Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.
Spoilers: Major 10x11 "Shabbat Shalom."
This idea came to me when I realized that he was slumped against the wrong doorway in Shabbat Shalom. It took me a while to figure out the layout of the Vances' house, which is why this version is a little different from the earlier one I posted on Tumblr (I oriented the dining room wrong—seriously, that place is confusing), but the point still stands that he's quite a distance from the dining room. So, this is my explanation of things; I hope you enjoy!
-Soph
The Final Attempt
Even Mossad officers found reflexive responses hard to quell.
This, Eli David realized the moment his head turned towards the sound of a bullet piercing air and glass and then felt something burn sharply throughout his entire body.
He'd been shot. In the chest and the abdomen, and he hadn't even seen who the shooter was.
That didn't matter, though.
He stumbled away from his chair—vaguely aware that the NCIS Director's wife had collapsed to the floor and that Leon had rushed to her side—with a single purpose driving him: to find his daughter, his daughter who had stomped out and who could now be wounded or dead and he had to find her before it was too late for her.
She'd been doing so well. She couldn't die now. He was already on his last legs, all burnt out and shot down (in more ways than one) and it wouldn't matter if he died right now but for her—
Panic laced through him as he scanned the living room and discovered that she was not inside.
No. Where was she?
"Ziva," he tried to breathe, but all that left his mouth was a tired gasp of air. It was getting harder to talk, to see, to stand; he needed somewhere to lean on.
But he couldn't—he still hadn't found Ziva.
Almost tripping over his own feet as he pushed forward (ironic, considering what he had been), he moved through the living room. It wasn't long before he found it too hard to support his own weight, so he pressed a hand against the wall to his right, hoping it would keep him vertical.
Just a little bit further, he urged himself. Surely Ziva would've shown herself by now? Or was she too severely injured to move? Had she gone after the shooter?
Question after question raced through his mind as he slumped against a doorway and crashed to the floor, his legs giving out under him. He tried to take a deep breath. A death rattle sounded.
Please be alive, he begged his daughter. Please. Please be safe. Please tell me you'll be happier than I could ever have hoped for you.
Please forgive me, my Ziva.