First time you realized Daddy wasn't perfect. (Tony DiNozzo - "Boxed In")
I sat on the plane, looking out over the ocean as we returned to Tel Aviv—"we" being myself and Officer Bashan. And Ari, flying first class in a wooden casket. Most fallen Mossad officers were given the benefit of an ornate casket, one perfectly fit for the dead. Rogue officers received no such honor, though; their bodies were tossed into whichever box would hold them. Not that it matters; in the end, we all end up the same. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It had been such a long journey for me, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. I found my body slumping forward as we landed. I wanted to deliver the body like the courier I had become and go home. I needed to be home, to be alone with my thoughts.
My orders had been clear: find Ari and bring him down. Keep the killing between Mossad and do not allow interference of the American agents. My personal agenda, on the other hand, had been quite different. When I'd boarded that plane to the United States, I had been set on defying my father. Neither he nor any other person would have convinced me of Ari's betrayal. I would help Ari escape: escape from our father, from Mossad, from the Americans. The love of a sister—even a half-sister—is a strong bond, after all.
So how, in that amount of time, had my mission become so skewed?
Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
A man who had experienced personal grief, both in his time in the service and his own family. A man for whom the law had shades of grey and who gladly toed the line when he thought it necessary. A man hell bent on vengeance and who, much like a bulldog, did not let go once he'd sunk his teeth in. I believe the English word for it is tenacious. It was through that very tenacity that I found myself being swayed to his way of thinking.
Then, I'd found myself situated at the top of those stairs, gun aimed at Ari's head. I hadn't hesitated a moment as I'd pulled the trigger, but I had felt a jab to the gut as the bullet impacted and reeled as I saw him hit the floor, eyes open. For the first time since I'd known him, his eyes held a look of shock and uncertainty. A great juxtaposition to the snide confidence they'd held most of his life.
Yes, I'd cried. Gibbs, the only witness, had said nothing about it and respectfully left me to grieve. It was something I had appreciated, especially in light of his hatred for Ari.
"Ziva," Bashan said, nudging my arm, "it is time."
My father was waiting, of course, flanked on either side by his bodyguards, with the town car parked behind him. I carried my small bag—traveling light is something one learned in this line of work—as I approached him. Bashan oversaw the moving of Ari's body from the plane's storage to the waiting hearse.
"A job well done, Officer David." With my father it was all formality. When we slipped into the car, however, he offered a kiss to my cheek, one that I received with stony silence. When he pulled back, he studied me. "Your eyes, Ziva."
I rubbed at them irritably. "The flight was long and rough. I had no chance to rest."
He didn't believe me, but let me lie. "Yes. Home, then," he said to our driver. Bashan accompanied the body behind us. Ari would be given a proper burial, but he would receive none of the Mossad honors. I did not say it, but I was surprised my father even agreed to pay for the funeral. I was sure he expected no mourners.
"Oh, Ari," he murmured as we neared the city. "Nothing more I could have done for him, though."
I hated him for those words. I hated him for thinking so little of his own son. It was not because I thought Ari was without guilt (if I'd thought, even a little, that he was not what they said he was, I would not have pulled the trigger); but he was family, our own flesh and blood. I wondered, how quickly would my own father write me off?
"Papa…"
He looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I was thinking of what I'd overheard in that basement.
"How did you and Ari's mother come together?"
"That was a long time ago, Ziva, and something that I do not believe is your business."
"Where is she now?"
"Dead."
"Did you love her?"
"So many questions, Ziva" he said in amusement. He was dodging the issue, I knew.
"Questions require answers."
He sighed. "I suppose one could say I loved her."
"And Ari?"
At that, his face hardened. "Ari was a killer, Ziva. He betrayed his country and his family. One cannot love a killer."
"But did you love him? Before you knew?"
There was only silence between us. He would not answer. It meant he knew the answer would upset me.
When we arrived home, my father told me to go inside, promising to have tea ready for me shortly. Before I left, he stopped me. "No more tears for him, Ziva," he tells me. "He does not deserve them."
I nodded mutely, hating him even more.
As I settled back into the comforts of my home, I thought about my father and about Ari. And about Gibbs. I found it strange how a man I had known for only two days had shown me more compassion in that short amount of time than my own father had in my entire life. I began to fear that my father would one day see me as expendable and would desert me in the same way he had Ari. I was not a daughter to him, but a tool for achieving his own wants. When a tool is no longer of use, you throw it out and buy a new one.
It was the first time I realized he wasn't perfect. Worse even, I realized that he was what Ari had said he was: a manipulator.
Like father, like son.
AN: This was written as my first entry for the Last Fic Writer Standing competition on LJ :) Thank you for reading!