I own none of the following: NCIS, the characters thereof, the ideas contained therein, the medical concepts, procedures, or techniques which may be performed in this story, or anyone relating to such concepts, procedures, or techniques.
Enough legalese already?
Okay, I'm going to take a leaf out of ForeignMusicLyrics' book and apologize for starting another story when I've got two already actively in the works. Yes, there will be updates soon. No, I don't have a timetable. No, I haven't forgotten you.
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"Hello, beautiful."
Ziva didn't even bother reacting to the ubiquitous narcissistic, ugly, smelly, drunk something who thought she couldn't resist him. Another sip from her drink served to wash away the unpleasant olfactory conglomeration of body odor, decomposing trash, and miscellaneous alcohol. Somewhere, a distant, faded memory made itself known, exuding the knowledge that one's sense of smell switched off after prolonged exposure to the same scent. Well. She wasn't planning on spending that long around this guy, anyway.
"You know, beautiful, if you keep ignoring all the great guys like me, you're just going to end up alone, in a house full of junk and cats, and nobody's going to care-"
Not in the mood to bother arguing, Ziva dumped what was left of her drink in his lap, put the glass on the bar, and walked out without another word, swearing and laughter erupting behind her.
"You bitch! I'll get you for this!"
"Amazingly eloquent, there."
"Nice job, girlie. I've been wanting to do that for a long time."
A still-mostly-sober girl by the door gave her a thumbs-up and smiled. Back at the bar, smashing glass alerted Ziva to the growing ruckus. Yep, time to go.
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Ziva had consumed enough alcohol that, by the time she walked into her apartment, she'd gone from "this is fun", through "gotta stop", and straight into "meh". She kicked off her shoes and flopped on her couch, too tired to even walk to her room twenty feet away.
As she lay in the dark, waiting for sleep, a terrible sense of loneliness fell over her like night. It didn't make any sense. She'd just left a crowded pub, with a ton of fans by the time she'd left, and only that afternoon, she'd spent the entire lunch hour with her team, eating, laughing, shoving each other's faces into the food-
Don't fool yourself. You are alone. Yes, they're your new family, yes, they're wonderful, but you know darn well they'll never replace what you've lost forever.
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Now of all days, Ziva would arrive at work early. The building was almost completely deserted. She sat at her desk for what seemed like an eternity before mustering the willpower to even turn on her computer.
A few e-mails popped up. Spam, spam, reminder that she hadn't used her Netflix account in-
who cares.
Then the only truly relevant message caught her attention, partly because it was in French, partly because of its subject line ("État de votre compte"), but mostly because in the "message from" box it listed Hopital Diaconesses. The name took a few seconds to register.
"Hello, Ziva." She glanced up, startled.
"What? Oh, hi Gibbs." He walked over to his desk, concerned. Something is definitely on her mind.
Ziva turned back to the e-mail and mentally switched languages. Basically, it said that unless she informed them otherwise, they would bill her for another year's-
"Ziva?" She jumped. It was Gibbs again. "Something up? You look pretty serious."
She shook her head. "No. Just another bill." Liar. You know it's not "just another" anything. It's your family. Even if they are that young and fragile.
She closed her eyes, flashing back more than fifteen years, watching tiny clusters float in the dishes that were their life support. That warm, protective feeling. Sharing it with her siblings…
She quickly closed her e-mail down before she started crying. I'll think about this later. I'm at work now. I have to work.
But she couldn't shake the thought that between her melancholy the previous night and the e-mail this morning, it was as if Someone was trying to tell her something.
Perhaps, to tell her that it was finally time.