I wanted a fic with free reign to whatever I wanted to do. Ziva is my favorite alongside Abby. I just wanted some justification. If it's a hit, I'll write more than the two chapters I've got, but I'm afraid I need reviews so I know someone does in fact want more. In the meantime, enjoy what I've got, thanks!

She hadn't been lying. Ziva David had much time to think during her time in Somalia. After that first week, during which she hadn't had a moment of sleep, peace, thought, breath to herself, she was alone. Certainly, they came to her and shot her up with truth serum, but on the whole she estimated that she spent far more time alone than with anyone.

At first, she just wanted to die, and seriously contemplated starvation, or picking at the guards until they did something fatal. She'd gone in expecting to die and been forced to live – there wasn't much more miserable. But it gave her time to think about all the things she didn't want to think about... and there were an awful lot of those.

At first, she thought of Michael. And, also at first, she thought of him fondly, especially if she was coming off a dose of the serum. It was what she wanted to believe, the truth she'd accepted for several months. 'He sends me' Michael had said and Ziva had at first been suspicious, but Michael had gained her trust long ago in Israel and when he told her this wasn't some sneak to check up on her, she'd believed him. And when he'd asked if they could have a night like they had on the boat, she didn't ask again.

He was nothing short of a gentleman. He respected her, gave her space to do her thing and never demanded that she pay him attention. There were inconsistencies though, in his manner, and when her mind wandered in wondering confusion, she found them and finally understood them for what they were. She had watched him do the undercover thing with women before. He was cool, confident. "If you want into a woman's good graces, agree with her," he'd said when she asked him how he dealt with women when she was often at a loss. "And if you simply cannot fake your agreement, then agree and continue to poise your own point, as a simple, unobtrusive opinion of course, which you make clear is, of course, merely for the sake of interest."

And then, the memory of a conversation conducted amidst pillows, blankets, and discarded garments came unbidden to her mind.

"Michael," she said in their native tongue, "Did my father truly send you for my benefit, or were you merely being," she paused, "cute?"

Michael laughed faintly, snaking an arm around her waist to pull her closer. "Now Ziva, what cause have you to doubt me?" She could feel his lips curving against her neck. "Do you really think I could not have charmed you without your father's word?"

She chuckled faintly. "I think it would be his permission rather than his guidance you needed, regarding me. My father is a wily man – I would not be surprised to hear of some ulterior motive."

"He is a wily man," Michael agreed, and moved to stroke hair from her face. "But consider. His daughter is thousands of miles away, and perhaps he is simply worried for her happiness." He smiled at her. "As do I."

Ziva smirked in spite of herself. "Of course." She said, not wanting to dig deeper. If there was more to his visit, then she did not want to know. It was called plausible denialbility.

It only took two days of solitude to realize that she'd been played. She just wasn't sure how badly, yet. Even her father wasn't sure. She'd loved Michael, she admitted to herself at some point in that time. She'd loved that she could speak her native tongue with him, that there were no secrets (well, about their past. The present hadn't seemed so important at the time), that he already had her father's approval. She'd loved his suave charm. She could admit it to herself (though, she thought ruefully, like with the runner, if Abby had asked her straight out she would not have admitted it aloud). She remembered his dead face and tried to think – did he love her, as he'd said?

She tried to recall his face, the timber of his voice, his eyes, whenever he'd said it and realized, slowly, slowly, that he'd never said "I love you." Love had entered the conversation, but never with purpose, never with direction. Adore, worship, cherish, love of her hair, her eyes... never 'you'. She looked up at the ceiling and swallowed as the world swam – and not just because she was going on forty eight hours without food. Of course. He'd given the impression of love but never the real deal. He was Mossad! Who did she think he was, Tony Dinozzo!

Her mind froze with the question. She blinked at the water in her vision, sand grit stinging her eyes. Tell her what she needs to hear. She'd said to him not so long ago.

Damnit, Michael! Tell me what I need to hear!