Wouldn't it be nice if life really were like a novel? Ziva muses wryly on a quiet Saturday morning, fingering the hairs on Tony's forearm.
She is remembering something he said to her recently—half jokingly, as always— that her life was even crazier and more thrilling than one of those poorly edited paperback novels one buys for a cheap read on an international flight. He had said, after a flurry of immature sparring across the bullpen: Come on, even McGemcity over there would kill for a plotline as good as yours…
A book, she thinks, is something one might put down today and pick back up tomorrow. Life, however, is completely different. It is something one must face in the mirror with each sunrise. And there had been many times, not too long ago even, when Ziva had wished the sun would just stop rising. Those lucky enough to find their fears and thrills in novels have no idea, she thinks… No idea…
Besides that, Tony is wrong. Her life is not something one would want to delve into for the sake of enjoyment. To most, her life is unapproachable, too foreign and too awful to understand. People wouldn't want to read her story anyway.
But then again…
"Fascination with abomination…" she says despite herself, laughing softly. She can still today hear Eli mutter the phrase in her mind with perfect clarity, his voice a biting, harsh repetition of memory. It was a saying he would habitually spit out in disgust whilst shoving his way through a gathering crowd of onlookers whenever she would accompany him to a scene on the streets of Jerusalem, trailing behind his tall, determined shoulders. It was an involuntary human reaction, surely, because even Eli, who was about as inhuman as a person could get, had succumbed to it. For the day that Tali had died, when Eli pushed to the front of that crowd, it was as if his legs had become cemented and dried to stone as part of the sidewalk at the sight of the torn, bloodied remains of his youngest daughter.
Ziva bites her lip as the memory sweeps over her. Painted on her eyelids is the limp expression of utter shock on her father's face, the drooping and falling of the cigarette between his lips to the ground… In her ears resound her own shrill, desperate sobs of grief… She had clung to her sister's remains for hours after the crowd dissipated. Then as dusk crept over the city, her mother had finally come and fetched her. Once home, Rivka had thrust her screaming, bloodied daughter into the shower and slapped her across the face, before wrenching the ice-cold water on.
Why? Ziva grips Tony's arm, accidentally digging her nails into his flesh. She clenches her eyes shut to fight the burning sensation behind them. Why? She had cried out to her mother over and over, collapsed in the shower and wishing she might drown there.
Rivka waited for her daughter's wails to subside into muffled sobs, tears quivering in her large black orbs, before she whispered her answer: I do not know what to do with you anymore, Ziva.
"Ziva," Tony speaks so suddenly from behind her ear it is as if he had hit her. He grips her now shivering form tighter in his arms. "What's going on?"
"N-nothing," she tries to stifle a rising sob. "I am fine, Tony."
She feels his stubble graze her neck and then he kisses her there, whispering, "Bad dream?"
"Bad memory," she corrects, taking deep and shaky breaths to try and collect herself.
Gently, he rolls her body over so that they are face to face. When she doesn't resist, he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, his mouth curving into a hesitant smile.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No…" she replies, still shaking.
Even in Tony's arms, it is suddenly so cold in their bedroom. It feels to Ziva as if the icy water from that night is spraying over her body, vainly attempting to wash away the stains of her sister's blood from her hands, cheeks, and hair. Her mother's tearful visage seems to loom over her, some dark and lonely phantom of the past seeking company in its misery…
Wordlessly unwrapping herself from Tony's arms, Ziva slides off the bed and into the darkness.
OoOoOoO
The water had been cold fifteen years ago.
Tonight, the water is warm, scalding and violently so, and she is still crying.