Tiny Dancer

Rifiuto: Non Miriena

Summary: 'Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand...' One of Evan's one-shots he wrote a few years ago for Zani. I just switched the characters out for NCIS ones; she still keeps the original in a notebook on her desk. Eli David/McGiva. Tag to Shabbat Shalom.

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
you had a busy day today

- Elton John,

Tiny Dancer,

Madman Across the Water album,

1972

He watches her go down into plié, the erectness of her back holding her balance as she reaches for the book on the bottom shelf. Her hair falls out of the messy bun at the back of her head, one long strand of dark chocolate curling from the middle of the arrangement, waiting, beckoning for him to come to her. And then she's up, her heels back on the floor, the book in her arms, a smile on her face as she turns to face him.

"What? What are you staring at?"

He just shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing."

There was a time...

He turns his gaze back to the photographs he'd brought- photographs he never got a chance to show her during lunch today. A whole box full, of his little girl as she was growing up. With a sigh, he grabs the top one, holding it up to study it.

A little girl, in a pink tutu and ballet slippers, dancing on a stage with five other little girls.

She thinks he never came, that his work took precedence over her.

He pulls another photograph out of the box- in this one, the girl is about fifteen, in a long pink dress, balancing onstage in a pair of Pointe shoes, her arms up in Spanish fourth, long dark hair in a bun at the back of her head. But despite the cheerfulness of her costume, her eyes are dark, pained, cold, already turned from the loving girl he raised into the woman he crafted for Mossad.

It's the last time she ever put on a pair of toe shoes.

His tears drip onto the photograph, warping her features until he can't distinguish the child who ran to him from the woman who now turns away.

Oh, my Ziva, my tiny dancer, can you forgive a foolish old man...

She's humming along with the radio as she fixes the pesto for dinner that night. She's changed, into a pair of leggings and a tank top, an old ballet skirt wrapped around her waist, the black fabric flowing around her legs as she moves, dancing from one end of the kitchen to the other. Her hair is still a mess, and there is a streak of flour across her cheek from earlier, when she made the bread for dinner tonight, not that she cares.

He watches from the doorway, drawn from his writing by the lilt of her voice. She's barefoot, her toes pointing and her legs extending as she moves, her arms gathering and flowing with each movement. She doesn't realize that she's being watched, as she dances in the kitchen for an audience of one-

The man who took the place of another within her heart.

Yes, he's seen the photographs she keeps hidden in the shoe box in the bottom of their closet; he found the Pointe shoes worn out from hours of practice and countless classes in Tel Aviv... and the new shoes, the ones she never got to wear, for the roles she never got to play, and the songs she never got to dance to. Without a word, he returns to his writing, images of a little girl he never got to know, and the woman he fell in love with dancing in his head.

She's sitting at a small table at their local cafe in Georgetown, with him, her husband- the man she married against her faith, against his wishes. The computer geek, the secret author of the team, the man she fell in love with years after coming to the team he sent her to infiltrate in order to gain control of her brother. From his vantage point across the street, he can watch as they sit at the small table outside; heads bent together, voices soft, hands laced, wedding rings sparking in the light. Two cups of steaming coffee sit between them, not that they notice.

And then suddenly, she leans over the table and kisses him.

He watches as they leave the cafe and head down the street; keeping a good pace behind them, he stops at a newspaper koisk directly across from the store window they've stopped in front of. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him that it's a clothing boutique, a children's one- with little dresses on the mannequins and toys set up in the window. She curls into her husband's side, nodding to the little pink dress in the display. They share a soft kiss, that soon turns deep, and when they part, his breath catches.

She's surprised, to say the least, when she opens the door to find him standing on the other side. "Abba..."

He smiles softly, his gaze quickly moving over her small form. Tears come to his eyes as he notices the soft swell beneath her dress; suddenly, his little girl is all soft curves and gentle lines, her body giving way to make room for the child forming within her- the child created out of love and passion and music.

"Ziva, what's wro-" Her husband soon joins her at the door, and he's just as shocked to see him there. "Eli, what are you-"

"... came to see my daughter, if that is all right." He whispers, gaze going to the young man who has made his only surviving daughter so happy. This... computer geek has given her the one thing his child had never thought possible. "May I come in?"

A moment passes before they step aside, allowing him entry. The three stand in awkward silence for several minutes before she offers him a seat on the sofa, and then slowly sits beside him. The soft mound beneath her dress is even more prominent as she sits beside him. "When did you get here-"

"How far along are you?" Father and daughter share a glance, both falling silent. She glances over her shoulder as her husband returns with a cup of coffee, which he holds out to his father-in-law, and a glass of water for her, that she accepts with a kiss. He settles beside her, taking her hand.

"What are you doing here, Abba?" He sighs.

"Can a father not come visit his daughter, Zivaleh? Must you always question my motives?" He meets his daughter's gaze, and she swallows, her hands moving to caress the child residing within her, protecting it. He sighs, and pulls something from his coat pocket, holding it out to her. "I have always been proud of you, my Ziva. Never more so than when you were onstage."

Slowly, she takes the objects- photographs of her as a child, as a teenager, dancing onstage, first in ballet slippers and then in Pointe shoes. Her breath hitches and she looks up at him, tears beginning to prick her eyes. "You... came..."

"I was always there, Zivaleh. I would not miss my little ballerina." His gaze moves down to her stomach, and slowly, he reaches out. She chokes on a sob.

"We are having a girl... we are naming her Rivka..."

"Your mother would be honored, Ziva." She gives him a watery smile, laughing softly as the baby kicks against her father's hand. "She is already a dancer, like her Ima."

He watches from the kitchen doorway as she sets another place at the table, as she mixes the pesto into the pasta. Despite her growing midsection, she's light on her feet as she dances around the kitchen, lost in the music wafting from the radio. It's not the Jazz her husband enjoys or the pop she likes, but old school rock; Elton John to be exact. Perhaps his most underrated hit.

"She's beautiful, and she grows more beautiful every day." He turns, as his son-in-law joins him, his green eyes filling with love and a smile playing on his lips. "And with our child in her..." The young agent chuckles. "you'd think the pregnancy would wear her down but... she's never had more energy than she does now." He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches his wife. "She's given me the most amazing gift I could ever ask for. She's making me a father. We're going to have a tiny dancer of our own soon."

He glances at the young man who's made his daughter so happy. She turns to them, suddenly embarrassed to have been caught dancing. Silence surrounds him as he watches his son-in-law goes to her, taking her in his arms. The kiss is soft and tender; slowly, one hand comes up to rest against her belly, and she covers his hand with hers.

Without a word, he turns, joining his wife. "Did you make amends, Eli, my love?"

Silently, he takes her hand, pulling her her into his arms. "Dance with me, Rivka." They turn back as their daughter takes her husband's hands and tugs him into a dance there in the kitchen. She settles against him, their fingers lacing as they sway softly to the music, their hands resting over her tummy, cradling the little girl who will grow up wearing pink tutus and dancing in her mother's unused Pointe shoes. He watches as Tim presses a kiss to her head, whispering those three words he himself never said enough when she was growing up. As they disappear, his penance fulfilled, he turns back; she's still in his arms, the pair swaying gently to the music.

One day, my Ziva, you will find a man who will pull you into his arms and dance with you...