Author's Note: In light of the unfortunate events regarding Cote de Pablo's decision to leave NCIS, I have composed this fanfiction as my version of a possible way to close out her story. Ziva has always been my favorite, so writing this was very important to me. Please leave a comment to tell me if you want me to add a few chapters more concerning the team's reactions and how NCIS will function after her departure. I do apologize if the last bit is a tad OOC.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters

Warning: This may make you emotional. I must admit I got a bit teary-eyed writing this.

SHALOM

…

SEPTEMBER 24, 2013

2300 HOURS

WASHINGTON HEBREW SYNAGOGUE, WASHINGTON D.C

The harsh wind rushed the open corridor, seeping through the miniscule cracks in the archaic stonework with a hushed cry of foreboding. Ziva David pressed her spine to a shivering column of marble, drenched in a frigid adrenaline rush, trembling in the night's shadow. Carefully, she ran a slender finger over the buckle which secured the standard Sig- Sauer to her right hip. The dark green cargo trousers and leather jacket that Ziva had donned at a much earlier time did little to shield her from the merciless element of miss-used, hyperboreal air conditioning. Warily, Ziva brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her olive toned features, and drew her firearm, pointing the barrel around the column before proceeding from the depths of the makeshift barrier.

Ziva knew she should not have come. Yet, deep within her consciousness, there was a blazing inferno counteracting each regret and second-guess that past her cerebral capacity. However, despite the confliction, the facts remained resolute. Ziva knew the target. She knew the meeting point. She knew the velocity needed to land the shot.

Crossing her steps to minimize the general din, Ziva strode briskly across the tiled expanse, ducking through a large wooden gate. The comforting chill of the brisk, fall evening slammed her body, offering a strange sense of general ease. Zia was standing in a dimly lit courtyard, a pair of slightly dilapidated buildings perched around the synagogue she had recently exited. An obsidian, federal vehicle took a large amount of space inside the area, blocking out a good deal of a light issuing from a pitifully spluttering lamppost.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Ziva slid beneath the slight shelter that the Synagogue produced, bracing her weight on her heels. Despite the solid data and the moral decision that Ziva had made in the now seemingly distant past, she couldn't help but feel as though this incident could, and would have a particularly nasty outcome. Yet, Ziva had survived, and carried out far too many firefights and assassinations to let a pestering nerve control her resolution. Through the bickering mindsets, Ziva fought to find the key to her solace. She could NOT let him take the shot. They, as a team, had resigned, risked their lives, and broken forcefully planted boundaries to keep him from the Jury and incarceration. Vance knew nothing of the scheme. Ducky and Palmer had turned a blind eye. Abby (and Burt the Hippo) had argued. McGee had protested. Tony had asked her a solitary question, to which she had responded with a firm affirmation.

Twenty minutes passed before the click of a car's locking mechanism resounded. The target approached, flanked by several men in pressed black suits. The target spoke into an earpiece as Ziva readied the weapon. She would have to do it now, before he did. The target, a partially bald man, began to turn towards the building to the immediate right of the one he had presumably exited.

Ziva fired.

It was a clean shot. The bullet pierced the side of the skull, slightly above the ear, lodging snugly in the cranium. The man dropped, his eyes horrorstruck, expression slack.

Agent Fornell was dead.

Recognition passed over the eyes of the attending officers as they drew their weapons, pointing in the totally incorrect direction. Ziva had chosen a spot where the gunshot would have created such an echo that without proper inspection, the location of the assailant would be virtually undeterminable.

With the precious moments slipping as though caught in a rapid stream, Ziva's dark irises scanned the building where he would have been positioned. A gentle flash met the scouring brown orbs.

Gibbs.

Ziva's heart caught in a cold fist. She would never see him again. Never have the chance to bid him farewell, nor to embrace him for a final time. She would never lay eyes upon any of them again, if things were to go as planned. Moisture caught in her throat, and the tears began to swirl. She must move, that was certain. The agents were beginning to come round, sending parties of two or three down side streets while one guarded the body. With a harsh cough to clear her senses, Ziva began to run steadily, lurching forwards.

The soles of her dark combat boots pounded against the cement as her figure sped towards the "borrowed" vehicle. She had left the doors unlocked and the ignition on idle for she had planned on a rapid departure. With a final glance at the turmoil ridden scene, Ziva pressed the gas as hard as she could, and the Charger shot into the bitter darkness, the wails of emergency response teams reaching her pulsating eardrums.

…

SEPTEMBER 26th, 2013

1000 HOURS

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

The room was dingy and contained a rather disgusting odor, yet the accommodations would have to make do. Her bank accounts had been emptied and cancelled; apartment sold, Camaro left in an abandoned warehouse. She had stuffed minimal belongings into a large satchel, for she planned on purchasing the other necessities at her destination.

As her weight sank into the squealing mattress, Ziva began to rummage through the day pack, withdrawing a pair of undergarments, an extra blouse, personal documents, a toothbrush, her firearm servicing kit, an extra pocketknife, several magazines of ammunition, and a burn phone. In the false bottom, Ziva took out several extremely large packs of American currency, which she immediately replaced as soon as the dollars had been accounted for. From her small purse, Ziva removed a falsified passport, a drivers license bearing her new identity, and several credit cards with similar information. All of the documents now had her listed as Talia Eshkol, a thirty-two year old woman who held residence in New York City. Slowly, she placed the items back into the handbag after a careful screening.

As Ziva stowed the scarce clothing items in a condemned-looking dresser, her fingers felt a folded slip of paper hidden beneath the folds of her spare shirt. The parchment was rumpled, but the familiar scrawl caught her wary eyes as she made to unfold it. Steadily, she lowered her form back onto the cot, and began to read the hastily composed letter.

Ziva,

If your reading this, then I assume you're at a safe distance and in an extremely well-hidden location. There is far too much to state, in comparison to the length of time and the amount of paper that I currently have. However, I'll give it my best shot. One of the few seemingly wise things my father ever stated in his entire existence, concerned the price of sacrifice. When I was young, at my mother's funeral, my father told me as follows, "Junior, sometimes in life, you don't realize how important a person is, until they are taken from you, without the possibility of return."

At the time, of course, I didn't exactly understand the meaning. But, for some reason, it's stuck with me for more years than I wish to count.

A small smile etched its way across Ziva's lips, playfully.

Honestly, I never truly understood until three years ago. When we heard the news that you had died on that ship, it was as though the world stopped spinning, for just a moment. Then, the pain began. It was like a festering wound, nipping and biting, day by day, demanding to be noticed. And noticed, it was. We came to Somalia to get revenge, to kill Saleem. Yet, we found you instead. It was as though the wound had healed, suddenly. The only thing that mattered was getting you out, alive.

Ziva's mouth suddenly went rather dry.

We came home. You became an agent. Things fell back into place, at least for a while. But, that's beside the point. My point, my father's point to be exact, was that the people we care about in life are far too easily taken, for us to take for granted that they will always be here with us.

In retrospect, I should have told you then, after Somalia. I should have told you how much I cared. But, the past is in the wind, and there really is nothing that we can do to change it, other than attempting to make amends and heal any and all the wounds and inconsistencies we have caused. That is precisely why I am writing this, Miss Ziva David, to say what should have been stated all those years ago.

She noticed that the lack of moisture from her throat had suddenly transferred to her eyes. Her heart began to pound, and her stomach gave a slight turn. She knew what was coming.

I am in love with you, Ziva David. I have been for quite some time.

The sheet of paper trembled slightly in her quaking palm. Oh god Tony.

If I could have one wish, any wish, it would be to reverse the clock. I would go back, to the moment in the squad room, when I asked you that question. I should have told you then. Now, it's doubtful I'll see you again.

The space left on the paper was becoming increasingly small. Tony's handwriting grew more cramped as the available page decreased.

As you can see, Zi, I am nearly out of room. So, it would seem as though I should begin the conclusion, although I feel as though I've truly offered no more than a shitty reference and a poor excuse for my actions.

However, in closing, dear Ziva, I would wish for you to know that I understand your decision. I respect your choice. The team will work through it, we always do.

But, God, I'll miss you. And, I need you to know that I will always love you, always.

Repressed tears welled in her dark orbs, threating to spill.

I guess this is farewell, Ziva.

Shalom,

Tony

PS. Always

Ziva couldn't hold them back any longer. The tears fell, splattering the paper, the affected ink running slightly. He loves me. God, he loves me. It was as though years of pent emotion welled into a solitary explosion. The tears continued to fall, trailing across her warm cheeks, glittering across her neck.

When the sobbing had ceased, and her mind had become functional yet again, Ziva's heaving breaths subsided, and she pulled her slightly shivering form from the mattress. It was as though the inspiration hit her like a bullet, rambling into her thought process, and prompting her down the stairs, and towards the nearest post office. There, she purchased an envelope, a pad of lined paper, and promptly sat at one of the stools. Using a provided pen, she composed the brief message, slid a golden object into the envelope, and sealed the package. Ziva jotted down a return address, Tony's home, and addressed the contents to Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS.

She knew he would receive it, deep within her heart. And, as she strode back across the bustling streets, a brilliant smile slid across her features as a solitary word came to mind.

Always.

…

SEPTEMBER 28th, 2013

0700 HOURS

NAVY YARD: NCIS HEADQUARTERS

The last thing that Tony DiNozzo was expecting was a slender envelope, perched on the flat surface of his desk. It had been a difficult few days, for all of them, Tony and Gibbs in particular. They both felt responsible in some way for Ziva's choice, her decision to take the blame and eliminate the perpetrator. Tony hadn't seen the boss-man since he had returned; his makeshift partner dead, and his best female agent, and daughter figure, gone. Abby, had retreated to her lab, and McGee spent and equal amount of time between the lab and autopsy, attempting to console the others rather than deal with his own feelings.

Tony had thought, back in August, when Vance had reinstated the three agents that things would go back to normal. But, they didn't. Vance was constantly sending Gibbs on secretive operations, and Ziva grew more distant by the hour. So, after her plan had been announced, he had slipped the letter into the satchel the evening before she left, hoping that it would remain undiscovered until the time was right. Now, Ziva was gone, and the chair lay empty, and in a way he still felt it was his own fault.

So, as Tony DiNozzo made his way to the silent bullpen, all four chairs unoccupied, he was rather startled to discover the white package. Strangely enough, his address was scrawled as the return listing. Yet, it wasn't the listing that stunned him the most. It was the flowing handwriting. Ziva's handwriting.

He had yanked the envelope open so rapidly that the contents very nearly spilled. Inside, a slender strip of lined parchment was curled in a loose ball around a golden chain. Curiosity growing by the second, Tony unraveled the paper, and a familiar necklace fell into his palm. It was Ziva's Star of David, perfectly intact. Gently placing the jewelry piece upon his desk, he gazed down at the parchment. On the white surface, a single word had been composed:

Always.

…

Alright! That's a wrap. Did you like it? Would you like to see more chapters? Leave a comment or a PM to let me know!

Thanks,

M.