A/N: I realize I'm going to incure the wrath of several readers simply by including Jeanne in this story. I realize several people really, really hate her character. I also realize that some of those people have legitimate arguments. However, that wasn't why I wrote this. I've always been bugged that Tony and Jeanne never had anything approaching a real conversation about what happened between them. That no one even tried to track Jeanne down when she disappeared even though they didn't know at the time she was safe from any further attempts on her life. So, I decided to see what I could pull together to get the idea OUT of my head and let me work on my other stories in peace.

How well this will work at getting the plot-bunnies to leave me alone is yet to be seen, especially since this will turn out to be a few chapters in length...

--

"You weren't the target. She was."

"Maybe she still is."

"Take Ziva."

Season 5, Episode 1: Bury Your Dead, Gibbs to DiNozzo

--

Jeanne moved in a daze around her apartment, hardly noticing what she threw into her suitcase, knowing only that she had to get out of town. She had to leave, she couldn't stay. It was too painful.

"Why did you do this? Tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done."

"It's not you."

A sob tore its way out of her throat despite her best efforts to keep it inside and she sank down next to her bed, an old T-shirt clutched in one hand and her hairbrush in the other.

"Daddy…it's not true, it can't be. Please no…"

"Why would Tony be investigating you?! Daddy…how, how…how is he even a cop? He said he was a film professor!"

"Jeanne…such subterfuges are rather common in my world."

"Your world?! Daddy, I don't understand…"

"I had hoped you would never have to."

Using the edge of her bed to lever herself back to her feet, Jeanne scrubbed at her tearing eyes with the back of the hand that held her hairbrush. Haphazardly stuffing the T-shirt into the suitcase on top of an already wrinkled blouse and a rather crumpled looking pair of jeans, she stumbled towards her bathroom. Her dazed mind had half a notion to gather her toothbrush and toothpaste into her overnight bag, but she stalled half-way to the bathroom, her gaze arrested by the site of two framed photos, prominently displayed on her bookshelf.

One held a younger version of herself, laughing and hugging her father, medical diploma in hand, while Rene Benoit smiled indulgently and braced himself to hold his daughter's weight.

The one next to it held a more recent photo, displaying Jeanne and Tony beside a fountain in one of the many parks around the D.C. area, playfully splashing each other. Tony had managed to corral on of their fellow park goers into taking the picture for them.

"I am an arms dealer, Jeanne. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service is only one of the agencies that would like to see me arrested."

"I'm a Federal agent. My name isn't Tony DiNardo. It's Anthony DiNozzo, and I work for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

Jeanne's thoughts ran in circles. She had been lied to and used. The man she had fallen in love with, the man she had thought she might even want to spend the rest of her life with, was nothing more than a mask, a Federal agent playing a role to get at a larger target.

Her father.

Her father, who had always told her to never back down from what you wanted, who had explained to a young child hurting over her mother's departure how very harmful lies were and why they should never be told. Her father: the man who had lived a lie her entire life.

Was anything as she knew it anymore?

She would never remember throwing the hairbrush. All she would remember was the crash as it impacted her bookshelf, knocking both pictures to the floor. Glass cracked and shattered upon impact, scattering over the floor.

The lamplight that bathed her bedroom in a soft glow refracted off of those fragments, alternately highlighting and obscuring the smiling faces of the two most important men in Jeanne's life.

It was appropriate in a way. She didn't really know either of them, did she? She saw only what they had wanted her to see. Good men who knew the value of truth, who knew how much lies destroyed relationships and shattered trust.

Lies that had broken the glass frames of her pictures.

--

"Tony."

He didn't answer her. If he didn't answer, he didn't have to see the concern and reproach in her eyes. If he didn't answer, he could concentrate on the road and reaching Jeanne's apartment as fast as he could.

If he didn't answer her, he didn't have to explain why he had broken the cardinal rule of undercover operations.

Never, ever, fall in love with your target.

He already knew he'd screwed up. He didn't need Miss Perfect Mossad Agent David to rub his nose in it.

"Tony."

Zipping a sharp left in a manner more reminiscent of Gibbs' driving than his own, Tony continued to ignore his partner in favor of navigating the streets of urban D.C., heading for Jeanne's apartment at well over the posted speed limit.

Should he be grateful the local cops already knew to avoid any NCIS associated vehicle when it was going at these speeds or not? On the one hand, it meant he didn't have to worry about an over-attentive rookie pulling him over for reckless driving. On the other, it meant he had to thank Gibbs and Ziva for their insane driving to and from critical crime scenes. It'd taken a good three years to get the local cops attuned to the erratic driving styles of Tony's boss and partner, but they were used to it now. They never got pulled over unless they weren't in an official NCIS vehicle.

But being grateful meant he'd have to acknowledge the tense woman in the passenger seat, and he wasn't prepared to do that. Not yet.

"Tony."

The senior field agent took another corner at close to forty miles an hour, skidding briefly before he got the car back under control. Ziva didn't say a word, watching him with dark eyes.

He thought she had dropped it, until he was forced to stop at a red light, and she spoke quietly.

"It was not your fault."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

"If she dies, it will be."

The light turned green. Tony hit the gas in the manner of the best NASCAR drivers of all time and was fifty feet beyond the light by the time the next car had gotten to the other side of the intersection.

"She would have been a target even without your involvement."

He really did not need another lecture about Black Ops 101 from his team's resident expert. He already knew Jeanne would have been a target anyway. She was the daughter of the largest overseas arms dealer on the planet. Of course she was a target.

That didn't mean he wasn't responsible for this attack, though. He'd forgotten Jeanne wasn't just his girlfriend. She was his target, his contact to get at the Frog. She was an arms dealer's daughter. He should have known she could be a potential target. He should have been more alert. He shouldn't have fallen into a pattern.

There were a lot of things he shouldn't have done.

"Will she answer the door?"

Tony's mouth quirked into a pained smile at Ziva's tactic withdrawal from their previous line of conversation. Taking the final turn into the apartment building's parking lot, he answered her, finally looking over at his partner.

"Doesn't matter. I have a key."

Ziva's face betrayed none of her emotions, as was common when she entered a potentially volatile situation. Her calm exterior was a stark contrast to Tony's frantic state-of-mind.

This confrontation would be even worse than it was already going to be if he didn't get a grip on himself. Tony shut the car off with a sharp turn of the key, pulling it out of the ignition and pocketing it as he exited the car.

He breathed deeply of the crisp air and locked away his tumbling emotions in a small box in the very back corner of his mind.

He couldn't afford to rush into Jeanne's apartment like a man possessed. He had to be professional. He'd already hurt her enough. He had to give her distance. He had to give her some of her dignity back. Ziva could deal with Jeanne once they were inside. The former Mossad agent might not be very polite, but she would be professional. And Ziva wouldn't cause more conflicting emotions within Jeanne, the way Tony knew he would if he attempted to initiate contact with her, even if it was to protect her from any more potential assassination attempts.

After all he had done to her in the past several months, letting her determine how much contact she wanted with him was the least he could do.