"Where no counsel is, the people fall, but in the multitude of counselors there is safety." The already-strained relationship between Ziva and her father threatens to destroy both them and their agencies when he forces her away from NCIS on a suicidal mission. Tiva.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of NCIS. The quote is the Mossad motto.
Prologue
28-year-old Ziva David could feel her heart pounding as she watched the lifeless body of her older brother. She'd done the one thing – no, the two things – that her father could not, would not forgive. She had lost control of her charge, and she had killed his son. His only son.
"Go to America, Officer David. Your new assignment is liaison officer with NCIS in Washington."
30-year-old Ziva David woke up automatically at 4:30 that morning. She got out of bed with a grumble as it came to her what today was: time to argue with her father again for another year's extension on her visa for NCIS. And he would make it long and difficult and try to make her beg. And just as she had last year, she would bend once more, desperate to stay out of Tel Aviv and away from Mossad.
No run for her today: he would call at 5:00, just before his day at Mossad would end in Tel Aviv, and before her day began at NCIS in Washington.
Sighing, Ziva rubbed at her face tiredly, digging through her drawers and her closets to find something to wear. The phone rang just as she was pulling on a pair of cargos. Growling curses under her breath, she yanked the shirt off its hanger and went to answer. "Shalom, Deputy Director David. Your call is early."
"Your extraction team will arrive at the pickup location in exactly one hour, Ziva. Do not fight, argue or whine. Leave your cell phone, your ID, and anything that can identify you as a person, Mossad or Jewish there. Take only your weapons. Remember who signs your visa extensions. You complete this mission, I may consider renewing your position at NCIS for another term." With that, he hung up, leaving Ziva to stare at the receiver in shock.
She hated feeling controlled. But that was how her entire life had been, even after she was far away from Tel Aviv. Her father controlled her life.
Sighing, she returned to her bedroom and silently threw some clothes into a bag, trying her hardest not to make a sound, in order to avoid waking the man who still slept soundly on the other side of the bed.
They didn't even attempt to pretend that this relationship, if you could even call it that, was anything solid, anything permanent, anything of substance. It was short-lived moments of heated passion, a chance to wake up in the morning with someone they trusted next to them, comfort at the conclusion of difficult cases, frustration release at the ones that got away. The security of being able to feel the other's presence to the very depths of their soul, the soothing words of endearment, the learning of each other.
Would he hurt when he awoke and discovered that she was gone? When he saw the badge and the cell phone lying next to his, and knew that she wouldn't be back? Would his heart break as much as hers did at this moment?
She knew her father all too well. He had made up his mind: she would not be returning to Washington. Ever. In a way, she knew it was coming: ever since Michael had divulged to her that her father was having her watched, that he had discovered his presence at her apartment. He knew, he knew that she was getting attached to him, to his presence.
Holding back the tears, she knelt on her abandoned side of the bed, leaning to lay a light, lingering kiss against his face. As she laid her badge and her cell phone on the bedside table next to his, she felt him stir slightly, his arm reaching to pull her close, his face turning instinctively to where her head most mornings lay.
Ziva kissed his lips longingly, trying to memorize the taste, the warmth, the softness. "Chalomot tovim, neshomeleh," (1) she whispered.
"Mmmm, right back at you," he murmured sleepily, his arm succeeding in wrapping around her waist.
"Go back to sleep," she replied, carefully extracting herself. "It is 5:00." As he began to drift off, she reached around her neck, undoing the clasp of the Magen David which had remained with her since she was 16. She couldn't stop the tear that escaped her eye, splashing down onto the sheets as she placed the necklace in the open palm of his hand. "Tzar li, Ha'Yakar." (2)
It was 8:30 when he woke up, and that only because he heard both cell phones start blaring simultaneously.
"Hello?" he asked blearily, somehow managing to grab the cell phone and bring it to his ear.
"Tony?" came McGee's voice in surprise. "What are you doing with Ziva's cell?"
"What?" Tony asked, sitting up as he rubbed at his eyes. He frowned as he registered the necklace in his hand, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw his cell on the table, next to his badge and hers. "What time is it?"
"It's 8:30. Gibbs is furious…"
"I'll be there in ten, probie," Tony mumbled, swinging his legs out of bed. He hung up the phone and called out, "Ziva? Ziva, amore, where are you? We're very late…" Grabbing his change of clothes from his gym bag, he went out into the main area.
When he didn't see her anywhere, and all of her things left behind, he knew what had happened. His secret nightmare had come to pass. Her past before him had come to reclaim her, and she was gone.
(1) "Sweet dreams, darling."
(2) "I'm sorry, beloved."
