A/N: Wow, I haven't been here in AGES. If you've missed me, I'm sorry. Come visit the NFA, we're amazing (and that's where all my stories have been posted since I left here). But this is a McGiva (McGee/Ziva) story, so if you don't like it, don't read. But if you do read, please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.
McGee was confused. He hadn't been to the beach in ages, and this didn't look like any beach he'd ever been to before. The sand was darker than he was used to seeing it, and the water was a deeper, richer blue than he'd ever seen. And just behind him there were cliffs rising up away from the water – he knew he'd never seen anything like that before. And the man who was walking down from near the cliffs? He knew he'd seem him before, but only in pictures.
As the name clicked into his head, McGee nearly sat down in the sand as his head spun with information. Why on earth was he on a beach, one he was sure he'd never been to before, and why on earth was Eli David there with him? He was torn between the confusion and apprehension that came from all the unknowns and the feeling that he needed to be here, to have a conversation with this man he'd only ever regarded with anger and disgust.
Eli stopped next to McGee, his eyes unfocused, looking out across the sea the two men were standing next to. Tim waited, unsure of what the older man was going to say and even less sure of what he'd say back. When Eli finally did speak, it was in a questioning tone McGee was totally not expecting.
"You know my daughter, Ziva, very well, do you not?" McGee was so taken aback by the question that he paused a moment before answering.
"Yes, I do," he stated. And in that one short sentence, all the feelings he wished he'd told Ziva came flooding to the forefront of his head and heart.
She was the most beautiful woman he knew.
Often, when Ziva walked into the squadroom in the morning, McGee had to take a minute to catch his breath before he could even say good morning to her. No matter what she was wearing, his head would spin when he noticed her. She could make anything look good – even that awful striped sweater she seemed to like so much. And she was beautiful all the time, especially when she was exhausted and falling asleep on her desk or covered in the muck that often accompanied their job.
He wished he was half as intuitive as she was.
Yeah, he was smart, but he couldn't half-figure out people the way she could. He was good with computers but ever so bad with people. Ziva was one of the only women he hadn't scared off with his social awkwardness at one point or another. And it was almost as if she knew what others were thinking before they'd even thought it themselves – it was unnerving, but so endearing in the weirdest way.
She'd do anything to protect those she loved.
He knew how broken up she'd been about Michael, how she'd left them to find out what had really happened to the man she thought she'd loved. And how strong she'd been in Somalia, under torture, to protect those back in the United States she thought had forgotten about her. Just thinking about her torture made his eyes fill with tears – he had been unable to protect her, had felt so helpless. Even now the knowledge of how much she'd gone through haunted him.
McGee met Eli's eyes. The older man seemed weary, depressed. The agent was starting to pity this man he'd never really met, had always been suspicious of on principle. Until the man spoke again.
"She deserved everything she got out there," he intoned, his voice almost devoid of emotion. McGee's eyes hardened, an external sign of the intense hatred he now felt for Eli David.
"How can you say that?" McGee asked in a cold voice, all pity gone from his judgment. He stood stiffly, feeling barely able to keep himself from jumping this man. It was a totally unknown sensation.
Eli set his eyes back out over the water and continued in the same toneless, emotionless voice. "She disobeyed me," he said simply.
McGee's heart filled with rage. He clenched his fists, anger coursing through his body. "You're wrong," he told the other man passionately, "totally, completely wrong."
He woke up in a cold sweat and sat bolt upright in bed, the dream weighing heavily on his heart. Glancing at his alarm clock, he realized it was nearly time to get out of bed and head off to work. Turning off his alarm, he went through his morning routine on autopilot, his head still lost in his dramatic dream.
He arrived at work a little earlier than usual and was glad no one else on the MCRT was sitting in their desk. He slumped down in his chair and lay his head down on his desk, pushing his keyboard out of the way.
Around this same time, Ziva was also snapping awake from a dream. But her face was drenched in tears as well as her body in sweat, and she knew she'd been screaming soundlessly: it was a nightmare, reminiscent of her time in that dark hole of a cell in Somalia and her father's lack of compassion for her struggles. Dragging herself out of bed, she washed her face quickly and climbed into the shower, trying to make the hot water wash away her fears and pain along with the sweat and salty tears, almost believing it might finally work.
Knowing it hadn't, she climbed out of the shower and dressed. Heading for the kitchen, she made herself toast and headed out the door, deciding to walk to work and seeing if the physical exercise would dull the memories but knowing it wouldn't.
It was a dejected Ziva who found herself in the Navy Yard, showing her badge as she passed the entrance gate. As she entered the NCIS building, she stuffed her memories and pain into the back of her mind. Riding the elevator up to the squadroom, she fought to attain the composure everyone was used to seeing her have.
McGee heard the elevator doors open and looked up as Ziva stepped off, looking slightly more haggard than she usually did first thing in the morning. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stood up, hurrying over to her as she stepped into the room.
"Walk with me?" he asked her, gesturing down the hall towards interrogation. She nodded slowly, looking slightly confused. Neither spoke as the squadroom receded behind them. Once far enough away that McGee deemed it sufficient, he turned toward a still-confused Ziva.
She waited, unsure of why he'd brought her back here to this place all alone. He looked as if he had something to say but couldn't bring himself to say it. But somehow she knew that giving him some callous taunt in the style of Tony would be completely wrong here, and not just in their usually playful, teasing manner.
McGee took a deep breath and began to speak in a low, quiet voice. "It's not your fault," he told her.
Ziva was rather taken aback. Could he know what thoughts still plague my dreams? she thought, but gave up that hope almost immediately: it was impossible for him to know.
"What isn't my fault?" she asked him softly, her chocolate-brown eyes starting to betray the hurt she'd worked so hard to hide.
His heart melted with pain and long-hidden love as he watched her hard exterior start to soften. Not knowing exactly what to say and winging it as best he could, he spread his arms in the universal gesture meaning 'everything'.
"None of it is your fault. What happened in Somalia, what happened here, nothing. And you most definitely did not deserve any of it, no matter what anyone has told you," he continued, his nervous fingers grabbing one of her still hands in earnest. She jumped at the touch, but left her hand in his gentle grasp.
"I love you, Ziva," McGee stated quietly, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.
Ziva could feel her heart beating ferociously in her chest. This was totally not what she had been expecting – not at all. It was taking great effort for her not to run from his display of feeling, something she had always been told showed weakness and had therefore avoided.
This was so confusing. She had never felt this unhinged before, especially not when someone was professing love for her – it was usually so easy to just pass it off as lust or something of that nature.
But not with McGee. If there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that he didn't say things like this without totally thinking them through, and he definitely wouldn't be that sure if it was only lust.
Her head was spinning, unable to come up with a way out of this. What could she say?
And then a thought popped into her head.
Do I really want out of this?
She looked down at her hands, one still held in McGee's. Her lips dry, her palms sweaty, she responded.
"I love you, too, Tim."