Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.

Spoilers: Spoilers to 10x20 "Chasing Ghosts" and speculations to 10x21 "Berlin," though I doubt that you'd be entirely certain which part of "Berlin" I'm speculating about if you haven't read the spoilers. There's a mystery :P

Enjoy!

-Soph

P.S. For the record, I don't believe this will happen, lol. I'm just having fun here. But then again, if I were to write about what I really thought would happen, I wouldn't be writing about much at all :P

The Remembrance

He found her on the rooftop of the bar, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight from where he was standing.

She sat straight-backed, her hands seemingly folded in her lap and her legs dangling over a ledge which was the only thing that would have separated her from a twenty-foot plunge to the dusty ground far below. As it was, the ledge was utterly useless, and it made his heart race and palms sweaty as he approached her.

"Hey," he murmured quietly, and the night air stole his voice.

She wouldn't do anything stupid, right?

She sniffled and brought a hand up to her cheek, but answered to his greeting, and it made the vice-like grip around his heart unclench a little.

He lifted and dropped his shoulders awkwardly. "So."

"Yes?" she asked.

"I, um—" He paused, shuffling on his feet to perch tentatively, front facing inwards, beside her on the ledge. Once settled, he fidgeted with his hands; he had no words to describe how he was feeling right now. "I'm … sorry."

"For what?" She sounded like she genuinely didn't know.

"I don't know…" he started haltingly, "what I did wrong, but it's clear that what happened downstairs should not have happened."

"You think we should not have danced?"

"Well, I mean, not that there's anything wrong with dancing, but … you're crying, Zi. You're sitting up here on a roof, crying, and I'm … scared."

She turned to him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight even as they remained uncomprehending, and something deep in his chest twisted. And then she looked away—and just like that, the sad expression returned.

"My abba used to dance with me." His mouth formed an unspoken Oh, and she continued, "It was a little routine we used to have: The first thing he did upon coming back from assignments was always to dance with me. Not even Tali first—it was always me. And it was something we kept until my mother took me and my siblings away."

She paused in her monologue, and he took the time to process what she had said; to wonder if what they had done downstairs had reminded her a little bit too much of her father.

"Tonight, we danced," she said, "and the only thing on my mind was … how well we fit together. You and me, I mean." This time, her eyes glimmered with tears when she met his gaze. "I'm forgetting my father."

He furrowed his brows. "Ziv—"

"I used to dance with my father all the time, and now that he has passed away, I am-… I am forgetting that fact." She brushed underneath her nose roughly. "I should not move on; I should not be able to move on. But tonight, when we were dancing, all I could think about was you and how much I liked you, and that's wrong."

And the plaintive cry tore right through his heart, making his breath catch in his throat even though he had no idea if it was her perception of mourning or the admission of her heretofore-unspoken-of feelings that dazed him more. He swallowed once, twice, trying to find the right thing to say or do or anything … and in the end, he found that the only thing which felt like it fit was reaching out to wrap his hand around hers.

It didn't make her move closer, but she didn't pull away, either.

"There's nothing wrong with feeling even after experiencing a loss, Ziva," he whispered, and she shook her head. He persisted. "It's true. You don't stop … caring about the ones you care about because you lost a loved one."

"But I am the last one of my family," she answered, and her voice sounded raw with pain. "I should feel emptier than I do. Instead, I am sitting here, comforted by the fact that you are here; and I just s-should hurt more than I do. But I can't. I still manage to go in to work every day and pretend like I am fine, and sometimes that makes me wonder if I am so quick in forgetting the man who raised me to be the woman I am today."

He remained silent, and she took a deep, open-mouthed breath that made it seem as if she was trying to keep from suffocating under the weight of the problems on her chest. When she started to blink rapidly, he tugged on her hand; she swung her legs one by one back over the ledge and allowed him gently slide her down to the floor. Only then, comforted by the knowledge that they weren't likely to topple over and to the ground with a single misstep, did he tuck her securely into his arms.

"Y'know … we wouldn't be so set on finding Bodnar if you'd forgotten Eli," he mumbled.

"I know," she answered. "But we are not doing enough, are we? It is three months later, and we are still no closer to finding Bodnar than we were. I should have given up more time for this pursuit; I should not have been so distracted. I—"

"Don't call me a distraction," he said mildly, and she scowled as best she could with the tear tracks still streaking her face. "But you know what I think, Ziva? I think that if you'd dedicated more time to finding Bodnar, then we wouldn't be here right now. At least, I wouldn't be here, and you—you would be too consumed by bloodlust to even be aware of what you were doing at any moment in time. I would never want that for you, Ziva."

It was evident his sudden insistence had caught her off-guard, because she was utterly still for a beat or two. Eventually, though, she relaxed—inch by inch—until her head was on his shoulder and her hand rested high on his abdomen.

"There's nothing wrong with feeling how you do, Ziva," he reiterated, laying his free hand atop hers and lightly squeezing. "You are alive; your father's not. He wouldn't blame you for trying to look for something to live for. It's just human nature, y'know? We move on—even as we remember—because time ticks on and we're not made to mourn forever."

"I just feel like I should have mourned for longer."

He pursed his lips. He honestly had no response to that: More than twenty years after his mother died, he still felt like he'd moved on far too quickly.

So, he just pressed his lips into the warmth of her hair and said, "Yeah, I get it."

She shuddered, a sob catching in her throat. "Promise me something."

"Yeah?"

"Promise me I'll never forget Eli."

"You won't," he reassured her. "I won't let you. You're gonna be calling me up sixty years from now asking me about random facts so that you can tell your great-grandchildren about the kind of man he was."

That made her laugh, even as another bead of liquid made its way down her cheek. She turned her face into the lapels of his grey suit, finally permitting herself to soak up the comfort he was offering her—

And that was when he pulled her closer and told himself that yeah, it would only be too soon before he let Ziva forget the remembrance of her father.