Together and Apart

by SHFLSHFJAL

Very long one-shot detailing Ziva and Tony's lives for a year after they separated in Israel and all of its repercussions. Eventual T/Z

This isn't how he'd imagined it would end. This isn't how he'd imagined they would end. But that's because he can't fathom any sort of ending for them other than a blissfully happy one. She's without question, without a shadow of a doubt, the only one for him. If he stops lying to himself, he'll realize that she always has been. These last five months traipsing the better part of the Middle East looking for her have only cemented that conception. And so it pains him in the deepest recesses of his being to realize that he can't be that for her. She obviously didn't love him enough to come home with him and he just got really tired of begging. He's always been the one begging, pleading, supplicating, to her and to his father and to Gibbs and to every single person in his life to get them to love him. And he thought maybe for once, it would actually work. That love could truly conquer all. And maybe it can: maybe love can transcend the bounds of continents and oceans and lifetimes. He thought theirs did, that loving her across the sea would be no different than loving her across the squad room, but the absence of her smile and her wild curls make it so much harder to conjure that indescribable feeling in his chest.

He can't help but replay every one of their last moments in his mind. No, scratch that- those were not their final moments. Because he can't bring himself to believe that he'll never set eyes upon the love of his life again. She told him that she'd find him when she's whole again, and he's letting the barest strains of hope cling to that sentiment. Right now, hope's the last vestige he has in the fight to retain his sanity. He tried absolutely everything, employed every tactic he's got in his arsenal, to make her come back with him or even let him stay. Without a second breath, he'd surrender everything he's got back in D.C. for her. This sterile apartment isn't really his home at all. Home is wherever she is, and so now home is the breeze dancing through his hair and the orange leaves crunching under his feet and the ray of sunshine that blinds him for a split second.

He consoles himself by saying nothing could have changed the outcome of his trip. He offered to change for her, change with her, and he has and he would and he'd do anything to make her happy. But apparently nothing he's capable of saying or doing or pleading or kissing is enough to make her change her mind. And he barely can comprehend what mind he even has to change. This is Ziva we're talking about, the warrior with the heart of gold. As hard as he tries, he can't bring himself to understand why now, after all this time, she suddenly can't live with what she has done. That she's got to become a brand new person, because she doesn't believe the one she is is sufficient. And he heard every single word she said about Ari and Deena Bashan, but the woman that killed her own half-brother barely even resembles the one who rues the act all these years later.

Because, clichéd as it is, he loves her not because she's flawless, but in spite of her flaws. He loves her murderous impulses and communication issues and checkered past, because it's a part of her. He wants to scream his feelings to the sun and stars and God and whoever may be listening. How much he loves her burns a hole through his chest and his eyes sear with the pain of tears and he can't stop sobbing alone in his apartment, curtains drawn and a bottle of vodka on the coffee table at his fingertips. Because the dam has broken inside him, the idea that eight years of loving her and hoping against all hope that she might deign herself to love him has culminated in this nothing. That he thought that she secretly did want to be found because of all the clues she left him; he knows her, more completely and better than he knows himself. Except when he actually found her, when every word that escaped from her lips baffled him, because that battered, broken woman bears little resemblance to his Ziva. The breadcrumbs she left appeared a desperate plea for help, but apparently the only part of that statement that's true is the desperate part. She's desperate to change and desperate to sever ties and desperate to leave him, because even though he's the one who performed the physical act of leaving, it's her that left. And he's always been the one being left, and he's been starting to preempt that pain by cutting any meaningful relationships off before they can reach that level, but this one, this one, he thought might be the one. Because she's his soulmate, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part. Except that last part, because while it is death that parts them, it's the deaths of the people she's killed and the blood on her hands that pushes them away. Even though she told him that she feels the same way, he hardly can bring himself to believe it. In his cynicism, he thinks that perhaps she was just placating him, thinking it would be less painful if he felt she reciprocated.

But the other, more rational, side of his muddled brain tends to think otherwise. He just can't get it through his head, accept the fact that he just kissed her for the first time in eight years, wrapped his hand through her hair and stared into her beautiful eyes and saw the glint of her tears and he still had to leave and she didn't stop him and she didn't come with him. Because she said that he's so loved, but he's not quite sure if that's the same thing as her loving him. Even in what might be their last moments together, he regrets beyond belief the fact that they can't say anything straight. That he loves her, and he can't leave without knowing he'll hear from her again, but he shrouded it in a guise of Gibbs and Abby. He Gibbs-slaps himself for it, over and over and over again until the pain is somewhat dulled and he leans his head back and tries to sleep.

How can he sleep with all these thoughts running through his head? All the pain and all the heartbreak and all the things that should have been but weren't. They should've had a boy and a girl and maybe another girl and she could've been a ballerina, like her mother wanted to be until life got in the way. But he's starting to come to terms with the fact that he'll never have that life with the picket fence and the 2.5 children, because the only way he could have had that was with her. But it depresses him, even more so than his own sorry plight, that she probably won't have her two kids either. Because she, more than anyone he's ever known, deserves a happy ending, and he doesn't think she can have one and love someone else until she can love herself.

She is kicking herself. What has she done? What in the world has she done that the love of her life, the man that has spent the past months searching the entire continent for her, took off and will not come back? She pushed him away like she has pushed everyone away, for her typical modus operandi is either to push someone away or kill them. And she cannot deny that she is tired of being that person, the person that causes so much pain to everyone around her. She is like a beacon of pain: she radiates it.

But what she is coming to realize, hours too late as she lays in her cold, empty bed with her cold, empty memories, is that she has been changing. She is not the same person who killed her brother, the brother that apparently someone other than her did love. And it was fine to have killed him when it was only her to miss him. She can deal with her own pain, because she is plenty broken. The death of one more person on her hands and the grief of losing another family member barely affect her. But the fact that Deena was going to marry him, that he was going to have a happy life and children and a wife and the things she wants but does not deserve to have, that pushes her over the edge.

She cannot take it back, the bullet that she put through her brother's forehead, and going to all the places that have caused her hurt have also not deadened the pain. What did allay it for a while was Tony's presence, his smile. She does not know how he is capable of smiling; she, along with so many other people in his life, has hurt him more than she can bear. He is the one who has irrevocably changed her, who is doing his absolute best to turn her into the person she so desperately wants to be. But he has also been the only person who has loved her the way she is, scars and angry outbursts and tears and laughs. And she loves him for that and for his goofy smile and the tenderness in his voice and the tears in his eyes as he tried to fight for her. But why did she not tell him she loves him? Why could she not tell him that he was the one scrawled on her will, and she is not honoring Gibbs but she is honoring him, because he deserves someone better than the broken girl she is, and she would like to be that for him, and even more importantly, for herself. Because above all, she is still her own woman and not merely the object of Tony's affection; she cannot allow herself to be defined by others. That is what has left her here, acting in accordance with her father's expectations and dictums. But she is determined to change for him, despite the fact that the days ahead seem daunting and unconquerable without him by her side.

But as she said, as much as it pains her, and surely him even more, this is an undertaking that must be done alone. She must be truly alone for the first time in her life; without others to tell her who she is, she will be compelled to discover it for herself. And while this may be slightly late in her life to learn who she is, she has realized that she cannot allow herself true happiness until she can bury the past. She does not know how much time it will take: weeks, months, years. But when she finally is able to come to terms with the atrocities she has committed and rectify her failings in her own mind, she can try to have what she has always wanted more than anything: a family. A family with the man who indubitably deserves her love and in fact deserves more love than she will ever be able to bring to bear.

Time passes more slowly than he ever could've fathomed. What's tomorrow without the promise of her dazzling smile, her glorious laugh? He can no longer count the hours as blocks until he can see her again, because then life would be one interminable stretch which has no beginning and no end. The leaves turn their wondrous auburn and ochre and crunch under his feet; the nights become chilly and he longs not for the warmth that food or drink can provide but her curled up next to him, hair splayed across his chest. It's as if there's a gaping hole where his heart used to be; he's anesthetized to the pain now. There's no more heartache, but merely absence of that which had grown dear.

He still drags himself into work each and every day, plastering a smile on his face because that's what expected. That's always been the implicit expectation: that you keep your personal shit out of the office, whatever it may be. Even though he'd like to think they're a family, they're a family bound by the ties of murder and mayhem and perps that seem to get increasingly dumber daily. Maybe it's just that he's more jaded and world-weary. Because McGee makes jokes and Palmer says unbearably awkward things, but it's just not the same. The palpable sexual tension and deep emotional bond and all the other things their love grew to be are conspicuously absent. He can barely stand to distinguish the cases from one another.

That's what his life has been reduced to: cases. He didn't realize how much time he spent with her, even out of the office, until these blocks of time in his day are wide open. And he can't sleep, and so he spends his nights vacantly gazing at the ceiling. Because every time he closes his eyes, he thinks of her and he feels her lips against his and her breath in his ear and he can't stand to open his eyes to the realization that she's gone.

He knows he should call up the guys and play basketball or clean his apartment or write a book or do something productive with this preponderance of time he suddenly seems to have. But instead he finds himself staring at the blank television for hours as the memories of their time together play across the screen. Their first meeting in the bullpen, when she was all wild hair and wild eyes and untamed desire radiating like sunrays. Their first undercover assignment where things got frightening real, frightening fast and he shocked the hell out of himself by being willing to die for someone he'd only known for two months- little did he know then. Their summer, when Gibbs was in Mexico and there were movie nights and pizza and sex and he held her in his arms for the first time and realized he never, ever wanted to let her go. The jealous concern that played across her face during the whole Jeanne debacle where she was convinced he was dying. The day she told him to be a man and began the tumultuous, lengthy process of him growing up. The break room where she queried him about soulmates and he deflected because he was scared and frightened of commitment and rendered speechless by her directness.

The first summer without her when he was confined to that god-awful ship, she met Michael, all the letters he wrote to her that were never sent, and his finger hovering over the phone number that he never finished dialing. The faux war-game they had to partake in where she went down fighting for him and her name was the first word that came to mind when he awoke. Her proud smile when he presented his Secret Santa gift. The four shots through the chest of her lover and the fire burning in her eyes as she broke down her own door. The gun to him on Israeli soil where she seethed and seemed more lethal than ever before. Her blank face when the plane took off from the tarmac and he asked if they were one short.

The dirt caked in her lips and mussed hair and the light missing from her eyes when Saleem pulled the bag off her head. The kiss on his cheek as she apologized for something that was not her fault. The Parisian sunset as they rode off on his Vespa and the words he whispered to her to make her nightmare stop. The small smile that played across her face when he called her priceless. The heat of her breath on his lips when she tackled him to the ground and asked if it was just his knee. The clarity she provided when she stated that they, or maybe she, loved him for who he is. The shock playing across her face when he considered her to be in his life, even though he saw himself firmly planted there. Her delight when he fixed her phone and maybe mended her heart after Ray left it shattered in pieces. The unmasked jealousy she scarcely tried to hide when she met Wendy. The Cartagena heat as he manufactured a movie quote when he wanted to tell her he loved her. The warmth of her hand on his arm when she grabbed him and told him she wouldn't and couldn't leave without him.

His hand in her hair and thumb on her cheek and the glistening heat on her brow when he thought the earth moved. Her sympathy when he shared with her the beloved memory of his mother as they bridged the gap between book and movie and Ziva and Tony. Her palpable gratitude when he brought the opera to her. Her beaming smile when she introduced him to Schmiel. The glint off the diamond in his father's ring that he wanted to propose to her with. Her blatant fear when she woke up from her nightmare in his bed and her body's relaxation when he held her hands between his. Her obvious appreciation when he told her she was not alone and she gave him a hug that held so much more significance than on the surface. The oddly real feeling of her carrying him to safety in their ruse to trick the hacker. His anger when he discovered her and McGee had been collaborating and leaving him out. The tease in her voice in the hotel room when she hung up his clothes. The candor with which she spoke as they laid together on the bed and the love in her eyes when they danced in Berlin. The perfectly complementary feeling of her hand interlocked with his. Her nails making a ring on his palm as the car crashed into them and the words she didn't get to say. His discovery that she slept with Adam when he told her she was not alone and the apology mixed with tears in her eyes. Their reconciliation and her not wanting to hurt him and caring too much about their "friendship." His constant messages with her, where she practically begged him to find her. Her going off the grid and him searching for her for months to no avail. And finally, their time in the olive grove, where he tried to fight for her and they spent a glorious night together, all the unsaid words conveyed in a tangle of limbs and trails of kisses. The morning when the sun peered in, they kissed and said goodbye for now. But these recollections make him feel like a dying man, and he is dying. It's as if he's drowning and she's dry land, but the land is oceans and world apart and he can't get to it except in his dreams. Maybe that's why he can't sleep.

He's interrupted from his reverie by a clipped knock at the door. A single forceful rap tells him that it's probably Gibbs on the other side of the peephole. There was a time, not so long ago, when he used to idolize his boss as a father far more capable than his biological one. But those days have ebbed with the tides and will never return. Perhaps it's because he drifted apart from Gibbs when he grew closer to Ziva and isolated himself from everyone when she was gone. Or really, it's probably because he finally got around to growing up. Maybe, he doesn't need a father figure for constant reinforcement anymore and instead, he wants to be one. But that doesn't mean he doesn't still respect his mentor and superior above most other people, and if nothing else, he figures he owes it to Gibbs to see what he has to say. But that doesn't necessarily mean he needs to be happy and eager about it, and so he slowly plods towards the door and swings it wide open.

Gibbs looks old, he realizes, and so does he. Losing their surrogate daughter and love of life respectively has no doubt taken a toll on them. He's been so ingrained and wallowing in his own self-pity; he believes the same might begin to justify the uncharacteristic and frankly, unnecessary, harsh treatment he's received of late. Gibbs has been missing her too, in his extremely private and solitary way. That doesn't excuse his brusqueness and rude behavior; it just goes about explaining it in a way that doesn't lower Gibbs so much in his esteem.

Tentatively, Gibbs settles himself on the couch. It's comical, almost, how out of place he seems here. For one, the décor: Gibbs is more of a flannel and well-worn, well-cushioned couch guy, and his apartment is all sharp angles and studies in contrast. Also, he realizes quickly, he can count on one hand the number of times Gibbs has been here. It had always been him approaching Gibbs in his territory, asking him for advice, giving him the upper hand. For once, the situation is reversed, and he takes a sort of perverse satisfaction in that. Immediately, he regrets his condemnation, mostly. Clear as day in the etched lines of Gibbs's face is regret and apology drawn deep.

As always, there's no need at all for pleasantries and beating around the bush. The one thing he and Gibbs are adept at is cutting straight through the bullshit to the crux of the issue. On cue, Gibbs intones "I owe you an apology, Tony," and his downcast eyes betray his statement's truth. Anyway, Gibbs has never really been much of a liar; he'll omit, sure, to serve an end, but straight up mendacity isn't really his style. But he's been bullied and beaten down, and he's not going to make it that easy for Gibbs. He merely raises an eyebrow, prompting him to go further. If nothing else, functional mute's going to have to string together a good sentence here.

"It wasn't easy for any of us when Ziva…left," Gibbs starts clumsily. "She was like a daughter to me…"

Enraged, Tony cuts him off. "Was? Was? She's not dead, you know! She's out there somewhere, alone and lost, without any of her family to help her," he breaks off, tears glistening in his eyes.

Ignoring his outburst, Gibbs continues, "But even if no one ever admitted it out loud, it was different for you. It was a hell of a lot worse for you, because you love her and I know letting go of someone you love, well, it's the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. Take it from someone who knows."

"But Shannon," Tony chokes out, "she died, Gibbs. She didn't up and choose to leave you. She didn't decide you weren't good enough for her."

He abhors the sympathy that colors Gibbs's face; the last thing he wants, he's ever wanted is pity. He doesn't love a woman across the sea to engender pity; he loves her in spite of the fact that she's gone from him. All these tropes and clichés he uses to describe her make it seem like she's dead, and that strikes at the very core of him, because in truth, it would be easier if she was dead. Because both ways, he couldn't have saved her. But instead of needing saving from some malicious foe, he failed to save her from herself, from her own demons.

"If I know anything, Anthony, I know that she loves you too. And she wants to be good enough for you; she wants to deserve you and you want to deserve her and why couldn't you two have just gotten your shit together years ago? Do you know how frustrating it was to sit and watch you two play grabass and go at it and fall in love for eight years and nothing come of it? Goddammit, DiNozzo, why were you so afraid?" Gibbs yells.

Tony sputters, "Me? How is this on me? It takes two to play at that game, if you remember. I was ready for years; I was just waiting for her to come 'round. Because I wasn't gonna let it be a two week thing, Gibbs. And it's not like you gave any hints that you would've let us be together. Rule 12, remember?" He finishes mockingly.

"Rule 12? Really? I made that out of fear, so other agents didn't end up like me and Jenny. But you and Ziva aren't like me and Jenny. I loved her, sure, maybe even was in love with her, but Ziva's your Shannon. Everyone gets one chance and I blew mine. But maybe you can still find your happy ending. She'll come back to you, DiNozzo. I know it in my gut. You just gotta wait her out; you've waited eight years. What's a little longer?"

"That's exactly the point, Gibbs! I want to be strong for her, give her her time and space, but I miss her like hell. It'll never be the same without her," Tony admits.

"Nah, it won't, DiNozzo. But what you two have, it's worth waiting for. Give her time and she'll come back."

She cannot tolerate the eternal Israeli summer; it allows for no separation between the months and makes time drag. And so she packs her solitary bag, a constant reminder of the lonely little life she has led, and up and leaves. It is a strange feeling, to be capable of picking herself up and leaving on a whim. She has always been tied to something, whether it was her mother and father, the IDF, Mossad, or NCIS. It is curious to be unburdened and untethered, but the newfound freedom is counterbalanced by a sense of being set adrift. She has no one to blame for that but herself, though. When she undertook this quest, she knew it would not be an easy effort. Already she has felt her finger hover over her partner's contact in her phone, desiring the pacifying tones of his voice more than anything. But she cannot give into this grand temptation: she must be strong like the little girl who scribed that list, able to escape her father's world of death and violence once and for all.

It is hard not to blame her father for the miseries that have befallen her; while she knows the blood on her hands is the result of her knife and gun, she would not have been spurred into that lifestyle if not for him. She sees now that in hindsight that even with his best efforts, he was a terrible father. Tony would not be that way. Even though he is frightened of children, she knows that he would love his own children beyond anything else in this world. Before she can stifle the image, she pictures their beautiful daughter, with her onyx curls and his hazel-green eyes. These are not things she can allow herself to think of; she must not be distracted by the life she could have had. She does not deserve it and war has taken that chance away from her.

Paris in the fall provides a good start. With no concrete goals and objectives to fill her days, she finds herself wandering the streets aimlessly, reveling in the brisk air on her skin. As she told Tony all those years ago, she has never viewed Paris through the lens of a tourist; it has always been the destination of a mission or assignment. The simple beauty of it astounds her: a ruby leaf, a golden dandelion, a door held open, a skirt blowing in the wind. These are radiotypes, she is fully aware, but they allow her happiness, something she had not allowed herself to feel for fear of its ephemerality. Happiness and a family: those have been the two things permanently out of her reach.

She passed a week meandering around the Louvre; she indulged herself in a tour of Champs-Elysses and the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. So many pairs of lovers, quick pecks and careless proclamations of love exchanged. So many small children perched on hips and fists clenched tightly in mothers' curls. Involuntarily, her hand rests on her own abdomen. It hurts her deeply because she knows, in another world, that this could have been her: with a family and a love. When she is feeling fanciful, she purchases a lovely golden lock and inscribes it with her and Tony's names and secures it on the Pont des Artes. It is a silly gesture, she knows, but she likes to think that their love story is immortalized somewhere. It is also a promise to herself. When she can love herself, she can love Tony properly, throw the lock in the Seine and go be with him, forever.

The bitter cold sets in like he fell in love: gradually and then in an instant. The tension in the squadroom is palpable; the empty desk across from him mocks him endlessly until one day he arises abruptly and parks himself in her chair. At first, it feels sacrilege. He sniffs the air for a whiff of her perfume before reality sets in. She's been gone for months, and the only vestige left of her is memory and the necklace he keeps nestled in his desk drawer. After a minute, his perspective shifts, and it's as if he's glimpsing the world from her point of view. Except he scarcely knows where in this world she is. He'd pinpointed the wanderlust in her from the moment they met, so he'd like to think she's traveling the world, and not with a gun in her purse but flowers in her hair. He pictures her in Paris, la ville de l'amour, and before he can stifle the thought, he subconsciously wishes himself there with her. He would surrender this empty shell of a life without her in a heartbeat if it meant being with her again.

As he said to Gibbs weeks ago, he feels as if he made the wrong decision, except the decision wasn't his. From the moment he finally tracked her down, it was completely and totally her choice to come back with him or not. And he's finally starting to reconcile why, because she wasn't happy. Not content, not happy, and he wants more than anything else in the entire world for Ziva to be happy. Forcing her back to D.C. would have been the wrong option for them, because she would have always resented him and he himself. But this realization doesn't make her absence burn any less each day; while he knew it would never disappear completely, he at least believed the pain would subside. He didn't think that something in his heart would break every time he turns to tell her something and is met with the empty air. It's like she's his oxygen and he can no longer take deep breaths and merely has to gasp for air. He's exhausted of all these metaphors, but that's the only way he can capture her now: in words.

And now when he glimpses across the squadroom, his eyes no longer rest upon tousled brown curls, but a curtain of platinum blonde hair. For anyone else, Ellie would be perfect: she's smart, capable, intuitive when she allows herself to be, and he really isn't fair to her. Because every word she says, every step she takes is immediately compared to her predecessor. And he's never been particularly unbiased when it comes to Ziva; even now, she holds this exalted position in his mind, of this beautiful, amazing woman who overcame so many challenges to get where she was and was still not happy with herself. And he stares at this woman in front of him and even with her bright smile, he cannot help but imagine Ziva in her place.

She has never been able to tolerate the bitter cold well. Once she began to be wracked with shivers and cracked lips, she packs her bag and leaves belle Paris behind. And she feels the heaviness of the food in her bones. It slows her down and makes her plodding, and she has always lived life at a breakneck pace: it is simply her way. She gazes at the departures board at Charles de Gaulle. The world is truly at her fingertips, but she does not have the faintest idea of where she would like to go. She is still unaccustomed to the realization that the decision is entirely hers: she is beholden to no one and nothing. As she vacillates between continents and languages in her mind, she feels her phone buzz in her pocket: "1 New Message from Monique," the screen flashes. A smile comes to her face at the thought of her old friend whom she considers an honorary sister, whatever may have transpired between them at their last meeting. Monique has always been easy to forgive.

"We could use some help in Cartagena," the text reads. Short, simple and to the point, completely characteristic of Monique. Volunteering her time and helping instead of hurting actually sounds quite appealing. She has been sapping the world of its energy and people for so many years, and now this prime opportunity to give back has presented itself.

"Un billet pour Cartagena, sil vous plait," she says sweetly to the clerk.

"What is a pretty lady like you doing traveling alone?" He asks as he openly googles her. A pimpled young man in his twenties, his leering discomfits her. She knows she is an attractive woman and has been all her life, but marked male attention still makes her feel unsettled. But her response surprises even her.

"I have a boyfriend," she replies curtly. "He is meeting me in Cartagena." It somehow feels oddly right to refer to Tony in this fashion, even though what subsists between them goes far deeper than that of a superficial teenage relationship. This semantic difference does not irk her, though, for it is the promise, implicit or otherwise, of Tony waiting for her to come home. And she knows in her heart that she is committed to him, though she is unsure if their dalliance conveyed that appropriately.

"Whatever you say, miss," he answers flippantly and she cannot mask her eye roll. The impudence of young people these days astounds her; but then again, she spent those years obeying her superiors' orders. She was never allowed to rebel, and so she perceives this as her small rebellion, or perhaps it is merely penance.

As the plane begins to lift off the tarmac, she instinctively grabs for her necklace. While she does not consider herself particularly religious, it has always been customary for her to hold her Star of David during takeoffs and landings, so that whatever may be up there watches over her. Its absence speaks to her larger volumes than its presence would have. In this, her Star of David is almost like her heart, and she has given it to the person who loves her most for safekeeping. While she knows it is in good hands, she cannot help but feel entirely alone without the warmth of his presence, even as a mirage represented by the chain around her neck. For it was he who gave her that Star of David; it was one of the first glimpses of the true Tony that he allowed her to see. She conjures the image of his gifting her with it: the nervous flush of his cheeks, the catch in his breath, the lowering of his eyelashes. Very infrequently has she seen him display so outwardly shyness and fear that their appearances are notable.

"Ziva, can I…uh…talk to you for a second?" he queries hesitantly.

She is not feeling particularly in the holiday spirit and so she snaps back "Since when have you asked permission?" He gets up to leave, his cheeks reddened not from the chill of the wind but from the embarrassment her curtness has caused.

"Tony, come back," she utters reluctantly, placatingly, forgivingly. "What would you like to talk about? A new girlfriend, perhaps?"

Oddly enough, he appears almost offended by the supposition. "No, nothing like that," he brushes her off. In his outstretched palm he proffers a small velvet box. "For you," he says shyly, an emotion she is unaccustomed to seeing in her partner. In an instant, she is reminded of the last time he spoke those words and it is now her cheeks that flush: she has truly underestimated, in every regard, the man that stands in front of her, swaying nervously in his Italian leather shoes. She imagines, for merely a second, that in another universe, that could be a ring, and they could be happy together. But alas, there are dreams that cannot be.

She takes it with a small smile and flips open its lid. Nestled in the black velvet is a shining gold Star of David. She can recognize by sight that it is pure fourteen karat gold; this is not a cheap trinket, not that she would expect that of her partner.

I..uh…know how much your necklace meant to you, that Tali gave it to you," he stumbles. "And I know that Saleem took it from you," he continues, his voice getting stronger. "So I got you a new one."

She turns it over and over between her fingers, incredulous that anyone, let alone the man that she proclaimed to hate and distrust not so many months ago, would purchase her such a beautiful, expensive gift. Curiously, she feels a slight protrusion on the gold between her thumb and index finger. Looking quizzically at her partner, he merely stares at the floor, a small grin dancing across his lips. She pulls it closer to see what the flaw is: it turns out not to be an imperfection, but an engraving, in her native language, nonetheless. בשבילך, For you, it translates. Tears leap to her eyes and she cannot control the outpouring of emotion that suddenly erupts from her.

She cannot fathom the time, effort, and money that must have been put into this generous gift. Words in any language do not suffice to express her heartfelt thanks. Instead, she tries to put all these feelings she cannot articulate into a bone-crushing hug. "Toda, Tony," she whispers in his ear as she looks at him through a veil of tears.

"Prego," he counters, as is customary for them, and the smile that spreads across his face is brilliant and beautiful.

And returning to reality, she instantly remembers why she desperately avoids getting lost in memories. It recalls her of all things and people she has left behind in his newfound solitary existence of hers. Ten years ago, this would not have perturbed her, for she simply did not know what she was missing. However, she also would and could have killed a man with a credit card: her motto had been shoot first, talk later. And this is the root of why she is here. For years, she had exculpated herself by justifying that this philosophy had been indoctrinated in her. But now she has come to realize that this is no excuse: at any moment, she was perfectly capable of pushing back against these ideas. She could have at least thought to examine whether her victims deserved their fate. Then, though, that raises the question of who is she to play God? She has been exposed to no great education, reached no state of enlightenment and who is she, who formerly killed on command, to judge?

But she should stop dwelling on her past faults, for the past is the past, yes? And she has discovered that despite her best efforts, she cannot erase that part of herself. It is a part of who she is and it would do injustice to her victims and their families to simply forget. So she has decided, in her ample time of idle thought, to simply counterbalance. For every life she has taken and ruined, she will provide recompense by saving one. A smile comes to her face as this reminds of Gibbs and his similar life-long mission; the man she has come to regard as a father and her biological father could not have been more different in this respect. While she knows that Eli tried in his final days and weeks to atone for his sins, as she said to him, his sins were still too great.

That is quite high on her list of priorities: she does not want to die laden with sins and burdens and regrets. If nothing else, life has taught her that nothing is guaranteed, especially not happiness. In short, she does not necessarily deserve happiness, but she wants it more than anything before. For the past few years, she has wished for nothing more than a happy ending with Tony, her fairytale prince in nearly every way.

His life has seemed even more punctuated lately- it's as if he wakes up one morning and Christmas is upon him. Snow in the flower beds provides him some evocation of beauty, a welcome relief from life's monotony. This newfound appreciation is another manifestation of his changing ego; he's come to revel in the little things, because they're all he's got left. But the holiday cheer that smothers him, the lights and the baubles, don't appeal to him at all. Because despite all his years of materialism, he's now repulsed by the commercialism he sees in every advertisement in the newspaper and every jingle on the radio. He doesn't need a shiny new steel grill or a plush leather wallet; all he wants is the one thing he can't have- her. He's pretended to move on: all that he fabricated about the tennis pro, for one. One night, he even took a stab at going to a bar, a locale that was formerly his territory- except the second he went to walk up to a pretty girl, he was instantly turned around by some greater force. It felt like he was being unfaithful to her, because it's as if they brokered a covenant. She'll wait for him and him for her- even when her absence is screaming at him to move on. It's hard to ignore the husky voice in his ear and echoing through his mind that he should try to find someone else, be happy. But he knows, painful as it is, the only true happiness he can have is with her; it's been like that for too long, and prior to this year, he never would've wanted to change that. But now, it's like his brain is dictating to him that he should least find some ephemeral joy in someone else, but as they said so many years ago, the heart wants what it wants. And it wants her to put itself back together. Because it's her lifeblood running through his veins; they are that closely intertwined. Or at least they were until continents and oceans and regrets got in their way and constructed a wall he doesn't even know if he can fell.

But for the time being, McGee, weirdly enough, has been trying to set him up with Delilah's friend Marissa; he doesn't want to shut the Probie down outright, but he'd rather shoot off his own foot than go on a blind date at his age. Oddly, it's Ellie who really gets it. He's never been the type to have female friends without some sexual undercurrent. But he could never see Ellie that way- she's like a little sister to him, even more than Abby: driven, smart, a little awkward, passionate. And also, she's objective: better than anyone he's ever met, she can remove herself from a situation and assess it sensibly. It also makes things easier that she's never met Ziva. She isn't plagued by the picture of her black curls and bandanna and baggy cargo pants and sultry voice; it's seared into his memory like a faint scar that flares up at the most inopportune of times. Though he nearly knows everything about Ziva, or at least he'd like to think he does, it's nearly impossible to conjure an image of her for someone who's never smelt the faint honey and jasmine perfume radiating off her in waves. Ellie's never seen the one curl that refuses to stay tightly wound in her regulation braid that she keeps tucking behind her ear. There are so many parts of Ziva that he simple cannot capture; maybe it's because he understood and sometimes continues to understand his partner on a level beyond that of verbal communication. They've always been dreadful at saying what they truly mean: he can think of half a dozen times when if they'd just been straight with each other, something real could have happened between them, and not just on the eve of his departure, a jumble of twisted lips and desperate gasps and intermingled tears. It shouldn't have been like that. They should have had months and years and centuries to love each other properly, and maybe they still can. But it's hard to think positively when he gave her everything he has, including his love, especially his love, and it still wasn't enough to heal her.

But Ellie helps. One thing he's learned about her is that she's a fantastic listener. You can talk to her, even at her, for hours and she'll attentively absorb every single thing you say. And so he finds himself telling Ellie nearly everything about him and Ziva, from the day they met in the bullpen to their parting on the Israeli tarmac. And he realizes that their tale tells like a love story. And it's the best kind of love story, because he changed and she changed and they made each other better people. He grew up; the overgrown frat boy that would have hit on anything female and moving is gone forever, replaced by a man who isn't afraid to show how he feels and pour all his love into a worthy recipient. The Mossad assassin that sauntered into the bullpen that rainy day eight years ago has disappeared too. In her place is a beautiful, remarkable woman who overcame so many challenges and difficulties to be a good person and be compassionate and caring and most of all, loving. Even if she's blinded by the ills of her past, he can see how far she's come, not just in her grasp on the English language and its idioms, but in herself. In the journey to find something permanent, she was so close.

And Ellie laughs and cries and comforts him at all the right times. But the thing that hits home the most is when he's describing her in almost painstaking detail, his eyes alit; Ellie just whispers "you really do love her, don't you?" And there is no past tense, because there never will be. He has loved her, he loves her, and he will love her until the end of time, even if she isn't in the same hemisphere as him. He can't cry, he can't, and so he closes his eyes, willing the tears not to fall, crossing his arms, shutting the world out. Ellie grabs hold of him and doesn't let go, stroking his back and whispering comforting things into his ear. He's mortified; he's done a fantastic job of maintaining his front these past few months, and certainly doesn't let his guard down in front of younger female agents. But when he reopens his eyes and flood of color assaults his senses, he sees no judgment in Ellie's eyes, only overwhelming sadness, and that hurts nearly as much. He's like an orange warning sign; don't do this. Don't let this happen to you, because it will break you in so many pieces that you cannot put yourself back together. He'd been strong for Ziva for so many months, even before she left, that he never truly let himself feel. He didn't realize that he was falling apart at the fault lines, and her departure was the earthquake that shattered him into fragments.

She giggles like a schoolgirl when she sees the first daffodils peek through the soil. Spring has always been among her favorite seasons, since she was a young girl. All the things it signifies hold even more weight for her now: renewal, rebirth, regrowth. It is as if, like a plant in the winter, she is trying to prune off the parts of her that she does not like and preserve the rest so it thrives. There is something remarkable too, about the lengthening of the days, where night comes later and later and so do the thoughts that used to plague her, until they disappear entirely.

She is pleased with the volunteer work that she performed over the winter. She has always had a particular affinity for children; she admires their joviality and carefree existence. Even as a child, she was never permitted that luxury: she realizes now that she was reared to be a warrior. Tali got to be the soft child, with the silky hair their mother brushed for hours every day and the rosebud lips and the apple cheeks. She, on the other hand, had calloused feet and thin cheeks and knotted mane of hair; she grew into her features and maybe just gained confidence. But she was never dressing dolls, but throwing knives. And she realizes now that she could not have stopped her father's plan in its tracks. It began when she was too young to fight against it or him, and by the time she knew what she had become, it was far too late. Her sister was dead and her brother was going the same way; she had to be strong and bear the family burden. She is learning to accept and move on; it is a slow, hard process, but she is determined to do it. She will not allow herself to be defined by the skeletons in her closet.

And now, instead of killing people or even investigating people's deaths, she plays with children, teaches them English. She is still quite unsure who deemed her qualified to teach English, but she supposes that she did spend the better part of eight years in America. It is a funny sight: her, whose native language is Hebrew, trying to teach little Colombian girls English by explaining it to them in Spanish. Nonetheless, it is pleasant to again speak the language in which she had become quite accustomed to conversing. The mix of the lilted Colombian Spanish and clipped English makes her smile; she likes to think that, because of her small efforts, these children might have a better chance of surviving in the real world. And their candor still astounds her.

One day, Sandra, a particularly chatty seven year old, asks her "Senora, why you keep grabbing at your neck like this?" and Sandra pantomimes the movement. Immediately, she mimics her young pupil and searches in vain for the chain that gives her comfort.

"I had a necklace I used to wear here," she explains sadly, "It is gone now," She has thought multiple times about replacing it; even here, she knows she would be able to find one. But it is the fact that the one she had was special, given to her with love, that she cannot bring herself to buy another. Her bare collarbone is a reminder and a promise.

Sandra eyes her quizzically. She crouches down and looks her young friend right in the eye. "I gave it to someone very special to hold for me. But I still miss it," she clarifies.

Sandra's eyes light up in clarity: "Jajaja, novio!" she exclaims.

That brings a smile to Ziva's face. "Okay, si, "she responds hesitantly and Sandra scampers off. Ah, the short attention spans of seven year olds.

A few minutes later, a broad smile is beaming across Sandra's face as she holds her hands behind her back. "I have surprise for you, Senora!" she bursts out.

Sandra's energy is infectious, and so Ziva responds "Ay, dios mio! What do you have for me?"

"We make you necklace!" Sandra shouts excitedly. And she reveals a twisted, colorful piece of string with a flower bead strung on. And she cannot help but smile and laugh excitedly: these girls have so little, and they want to give it to her to make her feel better. She makes a ceremonious display of tying it on, to which they laugh and clap excitedly. She feels no guilt wearing this token of her students' affection; it was given to her by people who love her, just like her Star of David.

"It look beautiful on you, Senora," intones Daniela, a quiet, sweet girl who likes to give Ziva hugs when she thinks she looks sad. But lately, that has happened less and less frequently. Instead, it is Ziva who tackles the girls and tickles them until they shriek. She was content with her carefree life in Paris, but this is something she truly loves, a palpable difference she can measure herself making. She has come to love Sandra, Daniela, Claudia, Maria, Sofia and Gabriela nearly as her own. It makes her want to have children more than anything, because she has become slightly more assured that she would be a good mother. While she knows it would not be an easy undertaking, she is more confident by the day that she would not make the mistakes of her father, at the very least. And that is comforting to her.

But she cannot stay here forever, unfortunately. The time for her position at this girls' school is nearly up, and she will have to move on to something else. She has been thinking Italy; she has always loved the Italian people and their warmth. Her native peoples are not at all welcoming to strangers; she supposes it is by matter of their oppression and that all their neighbors wish them dead. With those justifications, the Israeli standoffish attitude is somewhat reasonable. But that does not mean that cheek kisses and bear hugs are not refreshing to her. And so when her tenure is up at the school, she books a plane ticket to Naples. It is heartbreaking saying goodbye to her girls, and she knows, despite what she says, that she will never see them again. But all good things must come to an end, yes? And she figures that she will fly into Napoli and then take the train to whatever city she pleases. But when she arrives in Naples, she does not want to leave. She often crosses the Aegean to go to Capri, a beautiful island with beautiful people. But for the most part, she stays in Naples, missing the urbanity after being in the Colombian countryside, exquisite though it is.

She drinks espresso on the veranda of her hotel room and watches the people walk by. Unlike in Paris, this does not make her nervous or twitchy; she simply relaxes and revels in the beauty of the common people who stop to say hello. She brushes up on her Italian, her dark brows and sunkissed hair allowing her to blend in fairly well until she opens her mouth. She is mildly entertained by the questioning looks she gets and is glad she is further north in Italy when she explains that she is from Israel. While she loves Italy and its people, she realizes that many in the south of the country are not receptive to immigrants, and particularly not those from the Middle East. But it does not perturb her; she is confident in her identity, and even proud of it. Her makeshift necklace gets even more prolonged stares. The rope has begun to fray and fade, yet she refuses to divest of it. Once she becomes attached to things, she is quite loathe to let them go. Except the one thing and person that mattered more than anything that she let go a little too easily, even though it's the hardest thing she's and he's ever done.

The cherry blossoms are ravishing this year. He hopes that maybe it'll be a sign that this year will be better than the last one. The signs have been pretty auspicious so far; he's having trouble pinpointing one in particular, but he just feels somewhat less burdened down. He doesn't miss her as much: sometimes it hits him like a ton of bricks, but her absence hurts less because he's got this feeling she's coming back. In the beginning, he told himself over and over again that she would come back to him, but he scarcely could bring himself to believe it. Now, for some reason, it feels like a reality. But until then, he's got to pass the time; maybe he should take a trip. He's got a few days coming to him, even though he used nearly all of his thirteen years of vacation time searching for her. But it's the first time since he's come back to D.C. that he feels the desire to do anything, really. He spent far too many months wallowing in his own sorrow. He's never really been very proactive; he'll usually just bitch and complain about whatever's been handed to him for a while, before he eventually grows to accept it. Not that he's accepted Ziva's absence. It's just that he's totally accustomed to it now; his stomach doesn't drop when it's not her in the bullpen, but Ellie. He doesn't expect to see her face on every street corner. It's like he's resigned to it- for now. Not for good. Because he can't let go of that burgeoning hope that she's coming back to him, for him, and they can be happy together, which is really all he's ever wanted.

There's the one part of him that feels this way, that he needs to leave her be until she's ready to come back to him. But he also can't quash the need for fight for her; he's never been good at surrendering, under any circumstances. And so, through a lot of little white lies and some underlying truths, he convinces himself that it's time to reach out to her. He doesn't intend to pry; he'll just send her a letter, he tells himself. That way, she's not really compelled to answer, and if she doesn't, he can merely pretend that it was intercepted or lost or some other explanation that will break his heart a little less. In a brief glimpse of valiance, he seizes a pen and paper and prepares to scribe this momentous correspondence. It's been months on months, longer than he's ever gone or anticipated going with nary a word from his best friend. The postcards provided little in the way of information about her life; they were blank, addressed to him and signed by her with a flourish. And so, he scarcely knows what the hell to say. Because even though he understands her struggle and sympathizes with every fiber of his being, there's still a deeply buried layer in him that's fuming with anger. How could she leave him, when he's offered her everything and given her so much of himself? But this's definitely not what she wants and needs to hear, and so he forces himself to focus, first, on the innocuous.

Dear Ziva, he begins. Simple enough, he tells himself. No hidden, deeper meanings in that that he's got to analyze too deeply.

He continues, I hope this letter finds you well. No, too formal. She was (it aches to use the past tense) his partner for eight years, and he's acting like it's a letter to an elderly aunt. He scrawls it out angrily; he's always been dreadful at things like this. He's better in speech, where he can improvise and use facial expressions and gestures and intonations to convey his point.

I hope you're figuring some things out. Not perfect, but better. Appropriately vague for the permanent ambiguity of their relationship. It's still weird to think that he has to write a letter to be in contact with her, when he used to just be able to speak across the bullpen. It reminds him too much of the first summer they were apart. He wrote her letter after letter, about the deep things and harmless daily activities and everything in between. But he never had the courage to send them and it's among his greatest regrets. But at least they were able to discuss the noticeable lack of contact that summer.

He's quiet for once, typing a report at his desk when he senses a presence behind him. He's become accustomed enough to know exactly when his partner's in the immediate vicinity; it's like he's perfectly attuned to her. But, as usual, he plays dumb until he feels her hot breath on his ear. While she believes his jump is due to surprise, it's the electric shock of her that makes him stand on edge. He's never really gonna get used to it- he knows that for a fact.

"Yes, Ziva?" he asks, politeness dripping from his tone.

"What have we here?" she counters, with the same measure of false sweetness. They've always played off each other remarkably well.

"My report?" he answers, obviously. But he knows perfectly well that she's got some ulterior motive. He's always been able to read her, even with her best efforts to mask her true feelings. He subtly breathes in the jasmine and honey and sunshine that is her, hoping she doesn't notice how intoxicated he is by her mere existence.

She laughs that throaty laugh that he loves so much, because it's genuine and holds so little back. But then her face goes somber, and he immediately shifts gears- it's that simple, the fluidity of their relationship.

"I have missed this," she states bluntly. There's no need for her to elaborate- he knows exactly what she means and feels the exact same sentiment. The easy give and take, the witty repartee, the brewing sexual tension that are part and parcel of them, whoever they are. He nods solemnly in response; they've always been great at communicating wordlessly.

"You could have called," she pronounces again. The first time, she was much more flippant in saying it, like a passing whim. Now, it's imbued with some real meaning, and that scares the hell out of him.

"I, I thought you were busy," he bumbles, knowing that it's not an adequate response in the slightest. With her skeptical look, he knows he's got to redeem himself.

"I was scared you wouldn't pick up," he clarifies. There- it's out there, his worst fear. That their relationship is nothing more than that between coworkers, and once that bond was severed, there would be nothing left. She understands immediately; he's thankful that she requires no more explanation, because that would be venturing into even more uncharted territory.

"You are my partner, Tony. Nothing can change that," she reassures him. "I suppose I could have called you as well," she confesses. "But I was worried you had forgotten me." He's genuinely surprised at her admission; she's typically even more reticent than him.

"I'll never forget you, Ziva," he says strongly, so there is no doubt.

"Nor I you," she reciprocates. He smiles shyly, and for a second, something in his chest leaps. Maybe they're getting somewhere with this. As soon as he allows himself to think that, Gibbs strides into the bullpen. Well, so much for that.

This is stupid, he chastises himself. He doesn't even have the wildest idea of where in the world she is, and so this exercise is futile to say the least. But it's still indubitably cathartic, because it comforts him to talk to her, even if it's merely through the medium of letters. Because he's been, to no avail, trying to shut her out of his thoughts and his speech for so long, such that the words fly off the tip of his pen faster than his hand can scrawl them. All the truths of him and her and them that he's kept in the silence of his heart these past few months erupts out of him in a cascading waterfall of pure, unadulterated emotion. He's done trying to hide any and everything, and that's the tipping point of his tears.

It's always been drilled into him that maudlin displays of emotion betray weakness. The last time he truly let himself cry was at his mother's funeral, when Senior approached him in his impeccably starched tuxedo and informed him that DiNozzo men don't cry. But Senior was and is wrong, because he feels immeasurably better letting all the anger and poison leech out of his body. It's like he's almost himself again, and that feels really, really good. He wants to go outside and breathe in the fresh air and let himself become part of the real world again.

Grabbing a light jacket and sliding on a pair of sneakers, he tentatively opens his door. He's been on such autopilot for so many months that everything feels alien. The sky is painted magenta and crimson with the light of the setting sun, and he revels in the natural beauty of it. The blinders he had on for so many months to throw himself into work have been taken off, and he remembers what he's been missing. Because he was at least moderately happy before he met Ziva, and he can be that way again until she returns to him.

Engaging in the simple pleasantries he ignored for all those months, he says hello to a harried man that strides past him shakily. The man ignores him completely, and almost runs off in the other direction. Rude, Tony thinks. And then almost thirteen years of agent instincts kick in full force and he whips around. He's just a public servant doing his due diligence; he'll follow the man for a bit, and if nothing hinky happens, he's back to his careless stroll.

A few lengths behind his target, Tony squints to make out his coattails in the rapidly fading light. He is dressed pretty warmly for this beautiful spring day, and very formally for the streets of D.C. Maybe he's just going to a dinner party, he speculates. Tony tails him for another few blocks until the man makes a quick right into an alleyway; seems like his instincts were right. There's very little legal activity that this man could be doing here at this time, dressed as he is. Tony crouches behind a dumpster and watches the man open his briefcase, filled with stacks of euros. Of course, he's up to no good. Do criminals have to be so obvious? A hooded figure materializes out of the shadows, and the lean legs and posture tell Tony it's a woman.

"You have the money?" she inquires, an accent of some European derivation coloring her question.

"Yes," the man answers shakily, displaying the briefcase for her to see. "Now, I want my daughter back."

The woman smiles gracefully, and Tony can feel the tension be sucked out of the air. Until she whips out a gun and puts four in the man's chest, sliding it back into the small of her back and walking away, completely calm and unfrazzled. Shocked and appalled, he steps out from behind his cover. He reaches for the gun at his waist, but is met with empty air. His mouth opens and closes, unable to utter any coherent sounds, until the woman whips around and sees him, shock playing across her face. In one fluid motion, she pulls out her weapon and puts her finger on the trigger, pointing it right between his eyes, and he's ready to bet that she's a pretty good shot. Best strategy he can think of now is to play dumb.

"What did you see?" her accent is thicker with anger.

"N-nothing," he stammers, and the fear in his voice is real. He's had brushes with death before, sure, but it doesn't seem like he's gonna be able to talk his way out of this one.

For a second, he thinks she might actually believe him. He did spend years upon years putting on a face for the world, so lying comes second nature to him. But she doesn't seem the type to just let him go on his merry way.

She draws closer, eyes narrowing, as she examines him, gun pointed steadily the whole way. She jabs in it his stomach, and before he can utter a word of protest, pulls the trigger. He weakly gasps out a cry for help as she turns her back on him, her heels clicking on the pavement. Placing a hand over the gaping wound in his abdomen in a futile effort to staunch the flow of blood, he feels a puddle forming around him as he gurgles for breath. The sky above him begins to spin and go blurry as he loses his tenuous grip on consciousness. Her name is the last word that his mind sputters as the world goes black.

She has had enough of idleness. Those months she sojourned in Paris roaming the streets bursting with wanderlust and brimming with broken dreams are long behind her. She has never been particularly adept at self-examination, which is why this endeavor still proves to be quite difficult. The manner in which she is able to learn about herself is in context of and in comparison to other people. So, she searches the city for a position to occupy her time and give her answers about who she is, even though it seems like a picture is emerging day by day. One would suppose that with her prodigious language skills and multicultural background, it would not be difficult to locate suitable work. Eventually, she hones in on a professorship at the university, a field by which she is still markedly discomfited. Yes, she has been well educated, but much like Tony, she has derived much of her life experiences and fluency in practical, day-to-day life. And she has never been innately good at engaging in academic discourse, because she has never spent much time in a setting such as this. However, she has come to discover that she enjoys young people, ones who are not or merely less detrimentally affected by ubiquitous death and violence. At the age of eighteen, she had already killed her first man and was being molded into a killing machine at her father's behest. Instead, her pupils at university are wide-eyed and inquisitive with waving, eager hands.

She would never have anticipated that these Italian students would be so keen to learn Hebraic studies. She knows plenty, firsthand, about the discord and hatred that exists in the Middle East. It is also alien for her to be so engaged in the culture she had nearly abandoned during so many years on American soil. It is oddly comforting, in a way, to reconnect with her roots in this benevolent fashion. It is also quite vexing and trying to capture to the subtle intricacies of her native land in a completely foreign tongue. Her Italian is good, to be sure, but it is nearly impossible to positively convey the minutiae of Israel's indubitable warrior culture. That from a young age, it is ingrained in you to defend your nation, because it is constantly under attack, morally and religiously, if not militarily at the time. That truly, her mistakes in this vein are not her fault. She blushes, recalling her attempt to justify her past to her students. She wants, more than anything, for them to respect her and the choices she has made and the options she was forced into. These wonderfully pacifist individuals, she envies them their innocence. Even if she can reconcile herself, she will still be jaded of the world. But her cynicism does not disseminate to precluding surprise. She is delighted when a student answers with particular clarity, or when the flowers bloom in the box nestled on her balcony, or when the last drop of espresso slides down her throat, or when Tony brought the opera to her and held her hand in her nightmares and so many other things she cannot name.

Because, at the heart of it and her is and always been him. Something always brings her back to him, because he is in her thoughts and whispering to her in everything around her. Now that her pain has been allayed somewhat, he is again at the forefront of her mind and she misses him terribly. She awakes many a night after dreaming of the comfort of his embrace, the love in his eyes. That hole in her is no longer a chasm caused by her own failings, but the marked void of the constant support and love that she had come to cherish. The solitude has begun to strangle her, which is why she pays rent to a little pixie named Francesca, a classic Italian beauty with luscious black locks to her waist and big, solemn eyes. She has never been one for petty conversation, and so the quietude of her new friend is optimal. Francesca is there when she needs someone to talk to, but she will also give her space if she so requires. And so this odd balance she has stricken permits her to grow and flourish in ways she imagined not possible. Because what she has always needed and notably lacked has been that balance, between what she believes and what she has been compelled to do, between what she loves and what she hates, between her roots and her future, and so many subtle shades of meaning that color other distinctions.

She has always been one to take a hard line on the issue at hand; the lines of moral correctness and comportment have always been black and white for her, which is ironic considering her former profession. But she always saw what she did as for honor and for country and in being so, completely moral. She now realizes that that is not quite the case, that she was fooled by someone she loved into believing it; however, she has come to terms with it. Her feelings towards her past are more ambivalent now: it happened and there is nothing she can do to erase it, but move forward as a better person. And helping people, in ways she has always wanted.

And while she's given better education to little girls in Colombia and taught eager, impressionable students in Italy, she's always been helping. Truly, her job as a liaison and later an agent did not merely consist of solving crimes and shielding people from bullets. At its core, it was again providing aid to people who needed it; whether it was consolation to a loved one, saving future victims from a dangerous foe, or all the other things she did in her tenure at NCIS, she bettered those people's lives, and in doing so, improved hers. It was really when she lost her job, her grounding, that she began to get lost in the maze of her own dangerous thoughts and fell down the rabbithole. She has done her duty to herself and her penance, and now she believes she can return home, rejuvenated and happier than ever before, secure in herself and what she stands for and believes in and wants. She is not a bad person, never has been, and she was fixing and can fully put herself back together, with the people around her who love and cherish her.

This flurry of excitement overtakes her and she scampers through the small apartment to find the computer to book a plane ticket home. She hurriedly goes through the process, having to restart her search multiple times in her gleeful haste. She finally is able to purchase passage for tomorrow morning from the Aeroporto Internazionale di Napoli to D.C. She can scarcely contain her zeal and anticipation to see her true family again, Gibbs and Ducky and McGee and Abby and even Palmer and Vance. And Tony. She cannot even express with words in any language how sorry she is for all the pain she is sure she put him through. Because she was so wrapped up in her own self-deprecation and personal suffering that she was scarcely capable of thinking of anyone else. She knows, without a doubt, that she loves him and he her, more than she will truly ever deserve. And she cannot imagine how much it must have killed him to leave her behind on an Israeli tarmac once again. He could not live without her, and she made him try with no hope for her return, and she regrets that more than anything. And it does not matter if his anger towards her pervades and he will not speak to her. It will hurt, of course, but they have forever to work it out, and she will never leave him again. She cannot stop the smile that spreads across her face as she thinks of him and their reconciliation that will be so much more beautiful than their bittersweet parting.

She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and her eyebrows lower in surprise, as she quickly wracks her brain. Very few people know this number, and even fewer would wish to call her after all the bridges she has burned. It is a Washington exchange, she knows, from the digits that burst across the screen. With that, for all intents and purposes, the caller is likely her former boss, the man she grew to love as a surrogate father. The pain of Eli's passing still surges at the most unexpected of times as she feels a pang in her chest. While her biological father was not a good man, she does believe that he meant to be one, and while it did not matter so much in life, she tries to exculpate him more in death.

But she tries very much to avoid thinking about her nuclear family and how forcibly they were taken from her. If she has learned nothing else these past months in isolation, it is not to dwell on the pain of the past and instead set her sights on the future. And whatever the reason for it, this phone call represents the days ahead. Excited to reconnect with her family, she answers the phone happily, "Gibbs? Hello!"

She can tell immediately from the heavy breathing on the other side of the line, though, that something is wrong. She should have expected that; it is not as if she calls them every week. It has been months and months with no contact, at her request: a clean break. Something must be terribly wrong if Gibbs is resorting to calling this number she begged him to use only in an emergency. As always, she braces herself for the impact.

"It's Tony. He's been shot, and I think you should come to D.C.," Gibbs pronounces somberly. It is dichotomously wonderful to hear Gibbs's voice as her stomach lurches. Tony cannot be shot, he cannot be hurt. He has always been the strongest man she knows, and things like this do not happen to him.

That's because before, you had his back, a little voice inside her whispers. A wave of regret pools inside her and washes over her as she collapses to the ground, tears flowing freely. It would be their eternal bad timing that something devastating happens just as they are about to find each other again.

Gibbs's voice cuts in her ear, "Ziver? You there?" She sits up, wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks and twisting her hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She must pull herself together, the way her partner, in life and love, has done for her time after time after time.

"I am already booked on a flight to D.C., Gibbs. I will be there soon," she says, hating the quaver in her voice and hanging up the phone.

On autopilot, she packs her small bag, hails a taxi and makes her way to the airport. Hopefully, if she explains her situation, she can be put on the next available flight. It is a family emergency, truly. Worming her way to the front of the customer service line, she describes in swift detail her predicament. Thankfully, a sympathetic ticket agent secures the final standby seat on a flight that leaves in fifteen minutes. Hurriedly rushing to the gate, she shows her ticket and settles into her seat just as the pilot tells the passengers to prepare for takeoff. For one, this is not how she imagined her homecoming, fraught with anxiety and worry and Tony's life hanging in the balance. She cannot relax for the entire flight as she repeatedly mumbles prayers she had forgotten she knew. The words tumble out of her mouth with relative ease for the amount of time that has passed since she has uttered them. They are evocative of her childhood, those easier days. Now, it seems nothing can go her way.

He's in a bright white room, and he wonders if he's died and gone to heaven. He thrashes: no, it's too soon for him to die. He hasn't gotten to really live yet, because he hasn't gotten to love. And he refuses to give up fighting until then. And almost as if this new reality is in sync with his brain, his love appears in front of him, beaming and radiant. He hasn't set eyes on her in so many months that the only images preserved are those crystallizing in his memories and the pictures he has of her, corners yellowing. She is as beautiful as ever, with sun-kissed hair and tanned skin and white teeth that stand out starkly.

She can't be real, he tells himself. This isn't real. But he can't control the urge to reach out and touch her, just to prove it. He's shocked when he grabs a fistful of silky curls. He slides his hand over to cup her delicate cheek, running his thumb down her face. The tears that blossom in his eyes unexpectedly are mirrored in hers, creating that odd combination of smiling through the tears that was echoed on her face at their parting.

"Tony," she breathes out. And that's all she needs to say; he can't even put into words the way he missed the way her lips arch around his name.

"Tony," she repeats more forcefully. "Tony, you have to fight. If you want to see me again, you have to fight. I promise I'm coming for you, but you have to wake up. You can't give in."

And how much he wants to stay here with her forever, where they can be happy. But he sadly realizes that this is just a hallucination, wishful thinking. Yet it feels so unquestionably real that he continues to second guess himself. And it's not just her he could lose if he lets go, gives in to the darkness: he's got Abby and McGee and Gibbs and Ducky and Palmer and even Ellie. This is no time to be selfish, DiNozzo, he convinces himself. Because he has people he loves, people that are absolutely worth fighting for, a life that still needs to be lived to its fullest happiness.

The second the wheels hit the tarmac in Dulles, she jumps up out of her seat and sprints to the front of the plane. It is not excitement that propels her any longer, but fear. Fear that she will be too late, fear that she will lose the person that means more than anything to her. She has lost so much in her relatively short life; she cannot lose him too. She will not let that happen.

Toting only her small carry-on bag, she briskly moves through all the security protocols and with some difficulty, locates the entrance to the Metro. Spotting a kindly looking woman with a toddler gripping her hand, she asks her courteously what stop is closest to the hospital. From there, it does not matter. She will run to him if she must. Filled with a mixture of dread and excitement, she refuses to let her body slow down, to let the adrenaline wear off and the jet lag set in. She cannot stop staring at her watch, willing the train to come faster. She is perfectly aware that a watched kettle never boils, but that does not stop her from wishing it increased speed.

Finally, it sputters into the Metro stop, and she enters it gracefully, like the ballerina she wanted to be. By some stroke of luck, she is able to sit down. Not allowing her mind to slow, she focuses on the rapid English that envelops her. She is surrounded by idle chatter of teenage girls about their boyfriends, conversations between colleagues about work related matters, and a plethora of other discussions. The English language is a strange one, to be sure, with its contradictions and vast repertoire of idiomatic expressions, but there is something beautiful in its chaos. There always is beauty in chaos.

She is so entrenched in the daily lives of other people that she nearly misses the announcement of her stop. Stepping onto the platform, she takes a second to gather herself before she figures out which way is best to walk. She is overcome with surprise when she glimpses a familiar face, and even in the midst of tragedy, cannot hide her smile. Her family has always understood her better than she herself, and they must have anticipated she would arrive this way.

"McGee!" she nearly screams, and quite a few passengers give her quizzical glances. But she has missed everyone so much, and the man she regards as a brother is no exception. She sees the new crow's lines that have developed in the crinkles of his eyes, but aside from that, he is exactly as she remembers. She is paralyzed by fear for a minute when he does not stir- what if they do not welcome her back? Thankfully, he recognizes her and appears nearly as happy to see her as she him. He pulls her in for a tight hug that conveys all the relief and happiness to be finally reunited. But once the elation subsides, the question remains on her lips: how is Tony?

The tension is palpable as he chooses the best words. "He's…stable. The doctors removed the bullet from his stomach, but they've been having a problem preventing the stomach acid and bile from leeching into his bloodstream. Long story short, he still hasn't woken up," McGee breaks it to her gently.

"But he is going to be fine, yes?" She knows that of all people, fortunately, McGee is the least likely to lie to her.

"I don't know, Ziva," he says honestly, and she is grateful for that. She hates nothing more than deceit. "C'mon, I'll take you to him," he states simply. They walk in companionable, if nervous, silence, the few blocks to the hospital. He ushers her in as they take the elevator to the basement floor.

She is assaulted by the sterility of it, the harsh whiteness, and the smell of antiseptic. She has never liked hospitals; she prefers death to be quick and thus cannot handle the slow wasting away and decay. The large print of the ICU sign disconcerts her as well. She did not realize, or perhaps merely did not wish to think of, her Tony in such dire straits. But he will be fine, she assures herself. If nothing else, he is a fighter. He fights for her, and she hopes that he will fight as hard for himself.

Pacing a hole in the floor in the waiting room is Abby, platform heels clicking against the linoleum. Her pigtails are disheveled and falling out of their elastic holders, flyaways sticking to her face. "Abby!" she cannot hold back, even though she knows that this is not the time or place for such exuberance. But Abby has always brought out in her that childish enthusiasm that she was never truly able to experience.

The incredulity in Abby's eyes is not hard to identify. It appears that not everyone was informed of her return. Truly, she does not deserve a warm homecoming, as she left so abruptly and without any proper goodbyes. Abby reaches out and touches her tentatively, her hand moving through the air like it is jelly. It is almost as if she cannot believe she is actually there; but when she is not met with empty air, she hugs her so tightly she thinks she might suffocate.

Prying Abby off of her, she spies Gibbs in the corner, a small smile on his face. She does not expect more from him, and he merely greets her with a gruff "we missed you, Ziver," and a kiss on the forehead. Spotting a pretty blonde in the corner, she is disconcerted when she realizes that this must be her replacement. It is not as if Team Gibbs could operate a man down forever. She replaced Kate, and now she herself has been replaced. She expected it, to be sure, but it hurts just the same. The girl seems to recognize the awkwardness of the situation and simply extends a hand.

"Hi, I'm Ellie. I've heard so much about you," she says with a firm shake. And while she clearly means well, the situation is still uncomfortable at best. However, she swallows the jealousy before it can bubble up inside of her, for this is not her priority right now. Frightened of what she might see there, she is led in to his hospital room by Gibbs, who hovers at her side but says nothing.

It is chilling to see Tony hooked up to all those machines, his face pale and colorless. His hair is mussed and there is a shadow of a smile on his face. It could almost seem as if he is sleeping, but she has to remind herself that he is not. He is wounded, in more ways than one, and she only wishes she could heal him, take away his pain. Because that is what love is, is it not? Wishing your loved one's pain was yours, because their happiness is more important than yours. It is not a pretty statement, but one filled with undeniable truth.

Gibbs backs away subtly as she grabs Tony's hand. It is warm as always, and she marvels at the size of it compared to her petite one as she turns it over. "Oh, Tony," she whispers, her voice strained. The strongest man she has ever known finally broken. A tear scarcely finds its way down her cheek before she feels a jolt. Mossad instincts still honed, her eyes dart around the room, keeping her hand in his. She finally realizes that it is Tony who is jerking. At first she believes he is seizing and almost screams for a nurse. She has sewn up plenty of bullet wounds in her day, but this is beyond her expertise. However, she is calmed as she feels pressure on her hand and his eyes flutter open.

Disoriented, he looks slowly around the room before his eyes settle on her. "Z-z-ziva?" his voice is cracked and dry. Her eyes filled with tears; she has never been happier to hear his voice.

"Yes, Tony. I-I am so very sorry," she somehow manages to choke out.

"Did you only come back because I was hurt? Because I don't want you like that. I want you for real, not just because you felt sorry for me," he says with an edge.

While she had braced herself for the possibility of a less than sunny reunion, she had never truly considered it as the true outcome. She knows fully that every bit of his ire towards her is completely deserved, but this closed-off Tony is the one she missed. The last time this happened, when he became suspicious and angry and she lashed out, she ended up in a Somali terrorist camp. But they have come too far and struggled far too much for anything of that sort to happen again.

"No, never. I am…better. I have come to terms with myself. In fact, I was already en route when I received the call from Gibbs. I have always loved you, Tony, but now, I can love you properly," she responds defensively.

"I love you too. And I just want you to be happy, Ziva. More than anything. So if you won't be happy here, I can live without you. Or I can at least try, " he smiles feebly.

Ziva returns, "No, no. I do not need to be alone any longer. I want to be with you, with all of you."

The smile on his face is the one reserved just for her, the thing she missed most. "I-I saw you in my dream and you saved me. You made me come back here; you kept me alive," his voice gets stronger.

"I will always come back to you," she says sincerely, and she interlocks her hand with his. They fit together perfectly, two broken pieces finally put back together. Groaning quietly, he presses a soft kiss against her hand, staring deep into her eyes, broad smiles on their faces. Words have never been necessary for exchange between them; a mere glance can convey an entire history of love, heartbreak, and final happiness. It is as if the world is back on its axis. They are together again, the way it is intended to be.

Six months later, Tony has tears in his eyes as they are finally wed, she radiant in her lace dress, he distinguished in his tuxedo.

McGee and Delilah get their act together soon after- there's this ability to overcome obstacle inborn in this team. Three months later, their family grows with the addition of adorable two year old Anya that they adopted from Belarus.

Nine months after Tony and Ziva's wedding, Laila Grace DiNozzo enters the world, screaming and red-faced. Swaddled in a crocheted white blanket, he thinks nothing's ever been so beautiful.

She utters her first word seven months later, black lashes framing her hazel-green eyes, rosebud lips parting as she speaks. "Ma-ma," she cries, and Ziva never thought she could deserve this, and now she has it.

They don black clothes and somber expressions for Ducky's funeral when a stroke takes him a year later. The grief of his passing strikes them at unexpected times- often, they tell his stories to their children, and he stays alive in their hearts that way.

Laila's toddling around the house, sticky-fisted with lunch's jelly smeared across her mouth, when Giovanni decides it's his time to shine.

Giovanni, with his o-shaped mouth and black tufted hair, sits in Ziva's arms, Laila propped on his hip, perplexed by this new little being with his ten flawless fingers and toes. A boy and a girl, just like they always dreamed.

It's never truly easy- they fight over inconsequential little things, like his own team and balancing the checkbook and how soon she can go back to work. But they always fall back in synchrony, like they always have. And sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night after a particularly vivid nightmare, dripping with sweat and shaking. But he's there on the other side of the bed, ready with a comforting kiss or word. It's okay now, because she's not alone, not anymore.

A real blow comes when Gibbs suddenly suffers a massive heart attack. He clings on for a few weeks, long enough to get his affairs in order and say proper goodbyes, something that's been missing for them so many times. They both've lost a father figure and walk around for weeks in a daze, just going through the motions. Selling his home seems like a travesty. Instead, they move in, and they feel his presence every inch of the place. Tony builds a tribute to him with his own tools, and Laila and Giovanni often frequent the basement as they grow older.

The years pass in some imperfect rhythm of struggle and calm, but it's still the life they always dreamed of. In an instant, Laila goes from the first day of kindergarten to her first prom, swathed in a peach gown that accentuates her mother's olive skin. She attends MIT like her Uncle Tim and becomes a computer programmer; life comes full circle for them when she settles down and starts her own family, her three rambunctious boys.

Giovanni transforms from a holy terror with Tony's impish nature to a polite young man that holds open doors and begs them to apply to private school. Contrary to their daughter who enjoys numbers and logic, he writes poetry and eventually becomes a successful novelist; his wife is a doctor.

One Christmas day, many years later, when the ravages of age have taken their toll, Tony and Ziva look back on everything they've created and are truly satisfied. Their three grandchildren rip open their presents gleefully as Laila, Giovanni, and their spouses look on with pride. They pull their grandchildren close to their hearts and each other even tighter. Content and happy, they realize they have everything they could have ever wanted.

The next morning, Laila and Giovanni find them entangled in each other's embrace, cold as ice, but with smiles on their faces as they depart this world the way they've done everything since that day: together.