A/N: This little head canon has been floating around half-formed in my head for the better part of a year, and the wonderful 10x07 Shell Shock Pt. 2 scenes about Tali brought them into a fully formed idea that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this. Hope you enjoy! And for those lovely readers still waiting for the next chapter of Aubade I promise it is coming very soon. I have a nasty habit of starting long stories and then getting distracted by other ideas. You guys are awesome for sticking with me. 3
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadly, I only borrow them temporarily.
zZz
Dim light filters into the cramped hallway of the West Bank apartment building. Boxes crowd in the corridor, shoes lie scattered by doorways, and the faint smell of bread permeates her senses as she treads quietly toward the door at the end of the hall. Flat 3B, home of Abdul Ramani, a Hamas underling—her first mission as Kidon. A loud peel of laughter emanates from one of the rooms as she passes by; a child's laugh, full of life.
Next to it, she feels like Death slinking past through the shadows.
Come to the rally Ziva! Do something real for peace!
Tali's voice echoes in her mind, and she gives her head a firm shake to rid her thoughts of yesterday's argument. She couldn't dwell on the shouts of her naïve little sister. Tali, who would have everyone to believe that a rally would change the world, make it safe. She reaches the door of 3B with an angered determination.
Tali was wrong, only the work before her now would keep them truly safe at night.
Death was the only way to stop the bombs.
tTt
She stomps across the busy Haifa market, pulling her backpack tight against her shoulders as she elbows her way through the crowd. She just had to make it on the bus before Ima realized she was gone. Rivka David would not be please to know of her youngest daughter's plans to attend the Palestinian Peace Rally outside the Technion today.
But then, she's not so sure any of her Mossad-driven family would know what to do with real peace. After all, their version of peace was enforced with guns and a superior weapons stockpile that deterred the enemy.
You cannot be serious about this Tali! These talks never come to anything! Everyone knows they are just making targets of themselves in the streets!
With a roll of her eyes, she pushes on determinedly toward bus stop at the end of the market. Ziva especially did not understand. To Ziva, life was about duty and service, everything in the name of Israel. That was what made her their father's favorite. She reaches the bus stop and collapses onto the bench next to it with a bitter huff of air, her sister's words ringing still in her mind.
These talks never come to anything.
Ziva was wrong; peace for Israel was never going to come from weapons and fear.
Words were all the hope they had left.
zZz
She hesitates before the rough-hewn wooden door, hand raised hesitantly to knock, stomach churning nervously. The Israeli Defense Forces had trained her in combat, in how to take life amidst gunfire and chaos. But this, this is not chaos. This is calculated and ordered, up-close and silent. Mossad had honed her skills and prepared her for this moment, and yet still the uncertainty claws at her chest, causes her pulse to pound sporadically. Suddenly, she isn't sure she's ready for this.
But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?
Her sister's words to her that morning flit again through her mind, a final plea with her in the stiff, muggy building's air. She grits her teeth, raps her knuckles against the door.
She isn't a child anymore.
Philosophy was a question for the academics. For schoolchildren like Tali, still full of naiveté.
She did not have time to debate the price of a life.
tTt
The sun feels blistering against her skin, forces people to scurry across the bus platform and through the market at a clipped rate, eager to flee the oppressive July heat. Sweat gathers against her brow, and she digs in her backpack for a hair-tie to pull her long brown hair off her neck. Maybe she really didn't want to stand in this intense heat all day—rally or not. The thought of her cool, air-conditioned home only 15 minutes away beckons to her. She feels her resolve melting in the heat.
Just wait until you do your service Tali, then you will understand what the world is really like.
I'm not joining the Army, Ziva! I'm not fighting this pointless war!
Pointless Tali, really! You think that the survival of our nation is pointless?! Tell me what shall you do, what shall you do when there is no more music, no more opera houses. What shall you do then, when they are all destroyed because of this "pointless war"! The work I do, that Abba and Ari do? Is so that you can still have your dreams!
Well then, maybe my dreams are pointless too! They are not worth the price!
She scuffs her sneaker against the ground grimly, wiping at the fine sheen of perspiration along her forehead. She and Ziva almost never fought, Abba had always called them his צמד חמד—tsemed chemed—his pair. Although lately, the two of them had felt less like a pair and more like opposing ends of a magnet.
Maybe it was just growing pains. Maybe they were simply stretching their boundaries, and colliding with each other's in the process. Either way she hoped things would right themselves soon. She missed their easy interaction.
The bus pulls to a stuttering stop in front of the platform; she stands slowly, digging a hand into the pocket of her shorts to search for loose change for the bus fare.
Then again, maybe hoping to reconcile the differences between sisters was as pointless as hoping words or fighting alone would stop this war.
zZz
A young man, not much older than her opens the door at the second knock, and for a moment, his face catches her off-guard; smiling eyes, a soft jowl, and an easy stance. Only the small scar on his chin gives him away as her target.
Funny, he looked so much harsher in the dossier photos.
He's fixing her with a questioning stare now, and she recovers on the next beat with a quick mental shake. She had to pull herself together. Even evil men could have kind eyes.
"Al Salamu Aleykom," she greets the man, adjusting her hijab shyly, "I was hoping to use your phone?" A demure flick of her gaze upward tells her he suspects nothing about her presence. "I'm visiting my cousin's down the hall, but their phone is out. You seem to be the only one on the hall home today."
He eyes her carefully, she bats a timid smile. One second, two seconds, three seconds—his face eases, "Of course, it is no problem." He ushers her into the home.
She's always had a particular talent for disarming people's apprehensions.
Her stomach twists nervously as she follows him into the living space. Her knife feels leaden in her hands as she grabs it from her boot.
Children's laughter rings out from the next room, and she feels her resolve waver and shake. His parlor is homey, reminds her of her Aunt Nettie's in taste. A photograph of two little girls sets on the sofa table—reminds her that Abdul Ramani is human, that this is a life she is choosing to end—not just another training exercise. His back is still turned to her as he reaches for the phone; she could slip quietly back the way she came before he turned.
But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?
And that's just it. The price for his life could be a thousand more lives saved. She had to do this. She couldn't take the chance that one life was worth more than many others.
She grips the knife firmly, tamps down the sick feeling in her stomach as she strides forward determinedly.
Someday Tali would understand what the price of a life truly meant.
She catches him just as he's about to turn toward her, slides her hand across his mouth as her other hand brings the knife to his throat swiftly.
The blade pulls smooth and silent, and something inside her seems to crack.
The world fades out in a rush of blood and blackness.
tTt
She notices him get off the bus as she makes her way across the platform to board. A line forms as people begin to pay their fare, and still he stands there just off the queue, waiting for something, a small look of confusion and concentration flicking across his features.
She imagines maybe he got off a stop too early.
He's sweating heavily, his grey striped sweatshirt sticking against his skin, an unusual clothing choice for the oppressive July heat. The observation causes her stomach to twist lightly with suspicion, but she gives herself a firm shake and steps forward in the line.
She shouldn't profile people like that. Their world would never know peace if they couldn't get past their mistrust of each other.
The line moves forward slowly. The boy fidgets on the platform. He doesn't seem much older than her.
She notices the wire then, sees the way he holds something firmly in his left hand.
With a gasp, she tries to back up, only to be pushed forward by the jostling crowd.
This could not be happening. Things like this were not supposed to happen. Suddenly, all she wants is to be home, away from this surreal cliché.
There will be no more talks of peace today. She has never imagined a more violent end to words.
She gives a hard push to break free from the bus line just as the boy steps forward, arm raised up determinedly.
She turns, a shout of warning on her lips. But it is too late.
The world disappears in flames and blackness.
zZz
The knife is still gripped tightly in her hand, a thin trickle of dark red blood on its edge, as her vision slowly clears and her breathing calms. Her legs have carried her to the cool confines of the stairwell on autopilot and at a run. The blade had done its work, and she had been as precise as they had taught her. But she couldn't breathe as his body slid to the ground; didn't need feel his pulse to know she had ended his life. Didn't need to hear the screams of the two children as they discovered what had happened. So she had fled the room, running quickly down the hall and toward the staircase. Sitting now in the darkness, she feels ridiculous for her fear.
This was the way of the world; there was no use dwelling on the kind eyes of enemies or the loss of children. Enough of their own had lost fathers and mothers to men like him.
Still his face seems branded into her mind; his children's laughter seems to echo in her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she runs a shaky hand across her face, only to realize her cheeks are wet from tears.
With an exasperated whimper, she rubs her hands vigorously across her eyes; wrenches the soft black fabric of the hijab from her head and wipes the blade clean. Attempts to calm her mind in the methodical motions.
The knife clean, she shoves it viciously back into its cover and ties the black cloth securely around her belt, standing with a forceful determination to defy the unsteady feeling in her legs.
It was done, finished. She had done her duty, her job. There were now other responsibilities to attend to, evidence to erase. There was no more time for weakness.
Clenching her jaw, she forces the man's face from her mind and heads toward the stairs resolutely. She would finish this, and head home to find Tali. Differences or not, the world was too short for silly fighting.
Her phone breaks the stairwell's silence with a shrill ring.
She'll always remember how the sound reminded her of laughing.
zZz
The Haifa police station is a maddening chaos of screaming witnesses, crying loved ones, and pushy reporters. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck as she makes her way to front desk, the small window air conditioners unable to cool the stifling air brought on by so much suffering in one place.
Her mother is inconsolable in a nearby chair; head between her hands as heavy sobs wrack her thin frame. The front desk secretary informs her they still need someone to identify the body, and Rivka David is in no condition to, so she accepts. It was better this way anyway; she has been around much more death.
A small, mouse-like police officer leads her to the morgue, rattling off a list of sympathies and details that she barely hears over the roaring in her ears. Hamas. Suicide bombing. A bus stop. It all seems like a vivid dream.
The officer pulls back the white sheet, and she bites back an anguished moan, unable to tear her eyes from the body in front her. Words seem impossible, her mouth feels dry and her tongue thick, but she manages to confirm the body's identity and that she would like some privacy with a curt nod, and the woman leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click that startles her from her trance.
With an unsteady hand, she smooths her fingers across her sister's bloodied forehead in disbelief, runs her fingers down the unburnt side of her face gently. Tali's eyes are closed gently, her mouth shut contentedly, but she knows it is all a placement done by coroners to make the dead seem at peace. However, the scarred skin along her sister's face contrasts with the smooth skin she's always known, shattering the illusion. This was no peaceful death, and she doubts even Tali, the angel among them all, died with her eyes closed and smile on her lips.
A glint of gold detracts her attention from the nightmare she is reimagining. Glancing down, she takes in the shimmering gold of Tali's necklace—a Star of David just like her own, Abba's birthday gift to them years ago, a pair for his tsemed chemed, his matching set.
Before she realizes what she is doing, she is reaching down and swapping Tali's necklace for her own, refastening the clasps with a quick precision. Staring at her own necklace, now shining softly in the harsh fluorescent autopsy light, she lets out a shaky breath, the haziness clouding her vision clears slightly. It seems right that in death they should trade them, that they should keep some part of the other.
In death. The air in the mortuary room seems thick, almost stifling; her head feels fuzzy; her knees give out and she sinks heavily into the chair next to Tali. Gingerly picking up Tali's still smooth hand, she attempts to make sense of the words.
"Oh Tali," she whispers softly, holding her sister's hand to her cheek, "akhot ktana…," she presses a kiss to her skin, "my baby sister, I…" Suddenly, she falls silent. This morning, there were so many words to say.
Now there are none that matter.
zZz
Eli David shows up an hour later to find her in the same position. His face is pale but firm, and it serves to snap her out of her silent contemplation as she hurries over to him.
"Abba, I…" she begins, but he shoves a firm hand out to keep her from venturing closer.
"Malachi is on his way. There is still the matter of Rabani's body to intercept and dispose of before the police investigate." His determined gaze flickered from her to the body behind her, shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly before he squares himself with a grim determination. "Next time remember not leave the scene until the evidence has been cleared, Officer David. Mossad cannot afford such carelessness."
She clenches her jaw, fighting against the burning lump in her throat. Apparently her father could not afford her emotions either. With a small nod, she makes her way toward the exit. It is clear her time here is over.
"Ziva…," Eli's voice stops her, breaks slightly on the last syllable of her name. She keeps her back turned toward the door; he wouldn't want her to turn to him. "Will you be alright?"
Swallowing hard, she fights the tears that finally threaten to fall. "Ken," she manages to grit out, "Ken."
She is always alright, and he's not really looking for another answer.
She flees from the room with a strangled gasp; throws herself up the stairs to the police station lobby and out onto the crowded Haifa street. Around her cars rush by and people's voices fill the air; the world goes on. The sky is a brilliant hue of blue, and she closes her eyes against the brightness; concentrates on the still cool sensation of where Tali's hand just was in hers.
Was. Past tense. Suddenly the world spins in realization.
She barely makes it to the nearby ally before emptying the contents of her stomach onto the sidewalk. The reality settles upon her, nestles firmly in her chest, and with a trembling hand she clutches at her sister's necklace around her neck, letting out a choked sob. Anger and desperation mix with agony as she slides to the ground, furiously rubbing at her eyes in a failed attempt to stop the onslaught of her tears. But it's no use; there is no way around this kind of pain.
But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?
She should have given more thought to the price.
Some lives cost you everything.
zZz
The killing becomes easy after they bury Tali in the ground.
Bodies fall around her like paper, lifeless, white, and meaningless in her rage at the world. Fury gives her precision, overrides her questioning, her emotion; until one day it is all finally gone, leaving her in the middle of an Egyptian hotel room with a lifeless Iranian woman and a kill list she can't remember one name on, only faces. She could never forget their faces.
It was her own she now had trouble recognizing in the mirror.
So she had fled, tried gain reprieve from her guilt by distancing herself from the bodies as a control officer. Tried to do more for peace as Tali had once wanted and less for bloodshed as a Liaison Officer for NCIS.
But Fate did not forget easily, and she felt death follow her, a ghost against her back, demanding retribution. A life for a life. Fate demanded that blood be repaid.
Her mother, Ari, Roy Sanders, and on. Death created a kill count to match her own.
Then Michael. It became easy to push everyone else away after his death out of hurt and anger. Fate used someone too close to accomplish its mission, blindsiding her with the betrayal. It was simple to walk alone into the desert after that, to force Death to follow her solely. It was better that way.
Even after everything, there were still some people left she couldn't bear for Death to claim.
zZz
The taste of blood is in her mouth as she wakes again in the small cell, the smell of dirt and filth pungent in the dry desert air. With a wince she pulls herself into a seated position, unable to stop a small groan of pain from escaping as her ribs throb painfully at the change in position. Lifting a weakened hand, she rubs her neck tiredly, grimacing as her fingers graze the bruises left there by Saleem—the last remnants of Tali's necklace, ripped from her too soon, much like the person it had originally belonged to. A wave of sadness cuts through the numb fatigue in her body.
Mossad would say that possessions are meaningless attachments.
Still, she wishes she could have held on to this one.
Leaning back against the cool wall with a weary sigh, she glances at the small scratches in the grey plaster marking her days here. Twenty-eight marks, almost a month.
Maybe she should stop counting.
Hell, after all, was infinite; the better to count your sins, and of those she had plenty. There was no more use to numbering her days. There would be no rescue from this; no one would follow her into this desert. She had made sure of that. She swallowed hard against the despair and anger that pitted in her stomach at the abandonment. She didn't know why she had expected anything different.
Mossad had no use for broken things either.
But are you willing to pay the price of this life, akhot?
Her sister's words echo softly in her mind. She hadn't understood those words at the time; then, she had thought that prices only came in measurable sums—time, money, saved lives. Sweltering heat hits her skin from the thin wooden slats of the cell window, yet a shiver passes through her, a shadow creeps at the periphery of her vision. She understands now though.
The price was always written in blood. Repayment etched in the soul. And Death was looking for her final installment.
Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath of the heavy desert air, and for a moment, they are all there in front of her again, faces blank, watching her, waiting. Acceptance fills her chest, deadens the pain of her current wounds. Tali stands before her, fifteen and beautiful, with a sad smile and hand outstretched.
She's tired of owing debt.
The door to the cell squeaks open again; she hears the heavy gait of steel-toed boots cross the room, the tell-tale clink of heavy chain and the acrid scent of a just lit cigarette in the wearers hands. She keeps her eyes closed tight, holds all of their faces in her mind a moment more. Resignation seeps through her, numbs the fear inside her chest.
Death had been her profession. She breathes in another gulp of stale air.
Now let dying be her penance.
zZz
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Hopefully the hilarity that was tonights episode soothes the angst that I wrought upon our character here. Reviews are like presents, they're wonderful to receive. :D