Cowgirls Don't Cry
Her daddy gave her her first pony
Then told her to ride
She climbed high in that saddle
Fell I don't know how many times
He taught her a lesson that she learned
Maybe a little too well
"That's it, Ziva," Eli David told his daughter proudly.
She turned to grin at him, then faced her target again, stance wide and chin set determinedly firm. Slowly, she raised her arm and fired off four shots in rapid succession, her little body jerking backwards slightly with each released bullet.
"How was that, Papa?" she asked breathlessly.
"We shall see." He signaled at one of his assistants to retrieve the target from where it had been propped against a brick wall nearly 20 feet away. Ziva waited anxiously, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. Even though her father hadn't said so yet, she knew she'd done well. Her aim, whether used for throwing stones of firing pistols, had always been better than most of the top agents her father employed and her scrawny, 7-year-old arm was strong enough to beat even Ari in an arm-wrestling contest.
Sure enough, the wooden target proved what Ziva had already known.
Nestled around the bright red bullseye at the center of the board was a slightly lopsided, but still nearly perfect, square of bullet holes.
"Congratulations, Zivaleh," her father praised her, holding the target at an arm's length and admiring his daughter's handiwork, "This is quite beautiful."
"Thank you, Papa!"
Eli graced his youngest child with a smile and a loose, one-armed hug before turning once more to his assistant.
"I wonder…" he mused, then fired off a set of instructions too fast for Ziva to catch.
"What is it, Papa?" she inquired, brushing a lock of curly hair out of her eyes, only to have it fall right back where it had been.
"I want you to try something for me, Zivaleh."
"Sure," Ziva agreed without hesitation.
In a few minutes, she was presented with a much larger gun she recognized as a shotgun. Moving it around experimentally, she was dismayed to discover that she could barely support it, even with every muscle in her both of her arms straining. The weapon was much heavier than the small handguns she was used to and, as she tried to bear the brunt of its weight against her shoulder, it forced her small back to arch unnaturally.
She was breathing heavily by the time she'd heaved it up high enough to be able to take aim.
"Are you ready, Ziva?" her father inquired, standing a few feet away from her, seemingly unperturbed by how she was struggling.
"Yes, Papa," she grunted, readjusting her grip and poising her finger above the trigger.
Eli nodded and his assistant moved away from the target he'd set up to replace the used one. Aiming carefully, Ziva pulled down forcefully on the trigger.
Cowgirls don't cry
Ride, baby, ride
Lessons in life are gonna show you in time
Soon enough you gonna know why
It's gonna hurt every now and then
If you fall get back on again
Cowgirls don't cry
BANG!
The impact of the bullet leaving its chamber collided against Ziva's shoulder and sent her sprawling backwards onto the ground. The gun smacked against the entire right side of her body angrily and, within seconds, blood from a gash in her arm had begun to pool under her. The little girl could feel tears prickling in her eyes from the sting of the wound and her own disappointment in failing.
"Get up, Ziva," Eli said, reaching out a hand to pull her up. He set her on her feet, then took the gun from her tiny hands.
"You're okay. It can wait until we get back to the house. I'll have your mother look at it," he told her, "And at least you hit the target."
Ziva nodded and rubbed at her eyes, stopping only after she felt the smear of blood against her eyelid. She numbly dragged her feet after her father as she followed him to the car that would take them back home.
"Ziva," he said as she climbed into the backseat, sore and uncoordinated.
"Yes, Papa?"
"Don't cry," he commanded before sitting down and pulling out his cell phone to check in with his agency.
She grew up, she got married
Never was quite right
She wanted a house, a home, and babies
He started comin' home late at night
She didn't let him see it break her heart
She didn't let him see her fall apart
A tall man with straight dark hair walked slowly up to a door, inserting a key and turning it in the lock softly, discreetly. Stepping inside, he'd barely let out a sigh of relief before he heard a voice.
"Good evening, Michael," Ziva greeted casually as she sat in the kitchen of the apartment they shared, stirring honey into a cup of tea in utter darkness.
"Ziva," the man in question said cautiously, no longer attempting to hide now that he'd been caught. He flipped on the light switch as he walked toward her and sat down at the table beside her.
"Where have you been?" she asked without preamble, taking a small sip of her tea.
"Finishing up some paperwork," he replied, never breaking eye contact, his voice a beacon of truth.
Ziva merely raised an eyebrow. "I'll be sure to discuss with my father why he has you at a desk until one in the morning finishing up paperwork that was due two weeks ago."
Michael had the good grace to concede. Looking down, he tapped out a rhythm on the tabletop before chuckling wryly.
"I can't slip anything by you, can I, Ziva?"
Wordlessly she held out a hand and he passed her his key.
"I'll be by tomorrow to pick up some stuff," he said wearily. Dragging himself to his feet, he left without turning back.
The lock on the door clicked behind him, jarringly loud and painfully final.
'Cause cowgirls don't cry
Ride, baby, ride
Lessons in life are gonna show you in time
Soon enough you gonna know why
It's gonna hurt every now and then
If you fall get back on again
Cowgirls don't cry
Three hours later, the blaring of her alarm clock pulled Ziva from her stupor. Disentangling her legs from the crossed position they'd been in, she pulled herself up from her chair and dumped the rest of her cold tea down the sink before heading to the bedroom. She pulled a dark brown tank top, shorts, and her favorite black tennis shoes from the closet and changed on autopilot. After a quick fight between her wild curls and her hairbrush, her hair was secured in a tight ponytail and she was ready for her morning run.
There was absolutely no evidence in the calm set of her body to indicate that anything had gone wrong, except her face, which looked as though it had been carved of stone. That was not out of the ordinary for her, however, as anyone who knew her well enough could attest to.
But, as she pulled open the door to her apartment building and stepped outside into the weak streams of sunlight filtering from the sky, something small glittered as it ran down her cheek.
Ziva brushed away that one lone tear before sprinting off.
Phone rang early one mornin'
Her momma's voice, she'd been cryin'
Said it's your daddy, you need to come home
This is it, I think he's dyin'
She laid the phone down by his head
Last words that he said
"Psst! Zee-vah," Tony whined, lobbing a paper ball at his partner's head. She caught it in her left hand, never looking up from the paper she was scribbling on with her right.
After a moment, she raised her head and smirked when she saw Tony's jaw almost touching the floor.
"Yes, Tony?" she inquired politely.
He snapped his mouth shut. "That was pretty cool," he sniffed, "But I got one better."
Ziva threw her head back and laughed. "I would like to see you try."
Just as the Italian was beginning to perform what he claimed to be the greatest juggling trick of the century, Gibbs came striding into the bullpen. Tony tried to slink back to his desk before his boss could reach him but, without missing a beat, the silver-haired man sidestepped and reached out, slapping his Senior Agent on the back of his head.
"Geez, Boss!" Tony yelped, rubbing his scalp, "That one was harder than normal!"
"And only you would know, Tony," McGee called from behind his computer.
"Shut up, Probie," Tony said, scrunching up his nose and pulling his face into a rather childlike pout.
McGee stuck his tongue out in response.
"Hey!" Gibbs yelled, startling them both into silence, "Why don't both of you shut up and stop actin' like you need a full-time babysitter!"
"Will do, Boss," Tony agreed, sitting down, "We got a case?"
"Nope, just paperwork DiNozzo."
Tony had barely had time to groan before Gibbs turned to Ziva. "Director wants to see you in his office," he told her, "Got a call from Tel-Aviv."
Ziva frowned. "Did he say who from?"
Gibbs just shrugged. "Dunno. Better get up there, though."
She pushed her chair back and headed quickly up the stairs to Director Vance's office without another word. She pulled open the door to see him seated with the phone from his desk at his ear.
"No need," he said to the person at the other end of the line when he saw her, "She's right here."
He motioned at Ziva, who'd been standing awkwardly at the center of the room, to take the phone.
"It's your mother," he mouthed, handing it to her with a sympathetic smile before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
With a bit of trepidation, Ziva lifted the phone to her ear. "Mama?"
"Shalom Zivaleh," her mother greeted, her voice suspiciously thick.
"Mama, what is it?" Ziva asked in Hebrew, alarm bells going off in her head. Her mother never cried.
"It's your father, Ziva," Adara David explained, "He's not getting any better. He wants to talk to you."
"Alright, Mama," Ziva said quietly. All too quickly, the voice of the Director of Mossad reached her ears, sounding raspier than she had ever remembered it to be.
"How are things in America, Zivaleh?"
"Fine, Papa." Ziva bit her lip before adding, "How are you?"
"I'm well," Eli responded quickly, as if he wanted to wave away any mention of his sickness, "Listen, Ziva, it's very important you remember all I have taught you."
"I remember."
"Good—"
Ziva waited patiently as a large bout of coughing struck her father.
"Always remember where you come from, Ziva," he cautioned, his voice beginning to fail, "It's not what I ever wanted for you, but it had to be done, and you are good at it. Mossad needs you. I hope you will one day sit in the very chair I had to vacate."
"We shall see, Papa," Ziva answered, not at all sure if returning to Mossad was what she wanted at all.
Her father laughed weakly. "Ah, Zivaleh. You always have a good answer for everything."
Ziva smiled softly. Then she swallowed hard before saying, "Shalom Papa."
"Shalom Ziva," her father responded quietly. Just as she was about set the phone down, he spoke again.
"Zivaleh?"
"Yes."
"Don't cry."
Cowgirl don't cry
Ride, baby, ride
Lessons in life show us all the time
Too soon God will let you know why
If you fall get right back on
The Good Lord calls everybody home
"Hey, Ziva, what was that all about?" Tony asked the second she stepped into the bullpen.
"Why do you need to know?"
"'Cause I'm your partner," he replied as he watched her sit down heavily. "Hey, are you okay?"
"I am fine, Tony," she told him, picking up her pencil. After a pause, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "My father just called."
Tony and McGee exchanged glances.
"Did he want you to go back to Mossad, or something?" McGee asked.
"No, it was a family matter."
This time both agents wisely remained silent, turning back to their reports diligently. As soon as their heads went down, Gibbs' came up.
He was the only one who noticed the glimmer in Ziva's eyes as she went back to work.
Cowgirl don't cry