New oneshot woop woop :3 hope you liiiiike
When I was thirteen, one part of a two-man assassination team put a bullet though my shoulder. Being in the Mossad had placed me in many dangerous positions, but I had never been shot before; shot at, yes, but never had the shooter had enough I'm to hit me. Being in the Mossad also meant that I knew pain. I had inflicted it more times than I could count, and I was a few weeks into my training to resist torture, which meant I'd experienced a lot, too. I hadn't been through the death of anyone close to me, yet. A few partners, certainly, and I knew that I had their blood on my hands, but Mossad rule number one was to trust no one. As a result, I hadn't been too close to anyone who had died. Yet.
However, I had never, ever felt plain like I felt when the round lodged in my scapula. My partner promptly killed the two assassins, so for a while I lay on the floor of their hotel room, lips pressed together and eyes shut tight to stop myself from crying out, before my partner assessed my situation He'd taken a quick look at my wound, pressed his hand too it, and called a hospital. Not once did he speak to me, ask if I was okay, comfort me. It wasn't the usual procedure to stop when a man was hit, but being the age I was as well as Deputy Director David's daughter meant that things ran a little differently. My partner didn't look me in the eye, hadn't done for the whole mission, but I could feel that there was a mutual respect between us. He was a fairly experienced agent, whereas I was fresh blood. However, I was very good.
I remember very clearly that as soon as a medical team arrived, my partner immediately left the scene and went back to Mossad Headquarters. He'd briefly informed the doctor's what had happened, and left me in their capable hands. I'd never heard him say so much in one go, to be honest, but he still didn't look me in the eye as he left. The doctor's offered little support; while they, of course, fixed up my shoulder perfectly, I rode to the hospital alone in the back of the ambulance and had very little contact with them during my whole stay in the hospital, which, to be fair, wasn't all that long.
My shoulder was hurting like hell, but my Mossad-trained self remained strong and I didn't shed a single tear. I didn't cry out, either, something that the medical team must have noticed, but they didn't mention it to me, or even my father, when he arrived at the hospital. He had clearly been informed of my status, and he was clearly only there because he felt inclined to be, not because he cared about the welfare of his daughter; this was made obvious by the way that he only showed up to the hospital after his work hours, and I didn't see him for another three days, when he decided that I was okay and that I was needed back at Mossad. He looked slightly disappointed in me, too. There were was not a hint of regret in his dark, cold eyes. Not even slightly guilty that he'd set me up to be shot, aged thirteen.
I was never good enough for Eli David.
I have grown up now. Far too many years later –when did I get so old?- I am shot again. There is blood pouring from my calf, and I can feel that both my tibia and my fibula have been hit, and again I lie, on a hotel floor, with a partner who says very little and with two dead assassins on the ground.
Oh, but how times have changed.
Gibbs rushes over to me second the two assassins are dead, and he applies pressure to my leg, and although it hurts like hell, I stay calm, my lips pressed together and my eyes shut tight, determined not to cry out or display any signs of pain. "Ziva," Gibbs mutters, crouching next to me and using his free hand to smooth my hair back. "You okay?" I nod slowly, and he calls 911. This is exactly NCIS procedure, no matter what condition the Agent is in. When someone is hurt, they need help. And to trust in others is the number one rule, here. Gibbs turns back to me, helps to prop me up against the wall, gently as he can and without disturbing my leg. I open my eyes. I can see him frowning, but I don't know why. I frown too, concerned; what if he has been hit, too? What if he is in a worse condition than me?
"Are you hurt?" I ask, instinctively, and Gibbs smirks, shaking his head.
"You're unbelievable," he tells me. "You're lying, badly hurt, on the ground and you ask me if I'm okay?" I look down, confused. "Ziva, I'm fine, you're not. Quit worrying about me," he finishes, and he shakes his head. I smile a little, recalling my thirteen year old self, closed off, selfish, and not expecting to live past twenty. Things are so different with NCIS. People love me here, they want me to stay safe. Even after all I've done. And I truly don't deserve them, despite how much they tell me otherwise.
"Hey," Gibbs says. "What're you smiling for?" I laugh a little, and look to the door as it swings open, revealing Tony, who immediately rushes over and asks Gibbs what happened. Another bubble of laughter escapes me, and Tony and Gibbs both turn to me, confused.
"The hell is she laughin' at?" Tony asks, still looking at me.
"Nothing," I reply, grinning, my leg forgotten for the time being. "Well. It is mostly… you I am laughing about. How... how you have my back." They both smile at me, despite still being confused, and Gibbs sits next to me, kisses my hair and squeezes my hand, and holds it in his until the EMT come. Tony sits on the other side of me, putting an arm around my shoulder and begins to tell Gibbs and I about a film that neither of us have heard of.
I am always good enough for NCIS.