Hiya, my dear readers. This is just a little one-shot that popped into my head while playing Freecell. I don't know what caused it, it was just one of those little plot bunnies that jump into your head and keep jumping up and down like Abby with ten Caf-POW!'s until you write what the bunny wants :)
Ziva: You know, I used to spend most of my time on stage... searching for my father's face in the audience... but he was never there. Even when he promised he...
-3x17 – Ravenous
A lone little girl stood behind the dark blue, almost black curtains surrounding the wide stage. She was small for her age, and the fragile light pink tutu and tricot made her look even smaller. Her dark curly hair was pulled into a ballet bun and her brown eyes darted nervously around the room, watching the other little girls chatting and giggling in groups.
She had never fit in as well as the others. Sure, she was answered when she asked something, and occasionally someone even came and started a conversation with her, but she didn't have a best friend with whom she could talk about everything. She didn't have that someone who'd come with her if she wanted to go somewhere.
The person closest to being her best friend was her older brother.
She felt lost and forgotten, like no one actually cared if she even existed or not.
She nervously fingered the edge of her tutu, almost breaking the fragile material. She looked down at her hands and found the tulle was on the verge of rending. She quickly released it from the grip of her small fingers and turned to peek out from a crack in the curtains.
From her current position she couldn't see the audience, which she was really searching for, only the other dancers on the stage.
She watched as the dance ended and the music faded into silence. The little dancers curtsied to the audience and an appreciative clapping began.
Her corps de ballet would be the next.
She saw their instructor approaching her. Her name was Deborah. She was a nice woman, about thirty years old, and really good at interacting with children.
"Ziva?" she questioned softly once she reached her. She squatted down in front of the little girl so that their eyes were on the same level. "It's our turn now," she said cheerfully. She stuck out a hand for little Ziva to take. "Come on," she called.
Ziva took her hand and let Deborah lead her to the other girls dressed in light pink tutus.
They waited until they were announced, then walked onto the stage in a perfect row. The stage seemed way too large for little girls like them, or rather they were too little for the stage.
Ziva was in about the center of the row, and the first thing she did when she made her way out from behind the curtains, was looking at the audience.
Her big dark brown eyes were wide open as she frantically searched the audience for the one face that she desperately wanted to see there. Needed, even. He was not there.
She did find her mother though, and she waved with her small hand. A smile made its way onto her lips as her mother waved back at her, a big grin lighting up her face.
But she found no trace of her father. On either side of her Ima were strangers, people she didn't know and would probably never know.
Ziva felt a wave of disappointment wash over her when her mind caught up with the fact that he was not there. Again.
He had never been there.
This morning she stood in the doorway of her father's office. The small fingers of her left hand were moving nervously on the doorframe, making a soft scratching sound against the hard wood.
"Abba?" she asked in a small voice.
The man behind the desk looked up and smiled when his gaze found the little form of his eldest daughter.
"Come in, Ziva. What's the matter?"
Ziva stepped in and closed the door silently behind her.
"Will you come to my dance tonight?" she asked when she reached his desk.
The expression in his dark eyes changed for only a fraction of a second, and then the mask was back on. For a moment she had seen two very different emotions. Regret and annoyance.
He sighed. "I will try, Zivaleh, but I cannot promise you. I have a lot of work to do."
She lowered her eyes onto her hands. "Is work more important than me?" she somehow found the courage to ask.
He sighed again. "No. But sometimes work just can't wait." He looked at her softly. "Now go back to your mother. I'll come if I can." Which technically meant 'No, I don't have time for that.'
Obviously he couldn't come. His work was more important. It had always been like this. Since the time she could remember his work had always been the top priority for her father. His family came second.
Ziva knew she should've been used to it by now, yet the disappointment and sorrow over not seeing him there was the same every time. If anything, it only grew with time.
The row of little girls bowed to the audience and the music started. Ziva danced with the others, perfectly in sync, but her eyes never once left the audience. She was still searching. Maybe she had missed him somehow, maybe he was late. Yet somewhere deep inside her she knew: he would not come. Ever.
She enjoyed the ballet as usual, yet something was missing. In practice it was okay, he was not even supposed to be there, but here, on stage… he should be here.
All the other girls' fathers were there, along with their mothers. There was one girl whose father was dead, and one whose father had abandoned his family. Ziva's father had never abandoned her. He spent time with their family (although not as much as Ziva would have liked), but his mind was constantly somewhere else. Ziva had always gotten the feeling that, while he loved his family, her father often viewed it as a distraction. Her dancing would never be important enough for him to leave his work for one evening. She felt jealousy burn deep in her heart when the children went to meet their parents when the dance was over.
There were fathers all around her as she searched for her mother. She finally found her in the far end of the room. She reached her arms out for her daughter, who ran into them and let her mother wrap her into an embrace.
They left the concert hall together soon afterwards. Ziva was clutching onto her mother's hand as they walked to their car. Another hope and disappointment had been added to her memories.
She was only six at the time. There would be many disappointments in her life, but those created by her father were the first and also the most painful things in her early life.
Please, with cherries on top and strawberries inside, leave a review and make me happy today. Honestly, it's not that hard to do, you'll survive. I speak from experience, I've reviewed and I'm still here :)