Disclaimer: Don't own NCIS or its characters.
A/N: With the lack of TIVA on the show, I'd lost inspiration for my NCIS stories and hoping that it would inspire it once again I decided to write New Families from scratch. It seemed to have worked because I was able to finish it, so here is the new and improved rendition of New Families. Enjoy!
It is not flesh and blood but the heart, which makes us fathers and sons. ~Johann Schiller
Prologue
As a child Ziva David had quickly learned she could not count on her father except for one thing, breaking promises. Broken promises had become the one constant she knew she could count on appearing in her life. Promises made and broken, turning them into wounding lies. A cycle she knew very well.
The latest encounter with her oldest friend - here to relive old demons - had been in the chilling nights of the desert broken and alone, her promise of never allowing anything to make her so vulnerable whispered into the barren cell. That night something within her had sparked her untapped hope - carefully built over the years with Abby's overwhelming urge to crack down her carefully built walls- that she would make it home. It had been the last, for the days to come had made her break the promise time and time again.
This time was no different. Sitting upright, her husband's hand between her shoulder blades for support, her promise would be broken once again unbeknownst by her. Both had been a bundle of nerves as they'd walked into the office, awaiting news that would set the course of their life. "There's just too much damage." Though simple words laced with sympathy and sorrow, it is a weapon. They are the fabricators of such sorrow, inanimate beings that hold so much power. But there is no way to hurt the words without injuring the carriers who only try to ease the reciprocation of the stab and penetration of the words. For they are weapons capable of mass destruction.
Her life revolves around destruction: her family, Mossad and more often than not, NCIS. Her encounter with the joy of mending a life is almost nonexistent, though not by choice. She'd been raised as a weapon, the irony of it all.
After Somalia, she'd been granted a second chance at life. One she certainly didn't deserve but never once took lightly. She would invoke herself in more creation than destruction. But with that chance came stipulations she had not agreed too and just as easily it's snatched.
Her life and happy ending with Tony had been at the expense of another; again a broken promise of no destruction. She would never bare a child.
There's just too much damage. The words like a broken tape recorder taunt her mind; never leaving her at rest. The hold too strong, the claim fierce and it will never let go again.
After years of nightmares, emotional and physical reminders, Somalia had become but a distant memory, suppressed and stored in a locked box. But five words have unlocked the box she's worked so hard to put away, and transformed Somalia into a boomerang, resurfacing to return to its origin, leaving nothing but pain and suffering in its path.
The desert like a sand storm had taken so much, leaving nothing but the carcass of a once warrior woman behind. And again, it continues to take; soon there will be nothing left of this once hardened assassin.
Tony had been her rebirth. Like a snake she'd shed her skin the last night of her capture. The skin of a broken and fragile woman had replaced the Mossad assassin. Her second chance and the desert had claimed its hold on this too. Her family would never grow.
There's just too much damage. There will always be too much damage.
Part I
The winds of the night creep through the cracks of their bedroom window attune to the owner's desires. Like a fined instrument, it plays the well-orchestrated symphony of jovial children. It is not a one man's show, for the moon joins in at the chorus, using its light to engage with darkness, creating the cherub faces masterpiece.
The show is not well reciprocated by its audience for it is an unwelcomed surprise. It's been a restless night. Somalia had been left behind a year ago, but like a hound dog it's sniffed her fear and found her once again. The trail of another broken promise has led Somalia to her and its left her with internal wounds. She will not bare a child.
Somalia destructs while the lingering winds in her bedroom appear as a beacon of hope. "It will all be okay." They whisper to her.
They grace her with a dream, vivid and peaceful. Small children are crafted within a backdrop of waves and sand castles. The dream is intricate, laughter, the sound of the waves as they dissolve towards the shore and the warm glow of the sun against her tanning skin. She closes her book, tucking it away in her beach bag and she raises her sunglasses for a better view of the children that call out to her. "Ima!"
Her dream self doesn't hesitate to rise from the lounge chairs and approaches the children calling out to her, their mother. Though she moves her legs quickly, her pace is a slow one and it seems that the distance extends out with each step she takes forward. Her hand extended she calls for them, but the sunshine transforms into a darkened sky and as she screams for help the beach scene transitions to an all too familiar cold cell looming with pain.
The feel of the blade at her throat is not an unfamiliar feeling, but she's rusty after many months away. It's sharper than she remembers, the blade at her throat and suddenly as she becomes aware that the slightest of movement will part the skin, she becomes paralysed. She does not need another scar added to the endless list for she doesn't want to return too marred. That is if she returns. But on this night, she holds on to hope that her best friend will rescue her and return her home. Home, where that is she doesn't know anymore.
The blade stays at her throat as Saleem unbuckles his belt and she shudders at what is to come. He is never gentle, but tonight he's rougher than he's been throughout her capture. Not only does he mark her back once again, he throws her against the wall, immobilising her. Resistance only angers him.
His pants are lowered and he's pressing himself against her rigid body. The rubble floor digs into her back and crawls into her open wounds, infecting them once again. She focuses on that pain instead of Saleem inching closer and closer to her. She stiffens but in the past it has only proven to be more painful, tearing at her insides and it's easier to focus on her other wounds.
"Come back to me Ziva," she hears his voice and Saleem stops. Suddenly he's clothed and exiting her cell, leaving her to rest for the night. They'd be back in the morning more than one at once; it was what happened when he was not satisfied with her.
She crawls to her corner, the only place in the cell that she feels safe. Closing her eyes, she wills to hear his voice once again and she does. His voice is so close and her heart pangs at him to return to her.
"Breath it out, babe." She hears his voice and she grasps to it, closing her eyes to picture him there. Reassuring her in the cold night, alone locked in the cell. It wasn't unusual for her in the dark of the night, the cool air piercing her freshly cut wounds, her body violated, to conjure up the images of the man that had sent her life in a frenzy. But even then, she'd known she'd been wrong. It had been her who'd betrayed him. She wanted to make it out alive to apologise, to ask for his forgiveness and fix things between the two.
Deep down, she knew, knew that there was no way she would ever make it out of the desert. So why, why was she torturing herself in living?
"You're home honey, you're okay." How many times had his voice reassured her in the dead of the night? How many times had she wished for it to be true? To open her eyes and find herself wrapped in his arms and how many times had she been disappointed? She was not willing to take that chance, but he felt so real. His arms around her felt heavy against her frame and she'd contemplated that maybe this wasn't conjured by her needy imagination.
"Return to me, honey." He murmurs in her ear, his warm breath tickling on the way in. Huddled in her corner, she can picture it all too well. Them cuddled on their bed, in their room, in their house because after he'd rescued her from Somalia she'd like to believe they'd fixed their problems.
It takes more coaxing, practice of a once steady routine lost. A kiss to her temple sends her eyes open of their own accord. Never in her pain induced hallucinations had he'd proved so affectionate. He had to be real and once her eyes open they find him staring at her.
"Want to talk about it?" She hardly talks about her dreams, fearing that her bedroom would turn into the cell that had been her home for so long.
She shakes her head and curls deeper into her husband. Cold hits her back and she turns to find that he has made his way out of the bed and heads towards the door. "Where are you going?" She turns to face him; tightening the sheets around her to provide the warmth her husband has left her yearning for.
He stops, hand clutching at the door and cracking it slightly. "I was going to make you some tea."
Though tea would be calming for her body she just needs his body at her side; something to hold on to keep her in reality. She shakes her head, her arms wrapping around her body in a protective manner. Her heart is the most vulnerable. "No, stay."
He returns to their bed, settling in next to her and he stays, wrapped around her body the entire night, protecting her from nightmares and the reassuring whispers that it would all be okay. For things were far from okay.
...
"Stop staring Tony," chocolate eyes glued to her paperwork, she chastises her procrastinating husband. The day is filled with paperwork and with the anniversary today, she wants it to stay that way. A few more hours and, if no call is made to the MCRT team then they are home free.
Silence lingers among them, nothing but the scratch of a pen against a hard surface fills the void. This is hard on both of them. Though she blames herself for all their suffering. She makes it harder on herself.
"I was just-" he sighs heavily. He continues to provide an empty explanation but it is unheard as Ziva fills in his moment of pause with her own finish, 'watching to make sure she does not self-destruct'.
"I am okay." She waves him off. One lie after another, but she just needed to be okay long enough to make it home tonight. There she was safe to not be okay.
One shoulder rises and drops. A sigh that cuts through the cloud of silence sends an uneasy feeling shooting through her back. Apparently that isn't what he'd meant to say. "What is wrong?" What isn't wrong, but their real problems are stowed away once they step foot into the building.
She crosses the distance to his desk, standing stiffly at the edge. Her calloused hands come to sit atop his forearm to ease him towards talking. "Dad's coming into town and after the week we've had and now this," he sighs. "I just don't know if it's such a good idea."
She understands. His father is a whirlwind when he visits, destroying everything in his path. She didn't need more destruction in her life; Somalia was enough. But Tony and his father's relationship was improving and Ziva didn't want to stunt their progress by postponing Senior's visit. She would lock away all her issues for now and enjoy his short visit. "He will provide a distraction. Something we desperately need."
His shoulder rises and falls and suddenly his lap has sparked his attention. Though their relationship is on the mend, it is still rocky. "He will ask about grandchildren after his visit with her." The her he refers to is his father's new girlfriend. She's from a big family and suddenly Senior has become quite the family man; something that didn't sit well with her husband. He'd change for some woman but never for the son who had lost his mother and needed the love of his father.
She knew that was a question they would receive soon enough, but for now it was too fresh. "And we will explain but we will not dwell." Easier said than done. His eyes leave his lap at her words. "He will understand, Tony." Another lie in order to ease away the pain.
"After this I am taking you away. Just you, me and the lovely California beach." That sounded quite lovely. They needed time away; away from their life, their problems and their issues.
Her knuckles skid over his cheek. Her lips itch to have his taste on hers. But they must act professional, the requirement of allowing this relationship to come to fruition. Instead she sits at the edge of his desk, his hand coming to rest on her thigh. "Mhmm, I like that idea."
His fingers curl around hers, bringing her hand up to his lips, a kiss. "We'll put in the request for next month."
Her response is interrupted by the gruff call "DiNozzo! David!" And both jump from Tony's desk at their boss's call. 'No fraternisation or I'll move one of you to another team', comes Gibbs's words. She sighs.
"If I have to repeat myself one more time you two will be working the weekend shift." And this was no open threat. He would remove one of them if it meant the best for his team. He still abided by rule 12, but this was Tony and Ziva. The pair didn't abide by rules. But now, that was not a chance the pair was willing to take. Not with Somalia looming over their heads.
Behind the safety of Tony's chair her hand brushes over her husband's, her hand tingling with the desire to his touch. She goes to speak, her body rigid, squared off, but Tony stutters "y-yes boss" before she is able to.
Keys are thrown their way, caught by her stealth hands and placed in her husband's waiting palm. "Dead petty officer, grab your gear." Comes tumbling out of his mouth and he rushes towards the elevator. "Call McGee," he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the elevator.
He takes her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "Soon Zi. Soon it'll be just the two of us and the California sun."
As appealing as that sounded, the getaway they desperately needed; the words just the two of us were as much a blessing as a curse. It would always just be the two of them, Somalia has made certain of that.
...
Worry has a tight vice around her heart, constricting tighter with each step towards the house. A methodically crafted warrior, she's able to fight off the hold with her inner strength. She must never be weak and vulnerable. Though as she captures pictures, unease wrecks her body and there is nothing she can do to shake it. The two bodies that lay face down in their living room floor is not what has her on edge, she's done this countless of times; nothing has her quite like this.
Click. Click. Click. Breath in. Click. Breath out. Her mind is not registering the tale she knows Ducky must be regaling as he examines the bodies or the grumble of frustration Gibbs releases as he coaxes a time of death from the medical examiner. It is all static and slow moving objects as she continues with her job. The pictures hardly register, if she's taken appropriate ones she is unsure, but there is a strong pull towards the upstairs.
She does not hear her husband or McGee as they fiddle about their job. Does not hear his heavy footsteps as he joins them in the living room or the hand that comes to rest on her shoulder ever so gently. What she does hear are four words that send her for a spin, "boss they have a daughter." A child. Orphaned. The grip constricts tightly on her lungs.
She misses the rest of her husband's explanation, only hears Gibbs orders to search the house and she doesn't hesitate to follow behind him. Only to be stopped by Gibbs.
The team doesn't know about their attempts for a child, about the failure she is of a woman, about the damage Somalia has caused. No one but her husband shares this burden. The others are clueless to the fact that these words are clawing at her insides. Why she needs to do this, she doesn't understand.
"Pictures agent David." He's stern; not content with the defilement his agents have shown over the last couple of weeks. But he just doesn't know, if he did, he'd understand. Or so she'd like to believe. He was her father. She'd chosen him.
"I would like to help." She stands her ground, a fierce warrior on the outside, a struggling barren woman on the inside.
She feels Tony's hand come to rest on her lower back. He mumbles something about moral support. "It's a big house, I could use the help."
"Go," he ruffs out.
The pair takes off. Ziva runs up the stairs, slowing when she's reached the landing and searches the entirety of the upstairs to no avail. The last door she comes across and she's greeted with an ivory hue, a light pink cursive M adorning the door; a little girl's room.
The grip is tighter. Too much damage.
Shaking hand greets cold metal, a whining creek from the knob, as its forced to work for the first time today. The room does not display the scene that her mind has conjured; no blood splatter replacing the hues of the wall, cracked furniture or signs of struggle, but overall no injured child.
She sucks in a breath, the air toxic for her lungs. It's not air she needs to keep living; it's something entirely different. In a trance, she continues to the closet, slender fingers run through tiny clothes and she wonders if she'll ever possess anything that small. Wonders if she'll ever posses a child of her own.
Too much damage.
No sign of a baby she finds. "Downstairs clear," comes her husband's voice. Not one easily startled – years of training in place – there's a slight flinch to her shoulders and she faces the wall. Colour covers her olive cheeks and her hands wrap around her chest. Her heart is too vulnerable. If her husband speaks she is unaware. Her mind focuses on her barren womb and the missing child. The rest is blocked out.
"Zi?" He tries again. This time a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. It's the only way to grab her attention.
She shutters in a breath; daggers against her lungs. "Hey, you okay?" His voice is laced with concern, but she can't do this at the moment. One word about it and she'll completely break down. Then what would they tell them?
"Not here Tony." She sucks in a break. "We need to find her." Never has she been so determined to solve a case.
She feels as his hand wraps around her wrist but makes no effort to move, stays plastered to her spot. "Maybe you should sit this one out Zi."
That she wouldn't do. "I have to find her." The words are a plea.
"McGee, Gibbs and I will take care of that, go home." He tugs her along, out of the room and carefully down the stairs, towards their boss. She knows her husband knows that she will not leave of her own volition; it would have to be an order she could not disobey.
Their boss waits for news, the bodies loaded, the evidence stowed, it is the child they wait for. "So?" He is not a patient man.
She does not hear the interaction between her husband and boss, her mind clouded with such sorrow. She knows he is at her side, his hand protective at the small of her back. Her husband's right, she needs to bench herself. But she won't, someone needs to find the baby.
"David!" Her focus returns to her disgruntled boss. She'd spaced again and he'd been calling her. This was not helping her case. "Where's your head?"
"I'm fine." Her go-to phrase even she rarely believes flows off her tongue. She's not fine and she's not making an effort to show it at all.
"Like hell, you're riding with Ducky-"
She takes a defensive position, her body growing tense, her hands fisting at her sides. "I want to help."
"This is an order and I want you to clear your head before we return." He stands firm, but Ziva is not intimidated. Her will is much stronger, the pull of her motherly instincts overbearing. She will win.
"Gibbs," she protests. "I want to help." She repeats, her voice softer, vulnerable. She will play the daughter card.
His eyes soften and his hand rests on her shoulder. "Why is this so important Ziva?"
She freezes. This was not something she was willing to share as of yet. It was not a failure she wished to share. She would not burden her family. "Because I-" slips out, but she bites her tongue and sighs. She shakes her head, her vision at her feet and she returns her gaze towards her boss. "It just is. Please Gibbs, let me help."
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry Ziver, an order is an order."
She could not disobey an order. Though it was for the best. A clouded judgment would lead to her destruction; Somalia was a prime example.