A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JSQ! She was one of the first to bring to the realm of fanfiction. And for that I'm grateful.
Thanks to ProfeJMarie for the beta. (The other one to bring me into this!)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, obviously.
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Concrete. There she sat in the middle of room. The once brown walls, turned a gray color, were caked with dirt and grime. No light was strung from the ceiling. She gazed at the support beams. There were 6. Just like them. Sometimes, she pretended her team was there. She went over things she would have said, things she would have done differently. Her chair faced the door, the hot sunlight at her back everyday made her uneasy. Her hands were bound behind her back, her left eye swollen shut, her lip split, her hair greasy, her clothes soaked with a mix of blood, sweat and tears. She did not make a sound. Her tear ducts remained dry, no matter how much she wanted to release the tears, she would not. She would not cry for her father, her brother, her ex-boyfriends, her family or for him; because if she did, it would make this situation more real. She knew this mission was justified. She had to convince herself of that. She had failed them. All of them. Especially him. She had failed the one person she counted on, the one person who always had her back, the one person she needed, the one person who never gave up on her even though she gave up on him.
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Intermittent light. Being that her father was the Director of Mossad, she had to be the best agent she could. Ironically, she became a control officer for her brother, just like her father was for her. Funny growing up believing entirely in duty, honor and patriotism, just to realize the beliefs were skewed and awry. Her childhood was fractured; her beloved sister was killed, her mother fled from her father, her brother became a martyr. Perhaps she felt she had something else to prove being a woman doing a man's job. She could assassinate someone with common objects, like a credit card, a pen, or a spoon. She killed without remorse or hesitation. She learned the hard way not to become too attached to anyone, even those in her family. Why? Because she was cursed; every one she loved was taken away by bullets or bombs. Transitioning from a Mossad officer to an NCIS liaison, she realized there was more to life. She realized that she could trust those around her. She realized it was too late for them to ever know that.
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Cold water. Usually, she chided him for all those damn movie references. In the four year they have worked together, she has seen countless movies; some more than others, some she could quote, some of the monologues she could recite off hand, some she can identify with, some she just watched because he liked them.
Being inthis room with the sweat running down her back, her neck, her forehead, and her arm, she could feel the saltiness re-entering her frail body, into her cuts. She'd been replaying scenes in her mind; it kept her thoughts off what was to come. This what she trained for, she was ready.
They had a hell of week; a Navy ensign was found dead. It was staged to look like a suicide. They can not stop until they figure it out. Turns out he was killed for his something petty. They had been running in circles. Finally, a break. Case closed.
A light tap on the door, this late at night meant one person. Tony.
He had a bottle in one hand, a movie from his famous collection in the other.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Partners, cowboys and a mission. Though in real life, they were the one who chased the dirtbags. Every time,they watched it, they bickered about who was Butch and who was the Sundance Kid. Tony always thought he was Butch – maybe because he just wanted to pretend he was Paul Newman. He always recited lines, she knew this one.
You should have let yourself get killed a long time ago when you had the chance. . . It's over, don't you get that? Your time is over and you're gonna die bloody, and all you can do is choose where.
She had gotten the glasses from the kitchen and filled them up with merlot he brought. He was familiar with her apartment - where she left the remotes for the television and the DVD player, so he was in charge of that.
They never spoke about those late night viewing parties. Most of the time, she would fall asleep on his shoulder. He was too polite to wake her up when he left. He always covered her up with the blanket. He kissed her forehead. He always made sure the wine was corked and the glasses were cleaned. Almost like destroying the evidence he was there. She knew, she carried these little moments with her.
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Stench. Three months, she has been sitting here. She wished Saleem Ulman would just come in here and finish the job, end the agony and the suffering, but he did not. He wanted information, and she would not give him the satisfaction.
Since the cargo ship she was on was destroyed, the mission aborted and her men were sent back to Israel, she sat here. Letting them torture her. She was just a shell now, a shell of her former self. She had talked to herself into imagining the better times. She wondered if anyone thought of her, missed her. She had been left in Israel, deserted by those she thought wanted her on their side. Were there sides? What were theyfighting for anymore? She let her feelings cloud her judgment, that is why she sat here, alone, beaten, and abandoned. There was a mess to clean up; she was it.
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Shouting. Rustled from light sleep, she could hear her captor barking orders to his men. The footsteps in the hallway indicated they had more prisoners. With new hostages here, she had just become more disposable. She still would not tell Saleem anything. She would not tell him about NCIS. She would protect them even if they never knew it. She had been sent back to Israel under a guise of hostility. Her father had the power to bring her back. For what, his personal gain? She was following orders. That is why she was sitting inthis hellhole, taking the place of Michael. She fought for this, she trained for this. She was ready to die. Die not for her father's cause, but for hers.
Saleem unhinged the lock from the outside, he rushed in. She could feel the heavy breathing as he put a burlap sack on her head, untied her and forced her to another room. This was her time. She made her peace, she was ready.
He led her down the hall. She was trying to walk as best as shecould. She was forced to sit again. The sack whipped off her head. The light blinded her eyes. It had been so very long since the light shone in her face.
There he was. Her partner. When she left him she was angry, she thought some time and space would be enough. Her partner shot the man she wanted to love, in the end she learned the truth; he was a man stragetically placed to gain her trust. An action she identified with, and it made her feel ill inside. She had been manipulated. She knew that this man sitting in front her, carrying the same disheveled appearance, was there for her. No matter what actions she had taken, no matter how many hate-filled words spewed from her mouth, he never turned his back on her. She stood over him before and held a gun to his chest. He did not flinch, maybe he knew she would not do it, maybe he wanted her to so shecould get her vengeance. She realized he never would. She could beg Saleem to choose her and spare her family, but that did not matter. Her partner told her to fight. She would, for everything. When the bullet pierced through the sunlit window into her captor, she knew she was given a second chance. She would make the best of it.
Ziva David was a full metal jacket. She possessed a soft core covered with the hard shell,sometimes she was left exposed. It did not matter anymore because Tony DiNozzo would always have her back.