened bottle of water: “Here”.

Jenny took a small sip, before closing her eyes and murmuring: “Shit”.

“First time running this kind of operation?”, the Israeli asked, desperate to break the ice that had formed as soon as she had mentioned the unexpected turn of events that had led them there.

It had been fast, almost painfully so. One minute they were successfully gathering intel to dismantle the arsenal of a bomb maker and the next they were shooting down people trying to harm them. In the end, they both ran to a nearby hotel, determined not to compromise the rest of their teams, still at the safehouse waiting for them.

Jennifer turned around to look at her and shook her head, sighing somberly. 

“He was just a kid”, she murmured, referring to the young man who had given the alarm and almost ruined the entire mission, “He was someone’s son”.

Ziva nodded, then took the other one’s hand and squeezed it. Somehow, even though she was way younger than Shepard, she felt the need to comfort her, to make her feel better about a choice that wasn’t really an option and, therefore, could not have been taken.

“He was a kid with a gun pointed at your head”, she tried to explain to her, “He knew what he was doing. They knew what they were doing”.

That kind of person always knew, the younger woman reminded herself. They knew how to turn the pain and the grief into something dark and ferocious, ready to kill. They showed small children the mangled body of their fathers, mothers, siblings to harvest their desperation and use it to fight for a cause they barely knew about. Instead of attacking the enemy themselves, those bastards preferred using young people as shields knowing that they would not back up, blindly following an ideal that was drilled into them in a moment of weakness.

The redhead sighed, feeling tired and defeated, before taking another sip of water. It was lukewarm and smelled like the old pool in her parents’ garden, she noticed. It was just as disappointing as the empty promise written on the label: “enjoy your refreshing beverage!”.

“Do you ever think about it? Having kids?”, Jennifer asked the Israeli, trying to banish the memory of that young boy shot to the head, laying on the dusty ground of a forgotten warehouse, “Because I don’t think I can, after what I have seen of this word”.

Ziva closed her eyes, taken aback by her question. Suddenly, all that she saw was her, smiling and waving goodbye before running to the bus station. She saw her sister Tali with her green summer dress and that backpack she insisted on using despite it being old and ratty. She saw the bus stop and the nearby buildings, torn apart by the explosion like they were made of crumbly old china. Whatever was left of her sister was splattered all over the ground, only her bag was clearly identifiable. If she concentrated long enough, she could even hear the Rabbi of the nearby synagogue praying and crying for the lives that were taken, while trying to collect the remains of the deceased, to offer them proper burial.

“I don’t know”, she murmured, lost in those painful memories.

She thought about Tali’s funeral, about the empty grave of her beautiful smart creative sister, gone way too soon. She thought about the dream she had that very same night, before waking up sweaty and nauseous. She remembered making it to the bathroom just in time not to vomit all over herself while howling like a wounded animal. With a sad smile, she thought of the small child she dreamed of, a beautiful baby girl with chubby limbs and incredibly deep green eyes. 

“I shall call you Tali”, she remembered saying in her dream, “Like the beautiful songbird that was taken from us way too soon”.

“Is everything allright?”, Jenny’s voice interrupted her reverie, uncertain yet comforting.

“Of course”, she replied, before smiling at the woman next to her, “Why don’t you rest a little? I can grab a shower and keep watch for a few hours, then we can try and contact the others”.

Washington DC, Summer 2006

Anthony DiNozzo knew a thing or two about women: he prided himself in always recognizing what they needed and giving them what they liked. He knew when to be gentle and when to be more assertive, almost dominant in his own quest to find and give pleasure. He was a skilled lover, a good listener and could even be funny, if needs be. He knew not to mention a woman's menstrual cycle while referring to her bad mood. He was also aware that there was a time for prodding and a time to just let things be. Unfortunately for him, however, his brain seemed to have forgotten it all when it came to Ziva David.

They were laying on her bed, tired after yet another great round of sex that should have never happened, when Tony asked her that question.

“What does it mean?”, he prodded, while tracing the edges of her tattoo with his index finger.

The Israeli sighed, before rolling onto her stomach to successfully stop his hand from touching her.

“It’s nothing”, she murmured, unable to muster anything more than a weak rebuttal, “I made it a while ago, that’s it”.

Her tensed shoulder and the edge in her voice should have been good indicators of the Officer’s unwillingness to talk about the meaning behind that small scribble on her inner thigh. Once again, however, Anthony DiNozzo Jr forgot all about the complexity of women.

“Am I supposed to believe it?”, the indulgent smile he was carrying could be heard in his voice, “You rarely do things on a whim”.

The snort she could not suppress surprised him.

“I’m going to take a shower”, she stood up and padded to the bathroom, “You can order food if you want, flyers are in the kitchen”.

Without waiting for an answer, Ziva closed the bathroom door behind her, leaving the other one alone in a bed that suddenly felt too big and too small at the same time.

They were eating noodles directly from the styrofoam container when Tony decided to break the silence.

“I’m sorry if I did upset you”, he murmured, instinctively stuffing way too much food in his mouth and ending up coughing a good portion of it out.

The Israeli looked at him, smiling gracefully at the sight of flying spaghettis, before reaching for a napkin and helping collect the ones that had landed on the sofa. There was something special about this man, she realised, something way beyond casual sex because their boss left for Mexico, as enjoyable as it was. He cared a lot more about his people than he was willing to admit. He checked in with Abby and listened to her rant. He asked questions about McGee’s dates and made sure that the man had someone to talk to, if needs be. He showed up unannounced on her doorsteps to gift her with an old television and a stash of movies. He was a fixer, a doer and so incredibly charming that Ziva had often found herself pondering if they could eventually give themselves a name other than “friends with benefits”.

“You remember Tali?”, she asked him, without giving herself time to overthink what she was about to share.

DiNozzo nodded, then put his food on the small table in front of him and turned slightly on the side to give her his complete attention. The woman rarely mentioned her family or her life in Israel, he quickly realized: whatever she was willing to share had to be important.

“I went in her bedroom while we were supposed to be sitting Shiva”, she started, closing her eyes for a quick moment, “I needed some air after yet another person telling me that they loved my sister”.

Tony’s hand found hers, neatly folded on her lap, and held it tight while remaining silent. While giving her some space to think before speaking.

“I found her diaries”, the woman murmured, “They were so precious to her, she used to hide them in the most ridiculous places”, the ghost of a smile graced her lips.

“It’s her handwriting”, the former Special Agent suddenly realised, “it’s your sister’s handwriting”.

“It says something that could be translated with the words I will ”, Ziva explained to him, “We used to write lists like this all the time, we used to dream a lot and plan just as much”.

Suddenly, Tony was brought back to a lonely hotel room in Maui. He thought about the list of promises he made for a child that, still to that day, was nothing more than a mirage. He looked at her, took her in one more time, then asked: “What did your sister dream of?”.

The answer made him smile, a warm smile he so rarely allowed himself.

“Peace”, the Israeli murmured, “Music too… she loved music”.

The other one nodded, before wondering: “What did you dream about?”.

He almost regretted the question he asked, when he noticed her gaze: it was melancholic and distant, like the kind of pain one has to learn to live with. 

“Peace for my family”, she eventually answered, “Someone to share that peace with, maybe children”.

Tony nodded once again, unwilling to ruin the first unfiltered moment of honesty they had shared.

“You know, some Jews give their children the name of someone that has passed”, Ziva explained to him, “It’s a way to keep elevating their neshama, their soul.”.

“Would you..?”, the former Special Agent interrupted her.

“I dreamed of it”, her voice was nothing more than a whisper.

Without second guessing it, DiNozzo reached for the receipt stashed on the bottom of the plastic bag, currently sitting on the coffee table. He took the pen she used to leave around all the time and quickly scribbled something.

“You should put it in your diary”, he murmured, before kissing her deeply.

The day after, shortly before sunrise, Tony left her apartment to go home, take a shower and change before work. While her coffee was brewing, Ziva took the small piece of paper the man had given her. She opened it and, upon reading, she could not help but swallow a sob.

“ I will honor my sister. I will name my daughter Tali”.

Washington DC, 2008

Ziva was almost done packing when she heard someone knocking at her door. The loud bangs on the door were irregular, frantic, almost desperate.

With a sigh she went to the door, thinking that maybe her old neighbour got herself locked out again. When she opened it, however, the Israeli was surprised to find none other than Anthony DiNozzo Jr.

“Not even saying goodbye?”, he asked, his voice raspy and his eyes dilated.

The other one took a step back, trying not to gag at the smell of alcohol mixed with greasy fast food that came from her former colleague.

“Please tell me you at least did not drive here”, Ziva murmured, before taking the man’s hand and guiding him to the almost completely empty living room, “Come”.

Tony followed her and sat on the sofa, while she went to fetch him some water.

“You already emptied the place”, he murmured, before taking the glass from her hands and drinking almost all of its content, “Eager to go home?”.

The Israeli ignored the childish remark and just shrugged.

“I tend to travel light”, she then told him, “Abby will be here when the company I hired will take care of disassembling and storing the furniture”.

The other one hummed, lost in thought, before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

“I really messed up”, he whispered, pain and disappointment unmissable in his voice, “I fucking messed up and now the team is gone”.

With a sigh Ziva took the now empty glass out of his hands, before sitting next to him and holding her hand for him to hold if he wished to.

“You should stop blaming yourself”, she murmured, “You heard Ducky, Jenny was terminally ill”.

The snort she received as an answer made her wince: that man was so dense, at times…

“Aren’t you at least a little bit pissed?”, Tony prodded, before grabbing her hand.

“Are you looking for another excuse to hate yourself?”, the Israeli asked, then took a deep breath and added: “Of course I am mad. I am mad at her ”.

Her answer seemed to have surprised Tony, who for once did not offer empty reassuring words but simply looked at her, waiting for the woman to continue talking.

“We were friends, before she became my boss”, Ziva murmured, “I trusted her, she trusted me back. But it came to a point when she stopped doing so and started hiding stuff from me”.

Her shoulders tensed, her voice became more distant and her eyes unfocused. She was losing herself in memories, Tony realised. 

“When the team was informed about the Benoit case I stopped talking to her for a bit”, she murmured, “I needed that distance to continue doing my job properly, but she did not understand it”.

“Ziva…”, he tried to interject.

“One can not go on a personal vendetta like that”, she continued, “It’s stupid and incredibly dangerous”.

“Did you ever think about it? About avenging your family, I mean”, the Special Agent asked and immediately regretted his question, once he realised the effect his words had had on her.

The Israeli took a deep breath, before answering: “I was asked to interrogate one of the presumed manufacturers of the bomb that killed my sister. I refused”.

Tony tried to school his features not to show how surprised he actually was, but Ziva caught on nonetheless.

“His pain would have not erased my pain, or helped me heal”, she explained to him, “His suffering would have not honored my Tali…”.

The Special Agent nodded, taken aback by her level of maturity at such a young age. She was just a kid when they turned her into a soldier, he reminded himself. Her sense of duty was second only to her incredible drive and work ethic.

“You are doing a pretty good job at honoring your sister”, he murmured, before smiling that unreadable smile of his and adding: “Now you just need a couple of Jewish babies”.

The memories of an evening spent together on that very couch, exchanging confessions and deep kisses, flashed before her eyes. She smiled too, lost in the images of a man too kind for his own good and, at the same time, unable to see his own worth despite the boisterous mask he loved to put on.

“I should go”, he murmured, “it’s at least an hour walk to my apartment”.

She stood up, still holding his hand.

“I can drive you”, she offered.

The man shook her head, before smiling that devilish smile of his.

“I can use a walk to clear my head”, he answered, “Besides, I am sure that you still have to pack all your deadliest torture devices”.

She accompanied him to the door, unsure of how to properly say goodbye without sounding ridiculous or, at the very least, desperate. Desperate for more late night talking, for more connection, for more movies that she had watched only to witness his contagious enthusiasm. Desperate for him.

“I will call you”, he told her, before reformulating: “Can I call you?”.

Ziva nodded, before opening the door.

“The number won’t change”, she murmured, “Call whenever you need to talk, okay?”.

Tony took a good look at her, smiled fondly once again, then engulfed her in a hug she did not expect. Suddenly, the knot she felt in her throat became bigger and difficult to swallow. Suddenly, Israel stopped being the home she longed to return to, quickly replaced by the embrace of a man who thought himself James Bond. Before she could reply, however, he kissed her forehead and waved goodbye, closing the door behind him.

Not even a whole minute later, while he was probably still riding the elevator to the lobby, he sent her a message.

If you indeed end up having a boy, please consider calling him Anthony. What’s the Hebrew for Anthony?

She smiled, swallowing a sob and moving to the living room to finish packing.

“I will miss you, Anthony DiNozzo”, she murmured, “I will miss you very much”.

Tel Aviv, 2008

Michael Rivkin was a good kisser but, as far as lovers went, it definitely wasn’t the best sex that Ziva had ever had. He was neither gentle nor generous and often lost himself in the frantic pounding of his own hips against her pelvis. Nonetheless, he knew how to make her come eventually and did not expect her to cuddle after. On a particularly good night, she didn’t even need to close her eyes and think about laying in bed with someone else, in her former apartment in Silver Spring, maybe after a deceivingly boring black and white movie.

With a small sight, the woman let herself fall against a cushion while Rivkin turned to look at her naked body once again. He always had that look of satisfied gratification, when he stopped to take her frame in. He watched her, almost analysed her, like a potter inspecting the form of a particularly elaborated vase. It was a not so subtle attempt at an ownership he should have known better than to think about.

“My sister is getting married”, she heard him murmur, while his hand started caressing her forearm, “my Ima is overjoyed". 

Ziva nodded, silently hoping for a change of subject, suddenly uncomfortable. As much as she liked Michael and was open to giving him a chance, talking about a stability their jobs would never allow made her feel out of sorts. 

“They want to try for children immediately”, the man next to her continued, seemingly unaware of her discomfort, “Can you imagine having children, Zivaleh ?”.

The woman tried not to look too bothered by him using that term of endearment and turned on her side. Only her siblings called her that, after her Ima had passed.

“Can you?”, she challenged him, wanting to see what all that was about.

Rivkin shrugged, apparently unbothered by her question. He rarely was, putting up walls of fake assertiveness. He wanted to seem in control, she once again noticed. He desperately needed to look like he could control even the Ziva David.

“Maybe”, he eventually answered, looking at her naked body and smiling cockily, “With the right woman”.

Unable to contain herself, Ziva let out a mighty cackle.

“Good luck with that”, she murmured, seeing images of her father and Orli Elbaz together mere weeks after her Ima had passed.

Was Rivka supposed to be the right woman or was it young Officer Elbaz, eager to impress her superior any way she could? Was it even about one of them being the right one or was it all about Eli and his quest for more?

She turned around to fetch her clothes, before adding: “I need to get ready. The plane won’t wait for me”.

Michael looked at her dumbfounded, his dark brows cocked in surprise. He had never been able to understand her completely and had spent a good part of their time together trying to impress her, he suddenly realised. Somehow, Director David seemed to have underestimated his daughter: even when she was so clearly in need of connection, gaining her affection and consequently her trust was still a frustrating game of cat and mouse. Every time he thought that their relationship could mean something important to her, she managed to escape his embrace and put some distance between the two of them.

“What has gotten into you?”, he asked her, before sitting up against the headboard of the bed they had just shared, “Eager to see your friends?”, he then asked with a sly smile.

Ziva David did not make many friends during her time in the Army, nor was she particularly loved among the ranks of Mossad. She was very well respected, even feared by some, but there had been very few people lucky enough to be allowed to call her “friend”.

The woman turned to take one last look at him, before taking her backpack and opening the door.

“They are good people, Michael”, she told him, lowering her gaze to hide the soft smile she could not prevent from blooming on her lips, “Honorable ones. There is something to be learned from them. I will call you when I land”.

Without waiting for a reply she was not interested in, Ziva got out of the apartment and quickly flashed a taxi.

A couple of hours later, in the cramped bathroom of the plane, the woman was clutching onto a plastic stick. The words “not pregnant” were blinking, when she finally allowed herself a sigh of relief.

“It’s not your time yet, Motek”, she heard herself murmur, while caressing her flat stomach, “Not yet”.

Washington DC, 2011

“You look tired”.

The voice of Anthony DiNozzo Jr, awfully chipper after a weekend probably spent watching old movies in the company of his latest lady friend , made her sigh.

“It was a long two days”, Ziva answered with a shrug and a vague gesture of her hand.

The Israeli went to sit behind her desk and switched on her computer, quiet yet weirdly on edge. Without losing the devilish grin he had since exiting the elevator, the Special Agent walked to her desk and offered her his chocolate bar. 

“For energy”, his grin turned into a kind smile.

The woman nodded, taking the piece of candy and putting it next to her keyboard.

“Thank you”, she acknowledged his gesture, before starting typing the answer to an email she had received during the weekend.

The “ding” of the elevator made both agents turn around. Gibbs was carrying his usual cup of black coffee and an unreadable expression that was usually synonymous with troubles. 

“The director needs me for a meeting with the FBI”, the former Marine informed them with a displeased grunt, “You do your paperwork and stay out of trouble, understand?".

“I hate paperwork”.

Tony’s whiny voice made her sigh for what felt like the hundredth time.

“You already said that”, Ziva reminded him, before printing the last report she had written, “Meanwhile I am done”.

Her satisfied smile, however, was short-lived. 

The “ding” of an incoming message drew her attention to the screen of her computer, where a handful of words had suddenly appeared.

“ I didn’t mean to upset you, but I feel like we should talk about this kind of stuff. I will be on assignment for a couple of weeks, will try to keep in touch. Ray”

A handful of whispered words in Hebrew that sounded like a prayer and a threat at the same time immediately caught Tony’s attention.

“You okay there, ninja?”, the Special Agent asked, noticing how tense her posture had suddenly become.

The woman nodded, before standing up and leaving the bullpen without saying a word. 

The walls in the breakroom could have used a coat of fresh paint, Ziva observed while waiting for her tea to properly steep. There were small brown stains on the wall behind the coffeemaker and the once vibrant colour had turned dusty and unappealing. It looked old and poorly maintained, she realised. It looked like a place that no one loved anymore, like the forgotten skeleton of a once cherished room.

“You know that tea won’t drink itself, right?”.

Once again, Tony’s voice made her sigh with simmering frustration and tired disappointment. 

The man sat in front of her, trying to catch her gaze. He even reached to brush away a few crumbs from the sleeve of her blouse, but her eyes remained fixated on the mug.

“You should go home”, the Special Agent suggested, still trying to catch her attention, “I can talk to Gibbs, tell him you are sick”.

The Israeli shook her head, thinking about her empty apartment and the bed that needed clean sheets.

“I am fine, Tony”, she murmured, then took a sip and could not hide the disgusted grimace at the cheap blend of tea, “I just needed a minute”.

The other one nodded, silently understanding yet naturally curious.

“Problems in Paradise?”, he asked, then noticed her frown and quickly added: “I know you have said that you are okay. I am just trying to be a good friend here”.

Ziva nodded, before taking a deep breath and murmuring: “I know. I know you are”.

The Special Agent looked at her once again and finally took her in. He noticed her tense shoulders, that slight frown, the unfocused gaze, the twitching fingers. She looked on edge and exhausted at the same time, he realised, just like she used to look immediately after being reinstated not even two years prior. The ghosts of a summer spent in that hellhole used to drag her down and even her therapy sessions seemed unable to help her cope with everything that happened to her. It had taken Ziva a while to find a balance that allowed her to work through her trauma while actively working cases. She had worked hard for it, he reminded himself, and now it all looked way more precarious than it should have looked.

“Ray and I had a disagreement”, Tony heard her say, “He left on Saturday morning”.

The man nodded, before asking: “So it’s still unresolved?”.

The Israeli closed her eyes for a second, pondering her words, before trying to explain: “He wants to talk about aspects of our relationship that I am not ready to discuss with him”.

The other one nodded once more, acknowledging her words, then prodded gently: “Can I ask what this was about?”.

Ziva looked at him, at his kind green eyes, and answered: “About the future. About family and children”.

Tony tried to school his features just enough to hide the unexpected mix of bitter disappointment and blind anger he felt developing in his stomach. What was he expecting? Why did he even have to ask?

“I can not talk about what Saleem did to me, what his men did to me”, Ziva hesitantly acknowledged, closing her eyes to protect herself from his gaze, “I just can’t”.

Following nothing more than its instinct, the Special Agent took her hand and squeezed it.

“You don’t have to”, he tried to reassure her, “He loves you, he will understand. Just give him time”.

The snort she could not suppress didn’t impress him, so she decided to change the topic. Or at least to switch Tony’s focus enough to grant herself some quiet.

“Have you already talked about kids with her?”, she asked and smiled softly at the outraged expression she was confronted with.

“Beg your pardon?”, the man clutched his shirt with his free hand, dramatic yet so refreshingly funny.

The Israeli looked at him with a smile, before adding: “You and your lady friend ”.

“Please don’t call her like that”, he muttered, then looked at their joined hands and added: “I don’t think it would be appropriate timing”.

There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, the unspoken regret of what could have been, the melancholic promise he did not get to keep.

“I’m sorry”, she murmured, caressing his knuckles ever so slightly.

To break the tension of a moment they both did not see coming, the door suddenly opened to reveal McGee.

“Here you are!”, he looked at them for a second too long before asking: “Everything okay? Gibbs needs us”.

Ziva stood up first, going to the sink to dump the now cold tea.

“Yes, of course. We are coming”, she heard Tony say and immediately knew that the man still needed a minute to regain the clarity he needed to do his work.

Timothy went back to the bullpen and the woman turned around just in time to see her colleague breath deeply, his eyes closed. 

“I am sorry”, the Israeli looked at him with a small uncertain smile, “I did not mean to upset you, Tony”.

The man shook his head, before standing up and smiling that thousand watt smile of his.

“It’s fine”, he told her and quickly added: “Besides, things will come when it’s time. How do you say destiny, again? Baser?”.

“Bashert”, she corrected him, “How do you know…?”.

“One thing is certain”, he interrupted her with an even bigger smile, “I won’t call him Anthony. Maybe Jethro. What do you think?”.

Still slightly taken aback, the Israeli nodded, before adding with a small smile: “It certainly sounds like bashert ”.

Jerusalem, 2013

Looking at the wall, whose small crevices were filled with prayers and supplications, Ziva could not repress a small melancholic smile. 

When she was a child, her mother had organised for the whole family to travel to Jerusalem. Tali must have been a few months old at the time, a small bundle of joy that kept Ziva awake most nights. They went to HaKotel HaMa’aravi shortly before Pesach and they got to witness the walls being emptied of all the notes that had been left during the previous year.

“What are they doing, Savta ?”, little Ziva had immediately asked her grandmother, worried that her prayers could not be heard and that her father would not be home for the Seder , “Are they throwing them away?”.

The older woman shook her head, before caressing her hair.

“They bury them, Motek” , she explained to her, “Your prayer will be heard, my child”.

In the end, her Abba made it just in time to hear her asking the Four Questions. With him, however, was a skinny looking boy with incredibly deep dark eyes that she would later find out was her brother Ariel.

That day, Ziva had left her house shortly before sunrise. Adam was still snoring in her bed when she left, exhausted after a night spent holding her. He had desperately tried to give her the relief she felt she needed not to fall apart, no questions asked. He loved her, the Israeli knew it. She was aware of the feelings the man had for her but still she hadn’t stopped him after the first kiss. Or after the second. Not even after he had taken her pants off and started eating her out. She had just closed her eyes, unable to muffle a sob because the first thing that she had thought about was the face of a kind man that loved her too much for her own good.

At lo levad, he had told her. You are not alone, he had reminded her more than once, with words but also with the unwavering power of his affection. However, letting him in felt way more difficult than taking advantage of her friend’s feelings to feel just a little better. And, for once, Ziva David had chosen to be a coward. A spineless human being walking along the easier path.

With a sigh, she took a piece of paper from her pocket and started writing.

Let me be worthy of him, let me be worthy of his love. Grant me the wisdom to learn how to love him back like he deserves.

The woman closed her eyes for a second, her free hand went to hold her Magen David , the edges of the start cutting into her skin a little bit. Suddenly, she felt it: the shame, the guilt, the selfloathing. She took advantage of a friend and betrayed another one. She hurt two incredible men in her own quest to feel less: less void, less pain, less everything . There was no prayer powerful enough to save her, not even in front of the Western Wall. Her phone vibrated, successfully interrupting her train of thoughts. It was Adam, telling her he was leaving to go back to his assignment. Attached to his message was a picture that, once again, left her speechless. A beautiful bunch of flowers was sitting on her kitchen table. The note, photographed as well, said:

Say hi to Tali from me. T.

Before she knew it, a tear escaped her and landed on the note that she was still holding in one hand. Ziva took the piece of paper and added one last line.

Please grant me the courage to be honest with him. And with myself.

The Israeli folded her note, went in front of the wall and slid it in one opening between two stones. She closed her eyes, leaned her head and prayed. Just like her father had taught her.

She had just come back from her day in Jerusalem, when her phone rang.

“Shalom”, she answered automatically, thinking the caller would be another long lost acquaintance of her Abba , wishing to express his condolences.

“Please tell me you got flowers and not artichokes or chicken legs wrapped with a bow”, Tony’s voice was forcefully jolly but made her smile nonetheless, “I think some of my charme might have gotten lost in translation”.

Ziva went to the kitchen and smiled at the sight of the beautiful bouquet.

“No chicken legs this time”, she murmured, while her finger started caressing the soft petal of a pink flower, “Thank you, Tony”.

The man hummed and she could hear the faint noise of a fan.

“Shouldn’t you be working?”, the Israeli asked, then took a glass from the cupboard and poured herself some white wine that had been opened the evening before.

“Gibbs is in a meeting, McGee is doing geek stuff, Abby is Abby… I am checking on my favourite ninja”, the Special Agent answered, before prodding gently: “How are you, Ziva?”.

She took a sip of her wine, then murmured: “I am fine”.

The words felt hollow to her own years and she mentally cursed herself for feeling the need to lie to him.

“Did you visit Tali?”, Tony asked, graciously changing the subject.

The bitter taste of disappointment coated Ziva’s tongue when she told him: “No, I could not. I was in Jerusalem, at the Kotel ”.

“Oh, the Western Wall”, the man answered enthusiastically, “Is it as imposing as they say?”.

The Israeli smiled, then answered: “I suppose so”.

Some gruff reprimands on the other end of the line made clear that Gibbs’ meeting had come to an end.

“Boss is back, gotta go”, Tony told her, before quickly adding: “I’ll text you, okay?”.

Before she could answer, the Special Agent hung up.

Not even a whole minute later, her phone vibrated with a message that, once again, made her heart ache with unspoken love.

“Stones are in your go bag. Keep the flowers”.

Later that night, Ziva was sitting in her father’s study looking at old photo albums. Her Abba had taken pictures of almost every milestone of his two daughters, including Ziva’s first dance recital and Tali’s first time on a horse. 

“You would love him”, the Israeli murmured, smiling at a picture of her sister in Haifa, playing in the sand, “and give him endless grief”, she added with a chuckle.

She turned the page and sighed at the picture she was presented with: her mother pregnant, floating in the Dead Sea. Her belly was taught under her dark bathing suit, her long hair braided to keep it out of her face. Once again, the Israeli traced the picture with her index finger.

“Should I tell him, Ima ?”, she pondered quietly, before taking one last look at the picture and closing the album.

Exactly at that moment, her cellphone vibrated with an incoming message. Tony had sent her the picture of a takeout delivery. It came from the Chinese place she used to order from when she first arrived in DC. Suddenly, images of a dinner shared many years prior flashed in front of her. Noodles, awkward confessions and a small note he had written for her on the back of the receipt. 

“I think they messed up my order. Any chance of a quick falafel delivery?”

She giggled at Tony’s ridiculous antics, before typing a quick reply and deciding that it was high time to go to bed. Maybe her prayers would be heard, she reflected with a smile. Maybe the words she had whispered against the old stones of HaKotel HaMa’aravi wouldn’t get lost in the wind.

“Maybe”, she murmured to herself, before switching off the lights and closing her eyes.

Washington DC, May 2016

Whoever told him that being a parent would come natural to him after having met his child for the first time was a goddamn liar. After an agitated bath that had almost set the whole apartment under water and a story Tali probably had not even understood, Tony had tried to put the child to sleep. His daughter, however, didn't seem to be accustomed to the American concept of a bedtime routine and focused only on the fact that someone was leaving her, once again, alone. As soon as he moved from his frankly uncomfortable place on the small mattress, she panicked and started screaming.

“Ima, Abba, Ima, Abba”, she had screamed until her voice was nothing more than a tired whisper, holding tight to the necklace Tony had given her.
It sounded like a prayer and a lullaby. It was the broken song of a child that had experienced too much trauma already.
It took all of the former Special Agent’s patience and quite a lot of self control not to start screaming as well, shaking his head like a mad person. He was used to dealing with impossible interrogations, a rather infuriating boss with very little communication skills and an impossible father. Tali’s stubborn frailty, however, was something he did not know how to navigate. Eventually, after the umpteenth rendition of “Can’t help falling in love”, the child closed her eyes and started snoring while holding onto her Ke’lev.
The man closed the door behind him, careful not to make any noise, before taking a deep breath and looking at the liquor cabinet he had of course emptied the day prior. He had wanted to make sure his daughter wouldn‘t harm herself with the shiny bottles and had ended up dumping everything away.

“Fuck I could use a drink”, he murmured, then he looked at the chaos in the living room and groaned: “Or a hundred”.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his back, the man moved towards the sofa. He almost automatically started collecting the various toys that had accumulated in the handful of days since Tali’s arrival. Senior had presented him with a tea set, coloring books, a few dolls and even a bright pink carrier for little Ke’lev . Ellie, on the other hand, had gifted the little girl with a few sticker books and another doll, which the child immediately named “ Buba” . Abby, of course, had deemed it appropriate to purchase the smallest pair of platform boots she could find “so that we can match, Tony!”. McGee and Jimmy had brought a whole box full of books about parenthood, single parent households and even a few about raising Jewish children.

He was trying to concentrate on the introduction to one of them when he caught a glimpse of the picture Ziva had framed and packed together with her daughter’s belongings. Looking at that young beautiful version of her he could not help but close his eyes for a second. Images of that morning in Paris invaded his mind with the inclement harshness of a punch to the stomach. Her hands around his middle, the warmth of her body against his back, the exhilarating freedom he felt to just be with her in a city she loved so much. He took the picture out of the bag and started tracing the outlines of their frames with his index finger.

“What happened to you, Ziva?”, he murmured, desperate to make sense of everything that had happened, “Why didn’t you call?”.

With a sigh, he went to put the picture back until he noticed something else. Tucked in a small pocket on the side of the bag there was a scrape of paper he hadn’t seen earlier. He took it and tried to open it carefully, as the material felt oddly delicate in his hands. Faded but still readable, he was presented with words he had written years prior on the receipt of a Chinese restaurant.
“ I will honor my sister. I will name my daughter Tali”.
A few words had been added too, in a different handwriting Tony never knew he would see again: “ I will keep my family safe, no matter what”.

The words had been added recently, the former Special Agent realised. Suddenly, he felt the need to move and run and scream and cry all at once. 

“I knew it”, he murmured to an empty room full of toys, “I knew something was up”.

Without thinking about it twice, he took the note and put it in his wallet before going to the table where his laptop sat. He opened a new tab and typed a few words, before murmuring: “Where are you hiding, sweetcheeks?”.

Paris, December 2019

“Are you okay?”.

Tony’s voice made her jump slightly from her spot on the sofa. He had gone to the kitchen to fetch the both of them some water, leaving her alone in the living room, after the both of them had put Tali to bed.

Ziva nodded, with a small smile on her lips, before murmuring: “Yes, sorry. I was just taking it all in”.

She turned around once more to look at all the toys scattered around the small space. There were picture books on the chaise longue , pencils and notebooks on the bookshelf. The peace she had willingly sacrificed so much for looked like glitter on the leather sofa and scraps of tulle everywhere.

The other one smiled as well, before going to sit next to her.

“I imagine today has been a lot”, he conceded, then turned in her direction to better look at her, “When was the last time you slept somewhere comfortable?”.

She shrugged, before answering: “I honestly don’t know”.

The former Special Agent nodded, then took a sip of his water.

“It’s so weird”, he stated, looking at her for the umpteenth time that evening, “it feels surreal, to have you here”.

Doubt quickly settled in her stomach. Fragments of her talk with Gibbs flashed before her eyes, the same uncertain shame started pooling at the bottom of her stomach.

“I can go”, she mumbled, “I saw a hotel not far from here…”.

Suddenly, Tony’s hand was around her forearm, holding it in a frantic, almost desperate manner.

“No, oh no”, he hurriedly told her, trying to catch her gaze, “That came out wrong, sorry”.

The non committal “mh” he received as an answer made him flinch. He took a breath, before starting again: “It’s strange, you know? I had all these things I wanted to tell you and now my brain is empty”.

The woman nodded.

“I know”, she conceded understandingly, “I dreamed about this day and now I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if anything I will say will be enough”.

The former Special Agent moved his hand, still resting on her arm, and brought it to her face, caressing her airline with the pad of his finger.

“I missed you”, he murmured, “Tali has missed you too. We both missed you so much…”, he closed his eyes and smiled when he felt her arms reaching for him and sneaking around his waist.

“I missed the both of you so much”, the Israeli whispered, “even if I knew that my sacrifice was necessary, you know? It was so hard…”, she choked on a quiet sob, burying her head in his chest.

“We will talk about it, okay?”, Tony whispered in her hair, caressing her back and wincing at the bony spine he could not help but notice, “But not now. Now I just want to say thank you for keeping us safe”.

He heard her sob once more. His hand never stopped drawing circles on her back, while he murmured: “I love you, I love the both of you so much”.

Before Ziva could think about what to say, the desperate scream of their child made them bolt upright and run to Tali’s bedroom. Sitting on her bed, holding Ke’lev to her chest, the little girl was crying, lost in the aftermath of what looked like a nightmare.

Tony was just about to kneel in front of the bed, when the Israeli scooped her daughter in her arms and held her tight.

“You are safe, Motek”, she murmured, closing her eyes for a handful of seconds to prevent her own tears from falling out, “Your Abba is here, your Ima is here, little Ke’lev is here”.

The former Special Agent reached to caress his child’s back, making eye contact with Ziva and nodding imperceptibly. Go on, his eyes were saying, you got this.

Without thinking too much about it, Ziva started swaying slowly and quietly singing a song he did not understand. It was a beautiful Hebrew melody that made his eyes tear up, despite whatever he always preached about DiNozzo men not crying. 

“ Shir Ahava Pashut, a simple love song”, Tony heard her murmur softly, “Are you feeling a little better, Motek?”.

Tali nodded, before tightening her grip on her mother.

“Can I sleep with you, please?”, the child asked, burying her head further in her mother’s chest.

Once again, the Israeli looked at her partner to silently ask for his opinion on the matter. When she saw him nodding slowly, she smiled softly at her child.

“Come on, my little love”, she started walking to Tony’s bedroom and, ignoring the fact that she was still wearing her blouse and a pair of jeans, she went to lay on the mattress, never once letting her child go. Safe in her mother's embrace, Tali fell asleep almost immediately.

„I used to sing this song to her all the time, when she was little“, the Israeli murmured, „Aya Korem, the woman who sings it, was my sister’s idol. It felt appropriate, somehow…“.

The former Special Agent nodded, before joining them in the room after having switched off the living room lights. He went to put his wallet on his nightstand when he suddenly felt the need to check on something. He opened the little partition that was used for coins and found a small piece of paper with words scribbled on it. Without saying a word, he laid next to Ziva and passed it to her, smiling when he saw her realising what it was.

Almost completely faded because of time, Ziva read words she could have never forgotten.

I will honor my sister. I will name my daughter Tali. I will keep my family safe, no matter what.

“It was meant to be, Ziva”, she heard him murmur softly, “all that happened was leading us here, to this very moment”.

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being able to hold her daughter while caressing Tony’s hand. It wasn’t a dream, nor an hallucination harvested in the depth of panic. This was her life now, this was the life she had fought for.

“It was bashert, it was meant to be ” , Ziva murmured, swallowing a sob, before closing her eyes, “ Laila Tov , Anthony ”.

He smiled, then closed his eyes as well.

“Buonanotte”.