disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, the characters or their story lines. Just my own imagination and the winding roads it takes me...

A/N: This is just a one-shot, that popped into my mind and started to write itself. And just so that we are clear - I am still a massive Tiva fan... Please read and let me know what you think...

Five Years

It had been almost a year since they left her in Israel. Time heals all wounds they say, and in part it did. He had changed. Didn't smile as much, didn't laugh. The practical jokes were few and far between. But, each day it became a little easier to not see her, not hear her voice.

There were rumors, conjectures mostly, that she had been on a mission to Somalia, that she was captured, tortured and that she somehow managed to escape – death and destruction in her wake. The details were unknown, sketchy, but the story had escalated to legend proportions and when he heard the tendrils of gossip around the office, he smiled, thinking that most, if not all of it, was true.

She was alive, he knew that much was true, but anything more than that was mere speculation.

Which is why, when Vance called him into the office, said he had a clandestine meeting planned with a hot shot from the Israeli Embassy, the first of an annual gathering, same time, same place, every year, he thought nothing of it. Vance droned on; something about shared Intel and keeping open the lines of communication. He didn't even consider the possibility that she would be the one sitting there, in the hotel foyer, waiting for him.

He expected someone tall, hairy and a lot more male. Probably dressed in Khaki or beige or some other "Out-of-Africa" attire. So, he was more than a little surprised, taken back, staggered, stunned, and a whole thesaurus of other descriptions, when he saw her sitting there, under the palm fronds, next to the water feature.

She looked the same, yet completely different. Her hair was shorter, curlier than he remembered, the dark tendrils tickling the side of her face. Gone were her cargo pants, and instead, she was dressed in a dark suit jacket, pencil skirt and heels. Seeing him approach, slowing down with each step he took closer to her, she stood. Looked almost pensive as she leaned forward, offering each cheek in greeting. She sat, legs crossed daintily at the ankles as she gestured for him to join her. Lifted her hand, signaling the waiter, ordered a pot of tea for two, in clipped tones, before turning her attention back to him. There was no small talk, no "how you doing?", no "what you been up to?" . She was all business, her open file in front of her, the agenda clear. After all, there was much to discuss.

Each meeting would follow the same format, flow, routine. Once the formalities had been settled, recorded, noted and done with, she would relax a little, move back in her seat, kick her shoes off and tuck her legs under her. He would loosen his tie. The waiter would be called back to the table; they would order a drink, and then another one. Sometimes it was wine, sometimes spirits and once even, cocktails. She would ask about the team, and he while he regaled her with their antics – the latest break ups and make ups, marriages, children, divorces – and the things that made the team, them – she would shift closer to him, her fingers edging towards his. Playing with the cuff of his shirt. His hand would hover, before gently falling onto her bare knee, caressing, soothing, her fingers continuing their dance up his arm, stroking the side of his face. He didn't ask her where she had been or where she was going, and she did not say. Could have been South America or South Africa for all he knew. That was their one unspoken, unwritten rule – nothing personal.

The first year, he couldn't resist and as she leaned in to pick up her drink, her elbow resting ever so casually on his shoulder, he kissed her, his eyes half-scrunched as he anticipated the blow that never came. Instead she kissed him back, feverishly. They all but staggered to the hotel reception, trying to desperately control their breathing, their wandering hands as he pulled his credit card out of his pocket and slapped it on the counter. They couldn't tear their eyes away from each other and later he wouldn't be able to say whether the concierge was male or female, black or white...

They barely made it to the hotel room, clothing scattered, limbs entwined. And in the darkness, it was like nothing had changed.

He wasn't surprised when he woke and she was gone, just her scent in the air and her marks on his skin for him to know it hadn't been dream.

That next day, he entered the bullpen with a spring in his step, a smile on his face. He told no one of what had unfolded, but they all knew that something had happened, that what ever it was, there were glimpses of the man he used to be. He teased McGee, and irritated Gibbs; he gave Abby a big kiss on the cheek and swung her around. He patted Ducky on the back and called him "Old Chap". They didn't know what brought about the change, but were grateful that he was finally back. Not just in body, but soul.

The second year, he booked a room in advance. And then wondered nervously if it was a foolish, forward thing to do. What if it was just a one time thing, what if he misread the signals, would she feel that he hadn't changed, that he just expected her to fall into bed with him? So, he kept the key card in his pocket, feeling the sharp corners of it digging into his hip each time he shifted in his seat, a reminder of what he hoped would follow. Once again, business first, then a few drinks, office gossip, light touching, her throaty laugh, his mischievous grin as they both pulled out key cards for rooms booked. They decided, in the elevator, as he nibbled on her throat, that it would be his responsibility, going forward.

The third year, she stayed the night, soft kisses and promises of return as dawn changed from purple, to pink, to fiery orange.

The forth year, they exchanged fevered whispers of lust and love, words that danced on the candle light and disappeared with the shadows.

The fifth year, he was late getting to their usual table, under the palm fronds, by the fountain.

The room had been booked, champagne on ice, rose petals littering the floor, the small blue signature box in his pant's pocket, enclosing the promise he was ready to make.

His speech planned, he knew it wouldn't be easy, but they could make it work. After all true love conquers all. Fairytales always have a happy ending and the princess gets her prince.

He had a jaunt in his step, whistling tunelessly as he made his way through the hotel lobby.

At first, he looked right through the man sitting in her usual seat, as he tried desperately to find her. Perhaps she had given up waiting, perhaps she was late, or perhaps...

It was while he was pondering these issues, that recognition flooded his memory. Why the man sitting in her seat looked so familiar, a man whom he had last bid goodbye all those years ago on the airstrip in Israel. Another life, another time, another memory. Mossad Officer Amit Hadar stood, uncomfortable with the duty he had been tasked with.

Without saying a word, Tony knew that there would be only one reason, and one reason only, why Ziva would not be meeting him today, the same reason why she wouldn't be there the next year, or the next, or ever again.

"I'm sorry," Hadar said playing with the envelope in his hands as Tony slumped into the chair next to him.

"How?" he asked, simply.

"She died the way she lived, and the way she wanted to – fighting. She died saving lives." Hadar answered, just as simply.

Tony nodded, seeing but not seeing.

"She left something for you," Hadar added quietly, pointing out what Tony had overlooked previously - a small boy, barely four and baby bassinet, with a sleeping newborn – mementoes from their first and last meetings.

Tony's eyes meet with Hadar's. The linage in the boy was unmistakable. Brown curly hair, mischievous green eyes, an impish smile and pointed chin - the best of both. He couldn't tell about the baby, except that she was very small, and very pink.

Hadar handed over the brown envelope, and with shaking fingers, Tony opened it. Slowly removing the contents, scanning each item, American birth certificates, legal documentation, everything was there.

He looked at the names printed: Jethro Anthony DiNozzo - he was right, the child was just on four and Caitlin Jennifer DiNozzo – six weeks old.

The small boy climbed off the chair, almost tripping on his long cargo pants. Stood solemnly in front of Tony, offering his hand. Hesitating slightly, Tony stretched his own out. Grinning, the little boy raised his hand and slid it past his ear, before coming back and giving a surprised Tony a high five. They stood looking at each other, sizing each other up, and then smiled widely – mirror images.

"She said the names would mean something to you, although we call him JT," Hadar said ruffling the little boy's hair. "She said that father figure or not, you would never allow a child of yours to be ridiculed on the playground because of his name."

At this, the baby snuffled and sighed. Hadar lifted her up out of the bassinet, as she stretched and curled her tiny body. He placed her in Tony's surprised arms. She opened her eyes, the same chocolate brown as her mother's, yawned widely and closed them again, clutching a piece of his tie in her tiny dimpled fist.

"Ziva knew that she was merely borrowing them, that they would be returned to their rightful place sooner or later – with you. She had just hoped it would be later rather than sooner and that she would have time to prepare you. She said that she would give them American rather than Hebrew names, but that their names have meaning, that they have been named for those who have grace and dignity, determination and spirit and that with the right guidance, that of their father, they will grow into the big names they have been given."

Hadar stood, continuing: "You will be okay, you can do this, and she knew that you have your family, Gibbs, Scuito and the others to help you when you need it."

He started to walk away, turned slightly and said quietly: "This will be the last time you will see me, but know that I will be seeing you, watching over you and the children, fulfilling the promise I made to her."

With this, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the lobby, leaving Tony with the little green-eyed boy with the mischievous grin, and a tiny baby with her mother's eyes.

Flipping open his phone, he called the familiar number. "Ah boss, you have a moment? I could really use your help."