It was obtuse to his hearing, this lazy rendering of her name. A slur of sound, in the manner only Americans have managed to master without the aid of intoxication— a mindless tapering of sound that Eli David found distasteful.
But this presumptuous American, this notorious Leroy Jethro Gibbs, had tacked this obscenity onto the end of a sentiment so tender, so caring, that the bastardization of his daughter's beautiful name almost sounded affectionate.
And the strong, powerful woman in question was all too quick to pick up the handset, to shut the eavesdropping men out of this suddenly personal turn of conversation. But even though he could no longer hear the American's half of the conversation, could not know what Ari's would-be murderer was whispering in his remaining child's ear, Eli David could discern more than Ziva would care for him to.
He saw the small curve of his daughter's lips, the tiny smile that warmed her features. And he could see the tension that remained in her frame and eyes throughout. That she did not want him, her father, to see the softness she reciprocated for this man.
In the shadows of the deepening night, the dark gaze of his daughter's companion slid back and forth, trying to gauge the director's reaction while also keeping a close eye on the director's daughter. It was clear to Eli that Michael Rivkin had also seen the shift in Ziva's previously guarded demeanor.
With a keen eye, Eli watched him watching Ziva, and knew that behind the mildly handsome looks and the scruffy, mission-ready beard, the wheels were turning. Eli was pleased to see it, as it was what he had been counting on.
The burning anger that had begun to smolder in the pit of his stomach slowly turned to smug triumph, a triumph he knew better than to let Ziva see. She would put the pieces together in an instant, if she even suspected Eli and Michael were conspiring over her. He had trained her well after all.
She was no fool—never had been.
But the bitter resentment returned at the knowledge that, if given a hint of a cause, she would go running back to America in a heartbeat… go running back to him.
To the man that had butchered the simple radiance of her name with the greatest of ease.
To the man who had turned this operative— his operative— from the strong, fearless individual she had always been to this sullen, distracted waif of a woman that had been returned to Mossad.
Rivkin's gaze drifted back once more, and this time the two men shared a muted look of mutual displeasure. Eli knew exactly why the younger man was concerned with the scene that was quietly unfolding. The lust in the officer's eyes betrayed the jealousy that was brewing within, at the hesitant way Ziva mentioned Tony.
The lust was one of the reasons Rivkin had been selected for what Eli had in mind for his daughter. The man was a good operative, that much was certain, but the infatuation he felt for Ziva was what had set him above the rest. The amorous officer would have added incentive to follow orders, Eli knew, and his honest desire blinded his daughter to his involvement with the burgeoning relationship.
But Eli suspected that for the most part, Rivkin had remained frustrated for the majority of the summer.
A small part of him felt a spark of pride for the daughter he had raised to have power over men, but then the feeling was erased by the surety that it was not her training holding her back, but the relationships she had left behind in America.
For the first time, he doubted his decision to have sent her there in the first place.
She had been intended to weaken America's defenses, but it seemed that America had weakened her instead. It was a bitter disappointment, but then again, she had always been impressionable.
Even as a child, she had occasionally fallen prey to the idealistic sentiments of her younger sister. But every time she lost focus, Eli had been there to reorient her. The only ideals in this world were false ones, and she'd had to learn that lesson in order to survive.
And after Tali's death, the lesson had finally sunk in.
It had been the final step to propelling Ziva to the top of the pack. From that day onward, she had been relentless, eager to complete mission after mission and skilled enough to be recognized time and again for her prowess in the field. Painful as it was to have had to bury a daughter so young, Eli had taken solace from his resultant success.
His sharp end of the spear finally became Mossad's weapon of choice.
But now, he realized as he watched Ziva return the phone to its cradle, the sharp end had been softened once again.
This Leroy Jethro Gibbs had blunted the blade, just as he had her name.
Ziver.
A horrid sound, Eli decided as the sickening epithet rolled over and over again in his mind as he gave his daughter her instructions.
She moved to leave without response, her returned melancholy clearly evident in her steps. When he beckoned her back a moment later, her reluctant obedience to his fatherly whim did not go unnoticed.
She gave him the expected peck on the cheek, but before she could pull away his hands came up and stilled her.
For a long moment, he studied her. Once upon a time, her eyes would have been bright and questioning, taken aback by the unexpected display of affection. But now, her eyes were dull—perhaps from the painkillers provided her at the hospital, but more likely just another unfortunate change America had instilled in his misguided daughter.
She simply did not care why he seemed to be doting on her.
But as much as he hated to acknowledge it, Eli knew exactly why his paternal instincts were flaring this evening. It was because, for the first time, he needed to remind himself that he was her father. She was his daughter.
Ziva belonged to him, and not to Special Agent Gibbs.
And with a curt nod of his head, Eli's conviction was once again set in stone. Ziva was not beyond saving. She simply needed to be reminded of who she truly was—of what she was meant to accomplish.
That this world of ideals she thought she had found did not exist.
That it was nothing more than an illusion.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, noting that the bandage on her brow gave him a glimpse of the hardened warrior he sought to recover. The warrior he would recover.
But he would have to separate his daughter from NCIS for good, sever her ties there permanently. Already, his head was teeming with plans, and one look at the foolish Rivkin assured him that the officer would play a vital role.
He would be key.
His relationship with Ziva would distance her from her American partner, this Tony, and his relationship with Mossad would elicit nothing but distrust from the infamous Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
And just like with Tali's death, the dissolution of her bonds to NCIS would bring her back into the fold.
Ziva would make her aliyah.
She would be his.
And Ziver would cease to exist.