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Something Permanent

There are various eyes. Even the Sphinx has eyes: and as a result there are various truths, and as a result there is no truth.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

"I want s'thing permanent," Ziva slurred her confession into Tony's hair.

Their bodies were curled into each other, naked, in his bed. They hadn't done anything. Neither of them was in the mood.

They'd finally weathered a violent, emotional monsoon of a murder case that had ended in a volley of bullets that claimed the lives of two agents from another team. After around of drinks with McGee, Tony hailed them both a cab to his apartment where they stumbled through the door and urgently tumbled into the cocoon of Egyptian cotton sheets. They'd scraped away their armor and nestled into each other's arms, desperate for the warmth of someone they each believed understood the war waging inside of them.

Eventually, he rolled over and looked at her. "Are you sure you wanna have this conversation now?"

She leaned in. "Now's good," she mumbled against his lips.

Tony pulled back, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Get some sleep."

He turned away, but she grabbed his chin and forced his eyes to hers. "I want something permanent," she repeated, almost forcefully. "Is that too much to ask?"

He winced at the raw honesty simmering in her eyes and it terrified him. The truth was something that started off as comfort—just comfort, he told himself—after a similar case was growing into more, rapidly maturing after each clandestine trip to the movies or random restaurant rendezvous. He'd desperately tried to avoid it, but something inside of him was weakening. He found foreign words on the tip of his tongue when he was close to her. The words threatened to spill out and he often ended up biting his bottom lip to keep the floodgates closed.

He wriggled out of her grasp and rolled away, focusing on the ceiling. "Where's this coming from?"

"Rachel Cranston."

Tony groaned and rubbed the burgeoning headache rapping at his temples. Ah, good 'ol Dr. Kate's Sister. Way to stir the emotional cesspit, Doc.

Kate came to mind, then.

It had been seven years since Ari Haswari fired off the shot that had stolen Agent Caitlin Todd from the team and her loved ones. Tony visited her grave every anniversary, sometimes accompanied by McGee and Ducky. Gibbs kept his distance for the most part and Abby ironically refused to darken the cemetery. She argued Kate would want her to celebrate, not stand in front of a tombstone and bawl her eyes out. Gibbs, on the other hand offered, no explanation for his sparse visits.

Not that he had to.

They all knew how he felt.

Tony continued to stare up into the darkness while Ziva watched him, their conversation having evaporated into a dense silence.

"You did not answer my question."

He sighed. "No, it's not too much to ask."

"Too much to give, then?"

He glared daggers at the ceiling rather than at her. "I'm not having this conversation with you when you're drunk."

"I am not drunk!"

"You're not sober."

"How can you tell?"

"Your mask's off."

"I thought we agreed to stop pretending."

"Pretending, yes. Deluding ourselves? No."

She jerked herself up against his headboard. "So I am delusional because I want something permanent?"

Tony cringed. He'd hurt her. "That's not what I meant," he scooted up next to her. "It's just…rule twelve, remember?"

"I think we have sufficiently broken that rule, yes?"

"If Gibbs finds out…it'll kill the team."

"So the team is more important?"

"Yes. No! Isn't it? God," he ran his fingers through his hair. "You're one hell of a buzz kill."

"Sorry," she shook her head. "I get emotionally philosophical after five beers."

"You had six."

"Exactly."

He groaned.

"You do realize we have to have this talk at some point?"

He groaned again.

"After everything you've been through these last few years, commitment still frightens you? I would think you would dive head first into something lasting, something that can't be pulled out from under you."

Her earnest gaze annihilated his defenses. "What if I don't wanna be pulled out from under someone else?"

James Brown shattered their moment. Ziva scowled as Tony fumbled for his ringing cell phone on the nightstand. She arched her brow.

Paid the cost to be the boss. Look at me. Know what you see? You see a bad mother…

"James Brown?"

"Black Caesar, one of my favorites," he shrugged and hit 'talk'. "Yeah, Boss? Fornell wants us to do what? After tonight? Ending the interrogation, Boss. On my way."

Seconds later, Ziva received the same call. "Fornell's tracking Bassam? Ari's Bassam. Yes…Yes…I will be right there," she hung up and stared numbly ahead.

Tony stooped to pick up his pants, but stopped when he noticed her. "You okay?"

She slumped forward and sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling pain coil around her heart and squeeze. "Fine."

"Now who's pretending," he headed over to her side of the bed and eased down next to her, careful to wait until she solicited his touch. "Is it about Bassam?"

"You know him?"

"Yeah, I 'know' him. Bassam and his merry band of terrorists stuffed Kate in a Mini-Cooper—which was torture enough! —and helped Ari imprison her on a farm in Who Knows Where, Virginia for a few hours. The asshole smacked her around a bit too."

"Sounds like him."

"Gonna make me beg, huh?"

"He murdered Tali. Bassam and his 'merry band of terrorists' were responsible for the suicide bombing."

"I'm sorry."

She silently leaned against him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking down into her lightless eyes. "Why's he still alive, if you and Ari knew..?"

"Because my father," she shrugged away his touch and stood up. "Thought it would not be…strategic…to kill him."

"Luckily you don't work for your father anymore."

With that, both agents quietly and efficiently sprang into action. Clothes flew onto backs and cell phones into pockets and after a quick jolt of coffee, they scattered separately into the night and into their next complicated case.

Two hundred fifty miles away, a young housewife gently navigated her SUV up the narrow driveway of the Carrington's farm, careful not to further upset the embarrassed boy in the backseat. She rolled the Volvo to a stop and turned around. Asa Carrington stared out of the window, watching the wind buffet the red maple trees on the edge of the property.

"Ace? Come on honey, let's get you inside so you can go back to bed."

Wordlessly, he climbed out of the car, grabbed his backpack, and ambled toward the house.

"It's okay, sweetie," the young woman squeezed his hand. "You're not the first person to have a nightmare and wet the bed."

He kicked an invisible pile of dirt. Bet I'm the first to do it at your house, he grumbled inwardly.

"Thanks for bringing him home," Samira Carrington stepped onto the porch seconds after the boy had knocked. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

"No problem, Sam," the woman waved off the other's apology and ruffled Asa's wayward curls. "Accidents happen."

"Mm-hmm," she reached forward and yanked the boy to her side. "Thank you again for bringing him. I really appreciate it."

Mrs. Joey's Mom turned to leave, though not before coaxing a promise out of Asa to "have the good sense not to feel bad". Though he'd nodded, he found himself wishing she had "sense" too. If she did, she probably would have "sensed" she was leaving a defenseless child with the reincarnation of Joan Crawford.

"I'm sorry Mommy…"

Samira was "sensible" enough to wait until the SUV had receded into the night before her hand, reacting to that wretched term, hurled out. Asa's bottom lip split, the red blood swirling around his full mouth and mixing with the orange remnants of the icing from Joey's cake. His eyes welled with tears, but he remained silent. He knew better.

"Samira!"

Just as she was about to strike again, Asa was suddenly tucked against his aunt's body, his face pressed into her side. "Hel jennet? Are you crazy?" Aunt Nada hissed.

"That woman could've seen Bassam!" she shouted in her British public school accent.

"I've told you about striking him," Nada ignored her excuse and stroked the boy's hair. "Eda kan 'ela qeyd alheyah ya akhey…"

Samira rolled her eyes and scoffed it. "Sod off! 'If your brother were alive' I wouldn't be in this mess."

"Are you all right, Habibi?"

He nodded jerkily as she wiped his lip with her yellow blouse. "Yes, ma'am."

"You coddle the boy, Nada," Bassam sneered, abandoning his hiding place in the dark kitchen. "He'll grow up to be weak, just like this father."

"My brother was not weak!"

"Your brother was a spineless, incompetent fool who got himself killed over a senseless grudge and an American whore."

Nada snuck a glance at the boy. "Not in front of the child."

"What is it that you are staring at?" He snatched Asa away from Nada and hurled him up by his pajama shirt. When Asa's eyes widened and his lips clinched up, Bassam shook him. "Well?

The hazel eyes flashed before Asa wisely put them out and looked away. "Nothin', sir."

"Have you forgotten the rules?"

He shook his head. "No whining, no crying, no backtalk, no eye contact, no bringing trouble to the door," he recited monotonously. "No…"

"That's enough!" Bassam shook him again and bore into his eyes. "Just like his mother's," he jeered, smirking around the boy's head at Samira before setting her son on his feet.

She looked sick for a moment before her eyes clouded and froze into their usual frigid blue. "Bed. Now."

"I'll tuck you in," Nada took his hand and guided him to the stairs.

"Heda jenwen! This is nonsense. What part of 'time is of the essence' do you not understand?"

She eyed him woefully. "I just want to say goodbye to him."

"Fine," he snapped, though his face softened a bit. He looked down at his watch. "Two minutes."

"Thank you."

"Do you really have to leave?"

"Yes," she tugged his comforter up so it sat right below his nose. "You will be fine."

"How long will ya be gone?"

She looked away. "I can't say."

Asa groaned and turned his face toward the wall.

"Don't be like this, Habibi," she squeezed his leg through the quilt. "I eventually come back."

" 'Eventually' is grown up for 'a really long time'," he mumbled into his pillow.

"I'm sorry Asa, but look," she reached into the pocket of her jeans. "I have two gifts for you."

He slowly propped his elbow on his pillow and rested his cheek on his palm to get a closer look.

"First, this," she held out his favorite chocolate bar. "So you don't have to sneak into the kitchen while she's asleep."

"Thanks," he took it and dropped it in the crevice between his bed and the wall. "What else?"

"This," she reached into her other pocket and unearthed a black velvet pouch. "This is something very important to me, something very special and irreplaceable."

"No, I'll just mess it—"

"—Shh," she pressed a finger to his lips before standing up and lightly closing the door. Satisfied they were alone, she pulled out the thin gold chain. "This was given to me by someone very special, someone who I loved very much. It is supposed to bring blessings and protection to whoever wears it. I want you to have it."

Asa's eyes bulged at the subtle Star of David dangling at the end. "Aunt Nada—"

"I know you can't wear it, but keep it with you. It will keep you safe when I can't."

"But what if Mom—I mean, Samira—finds it?"

"Make sure she doesn't."

He was already cradling it to his chest. "Won't you need it?"

"Not where I am going."

"Time is up," Bassam called at the end of the stairs.

"I love you," she leaned over and planted a kiss on his head before standing up. "Be good."

"How are you getting out? Are you gonna hide in the forest?"

"Bassam has a car by the creek."

He nodded and tucked the necklace under his pillow. "I'll miss you."

She nodded and opened the door. "Leylh s'eyedh ahelam as'ed. Goodnight and sweet dreams."

And then she was gone.

Gibbs watched them out of the corner of his eye.

He knew Tony like the back of his hand. A father and son sort of link, connected by badges instead of blood. Same with Ziva. Though the foundation of their bond had been forged by blood.

Her brother's.

The members of his team rarely drew a breath he didn't know about. Their lives depended on it. So when he observed the furtive glances and loaded conversations shared between them, Gibbs wondered if they thought he was blind.

Or senile. Yes, probably senile. He had to be a doddering old fool not to notice the symptoms of "To Close to Breaching Rule Twelve-itis" festering in their interactions.

"All right," Fornell's voice shook Gibbs out of his reverie. "Time to move in. Remember, I want Bassam alive," he looked pointedly at Ziva. "I want this as neat as possible."

Carrington Farm was located at the end of a windy road in New Castle, Virginia, two hundred fifty miles outside of Washington DC and at the foot of Jefferson National Forrest. Most of it was arable land, save for the goat pens and a few storage sheds. Its inhabitants, Samira Carrington and her son Asa, lived in a blue ranch house with a lush lawn in the front and a verandah for lounging in the back.

A renowned reproductive endocrinologist and fertility expert, Samira Carrington dropped off the face of the Earth after her successful practice was blown up. Her father reported his pregnant daughter missing, only to have Sam contact him to tell him she didn't want to be found.

She bought the farm for its solitude and so that her son could grow up with ample space to explore. She raised goats and various crops, making a living by selling goat milk, cheese, and the different foods she cultivated at the local farmers' market. Though Asa was home schooled, he participated in various extracurricular activities around the county.

None of the above was a crime, of course. Fornell didn't work for the Department of Agriculture nor did he care about the migration patterns of terrified fertility specialists. He was, however, interested in the pounds of explosives he suspected were hidden in one of the storage sheds. That, and he and his team managed to track Bassam, a Hamas with a horrifying knack for blowing up things, to Samira's land.

They would get him this time and hopefully, through a special brand of questioning, extract Bassam's nefarious plans for the bombs.

"The kid?" DiNozzo's voice crackled over the bug in Gibbs' ear.

"He's at a sleep over," Fornell responded. "Okay, Team Gibbs take it from the west. We'll move in from the North."

Unfortunately, the raid was fruitless. Bassam and Nada had escaped with the bombs. They'd found Samira sprawled out in the living room, having decided to put a bullet in her head rather than be hauled in for questioning.

"Sorry Ziva," Fornell regarded her sympathetically. "I know you were hoping for some quality time with Bassam."

She shrugged. "I will canvas upstairs."

DiNozzo glanced at Gibbs, who nodded gruffly, before jogging up the stairs behind her.

"You did not have to follow me," she pushed open Samira's bedroom door. "I'm fine."

"I know. I just wanted to go through her underwear drawer."

She scowled. "Nice, DiNozzo."

Their silent search of Samira's bedroom was as unsuccessful as the raid. Ziva moved to return downstairs, but Tony nodded at the boy's door. He smiled at the 8x10 sheet of paper announcing it as "Asa's Room" in red, childish scribble.

"Maybe they hid some of their terrorist treasure in there."

Ziva shrugged. It wasn't unheard of. Turning a knob, she exposed a room that held a basic twin bed and a six-drawer chest. The space was small and dark even with the overhead light on. Soccer and basketball posters lined the bland white walls. There was a desk with an old computer atop of it pushed against the wall and a short bookshelf packed with worn books.

"I'll check the closet," Tony delegated. "You check the drawers."

He slid open the white doors and peeked in, only to have his heart constrict at the sight that greeted him.

The boy, who he assumed was Asa, had curled himself into a tight ball, his forehead touching his knees and an arm covering his face. He made no sound, just rocked himself like a colicky baby. A thin gold necklace was snaked around his knuckles.

"Asa?"

The little head shot up and Tony almost crashed under the weight of the wide, unseeing eyes.

The boy's gaze was empty as a picked pocket, but those eyes…

Tony scrubbed his face and when he removed his hands, he was still confronted with the profane sight of Caitlin Todd's eyes nestled in Ari Haswari's face.

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