(Fanfictions are just me goofing off, although this one has a more serious slant. It takes place the summer of O8 after Vance does his little team split. Don't worry—they will be reunited…
I do not edit fanfictions, they are just a way for me to focus on someone else's characters for a change, so unless something is so glaringly wrong—I don't know much about modern Jewish culture—please ignore it. Thank you and happy reading)
It felt—odd—to be back on the streets of Tel Aviv, Ziva thought as the sights and sounds of what was once her home rushed to her. She felt like she no longer belonged. She didn't. This was not her home now; her home was back with Gibbs, Tony, McGee and the rest.
But they were not there anymore. Vance had seen to that. She would just have to accept that. She could. She knew she could. So why hadn't she? She'd been back in Israel for two weeks, and it just didn't feel right. But orders—they were orders and she must follow them. Hadn't she dedicated her life to Moussad? Wasn't she obligated to do what they told her, no matter what?
But she missed them so much it hurt.
That's why she found herself walking down this street so late at night. Sometimes, it just wasn't safe to be out in this city, but walking was the only way Ziva could think to clear her head. Ziva was not meant to be grieving and unemployed, and Moussad had yet to send her out on assignment. So she was stuck in her apartment with only one thing to do—wait. Ziva hated waiting.
So she walked, and she walked some more. She walked down an alley, always careful of what may be down it, knowing she presented a vulnerable sight. She was a woman and thin-built, and most men would be deceived into thinking she was an easy target. She almost wished someone would step forward to challenge her. The warm night air was tingling against her skin, raising her awareness, her adrenaline, making her ready for a fight.
She stopped abruptly, hearing the sound of metal hitting the gravel of the alley. Might be only a cat, Ziva thought, as she pulled her knife from her waist. Gibbs' rules floated quickly through her mind—never forget your knife, never assume, being the most relevant.
If it wasn't a cat?
Her hand rested on the hilt of the knife, perfectly balanced with her own special blends of Israeli sands. Her gun—the one not NCIS issue, and therefore hers to keep—was strapped to her ankle. Still, if she had need of a weapon a knife would be so much quieter.
She rounded the corner of the building, eyes missing nothing, even though the light in the alley was almost nil. She flattened herself against the old bricks of the building and scanned the area.
Even though she was no novice in the dangerous game she'd played since the age of seventeen, the loud crashing metal nearly made her jump out of her flesh.
She moved closer still, determined to find out what it was down this lonely and dangerous alley.
Most people did not wonder this area of the city alone, only those with nothing to lose like her even dared venture there in the daytime.
Her hand tightened on the hilt, she stepped around the only object large enough to provide any cover, ready at once to apprehend—or neutralize, if necessary—whomever, whatever, chose this particular space.
Her eyes had to drop three feet to see what it was. All she could see was eyes, dark, dull, eyes too old to be in the face that held them.
"Little one, why are you here?" she asked in her native tongue.
The child did not answer, but moved further behind the boxes he stood behind.
"Come, child. I will not hurt you." Ziva dropped to her knees before the child—boy, girl, she couldn't tell. The kid was filthy, even in the dim light wafting from the windows above she could see the dark streaks of grime coating the child's skin. He-she—wore little more than rags tied round its little body, and its hair hung long and clumped over the big dark eyes.
She looked around the alley again, knowing instinctively that they were alone. Why was a child so young, left so alone?
"You have no mamma or papa?" She asked again, re-sheathing her knife, then holding out a beckoning hand. "You have a hungry belly?"
The child acted confused, as if the words and the kindness behind them were as foreign to him/her as the feel of soap and water most likely was.
"Come with me, little one, and we will both find us some food, no?" Ziva knew she could grab the child, force it to do her will, but she didn't know if she could risk the terror. Only for its own good, she decided. No baby should be alone here, she told herself. Being alone was, as Tony would put it—sucked.
She waited for many long moments, hand outstretched, watching the little face for any sign of folding, and was just about to grab the child and carry it home with her when it held out a little hand and placed it trustingly in hers.