A/N: Yes, this is part seven of my CIA series. Almost as soon as I'd finished the last one, I had an idea for the next one. Will there be another after this one? Honestly, I don't know. Right now, I don't have any particular idea, but it's always possible. This series is so involved that it's almost impossible to explain it succinctly. Suffice it to say that this is an AU series that split off from the actual series in season 4/5. It has Tim's hacking of the CIA as the catalyst, and Tim has gone through Hell and managed to climb back out again after everything he's had to endure. This series, if you're not familiar with it, is very much Tim-focused, but the team is there and important. Because I started it in season 4/5, Jenny Shepard is still the director. Ziva is there, and while Ellie Bishop has recently been seen in a bit part, she is not part of NCIS. While this is a very long series, I have to admit that it's one of my favorites.

A/N2: The quote from which the title comes is one that I've actually used in another story. Anyone recognize it? :D

Disclaimer: I do lay claim to Levi Carew, my OC. He is my favorite OC, and so he's mine. However, I'm not making money from this and I do not claim NCIS (even if I think I'm better at keeping the characters in character than the writers are on occasion. :)

When the Midnight Hour Comes
by Enthusiastic Fish

"Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself;... In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all."
~Soren Kierkegaard

Chapter 1

He had actually been asleep. He was on the couch, but he was sleeping. The hands came out of nowhere and pulled him from his slumber. He tried to fight them, but there were too many. They covered his mouth and kept him from making any sound. They pulled him toward the front door when he managed to get free. He started fighting back, but there were too many of them. He managed to take out one with a hard hit to the face. He swung as hard as he could. No mercy. Then, he started against another one and he had a little more room to fight, but another came from behind and hit him hard, not knocking him out, but making him just dazed enough that he couldn't keep fighting back.

They tied his hands behind him and dragged him out of the house toward a waiting van. He struggled a little, but it was pretty much useless at this point.

Then, his mind cleared just enough to see the fire in the house.

He threw himself against one of the men, dragging him down, and tried to get free.

One arm free, and he started fighting back again.

Then, there was a small explosion. Small, but the fire began to spread even faster. There was no sign of movement inside.

"Tamara!"

It was the first sound he'd made.

They got him to the van and threw him inside.

He hurled himself against the back doors of the van, trying to force them open as it started to move.

They grabbed him and dragged him back, but not before he saw the house engulfed in flames. ...and no sign of any movement inside.

He felt like his heart was being torn apart as surely as the house was being destroyed. With one mighty heave, he pulled away from his captors and threw himself against the back doors. They burst open and he fell out of the van to the ground, tumbling head over heels, scraping his arms and legs. He ignored the blood he could feel on his skin. He heard the van skid to a stop behind him, but his attention was all on the house.

"Tamara!" he shouted, as loudly as he could, desperately wanting to warn her. "Tamara!"

He managed to get to his feet and tried to run toward the house, but it didn't work. They grabbed him again, and then, a few seconds later, they all fell back a little as the house exploded, showering them in ashes and debris.

He stopped struggling and lay motionless on the ground, staring at the destruction of what little he had valued in his life.

"No," he whispered. "No."

Then, they picked him up again, but this time, he didn't fight them at all as they threw him back into the van. He just submitted to what they were doing to him.

It didn't matter now.

Nothing did.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

A beam of light peeked through the blinds and hit him in the eye. Tim stretched and opened his eyes. No nightmares. That made this morning amazing already. Then, he rolled over and smiled.

Zahara was still asleep, her hair falling across her face. Tim always felt that Zahara became more beautiful as she slept. He woke up with drool on his face, his hair sticking up at odd angles and wrinkles on his face from the pillow. She woke up and could go and be a model somewhere without doing a thing.

He lay there for a few minutes, just enjoying looking at his wife, and then, he decided it was time to get up. He rolled back and turned off his alarm before it could go off and wake her. Then, he slipped out of bed and headed for the bathroom so that he could change into his running clothes.

When he walked out into the living room, he heard the jingle of a collar and he smiled.

"Hey, Jethro. You ready to go running?" he asked.

He could see that Jethro was ready. He already had the leash in his mouth. Tim chuckled and clipped the leash to Jethro's collar. Then, he left and headed out for a run. His CIA watchers were prepared, as usual. Tim took a bit longer route than usual, but he didn't push it. Instead, he got home only five minutes later than he did with the path he often ran. As he came in, he saw that Zahara had got up already. Her tea kettle was heating up, and his coffee was percolating. There was also a bowl of batter sitting on the counter, covered with a tea towel. He could hear the shower running.

Smiling to himself, he fed Jethro and then walked into the bedroom. He pulled off his sweaty clothes, put them in the hamper and went into the bathroom.

"Majāl lishakhsayn?" he asked, focusing on his pronunciation which he still wasn't very good at.

"Dā'iman," Zahara called to him.

Tim thought for a moment of what the word was and then smiled and climbed into the shower. Zahara was washing the shampoo out of her hair with her eyes closed. He put his arms around her and kissed her soapy cheek.

"I am trying to get clean, Tim," she said, smiling. "You are dirty."

"Just sweaty."

"That is dirty," Zahara said. She put her face in the water to rinse away the soap and then opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Dirt and sweat. Not the same."

"You sweat so much," she said, smiling. "I do not... I don't understand how you can sweat all the time and not lose all the water in your body."

Tim laughed. "I don't, either."

The shower wasn't huge, and it took some maneuvering to switch places so that Tim could also shower. Zahara finished and got out to dry off and get dressed while Tim finished. By the time he was dressed, Zahara was in the kitchen getting her tea and his coffee. He could smell that Zahara had decided to make baghrir pancakes. He supposed that she was feeling like having more Moroccan things since her brother was coming today.

"Smells great," he said.

"You always say that," Zahara said as he sat down. "It smells the same every time I make them."

"And it always smells great," Tim said, grinning. "I have to keep running because you feed me so well. The most I used to have for breakfast was cereal."

"I do not understand why you would eat that cereal," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It is not filling and it cannot be that good for you. That is not enough for what you do."

"Well, sometimes, it's the nostalgia," Tim said.

There was a blank look, and Tim had to think of how to define nostalgia. After more than two years here in the States, Zahara's vocabulary was quite extensive, and she rarely tripped over word choices, but sometimes, there was a word that she'd never heard before and he'd have to explain it. Sometimes, it was easier than others.

"It reminds me of happy times when I was a kid. That's nostalgia."

She nodded and handed him a plate of baghrir.

"Isn't that why you like these pancakes?" he asked.

"They taste better than your cereal shaped like dinosaurs," Zahara said.

"Says you," Tim said, grinning. "Isn't it, though?"

Zahara looked at her pancakes for a moment and then, she nodded.

"Yes, I think so. My mother would make these pancakes for us many mornings. It was the first thing she taught me to make."

Tim poured the honey-butter sauce over his pancakes. He liked his pancakes drenched in the stuff while Zahara was much more conservative with her portions. They ate for a few minutes in silence.

"Do you have your dance class today?" he asked, as he reached for some more pancakes.

"No. Not today. I am meeting with...oh, what is that word. The one who is looking at my family."

"Oh, the genealogist."

"Yes! It is a strange word."

"Not part of usual conversation."

"No. I cannot... can't believe that one can make a living doing this."

"Probably not all of them can, but did she say that she'd figured out your father's side?"

"She said she had found some information, but she did... didn't say what it was."

Tim grinned. "You don't have to use the contractions, you know. I understand you just fine, and so does everyone else."

"I know, but Americans use them. I am going to be an American. I wish to speak as Americans do. It is just that I have to think of them each time." Then, she widened her eyes slightly. "Will you be able to meet Ahmed at the airport in the evening?"

"I'm going to tell Gibbs about it when I get to work. Hopefully, nothing will come up. I think he'll be fine with it unless something absolutely needs me."

"Good. I do not like driving here."

"Most people don't."

"I know. That is why they are all in such bad moods."

Tim laughed and then looked at his watch.

"I'd better get going. If I'm going to leave early, I'd better not be late."

He carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it off and put it in the dishwasher, knowing that Zahara would likely take it out of the dishwasher and wash it herself once he left. It was one of the things about her. She didn't want to use the dishwasher unless there were a lot of dishes. He had explained that they could just wait until they had a full load, but no. She wasn't interested in it.

Then, he grabbed his bag and his badge and gun. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"I love you," he said.

"And I love you. Let me know if you cannot come."

"I will."

Then, he left, counting his blessings for the life he had.

...even as the CIA car pulled in behind him as he drove to work.