A/N: As much as I hated DiNozzo's last episode, I love to write angst and well, there's plenty of room for angst. So, this is canon, kind of. I should write more of To the Sea but I am not in the right mindset for it (don't worry, I anticipated this would happen and there is a buffer so chapters will continue to be posted). I need to get a few other things out first.

I might have some minor events way out of order and you'll have to excuse me for that. Also, we seem to know that DiNozzo's birthday is July 19 but it seems that there is some discrepancy as to what year. We're going to go with 1972, to make him 10 years older than Ziva. It's just easier.

Rated T because I sometimes like to curse like a sailor.

Edited: Had to fix line break issues.

The first Christmas she spent in the US was baffling. All the Christmas traditions - the songs, the Secret Santa gift exchange, they were all foreign to her. She celebrated Hanukkah. Although no one else on her team did, she enjoyed giving little presents on each of the eight days to McGee and Ducky. Gibbs couldn't be bothered with the exchanging of gifts for any holiday, as far as she could tell, but she still slipped a small box onto his desk when he went out for a coffee break on the last day of Hanukkah. He opened it when he returned to his desk and smiled at the small metal flask with the inscription in Hebrew.

She never translates the inscription for him and he never asks her to, but when she visits his basement years later, she sees it sitting on a shelf, shining in the dim light.

There were no Hanukkah presents for Tony, although she could tell he felt left out when she handed McGee a little wooden dreidel Christmas ornament on the eighth day - "a bridging of the two holidays," she explained to him. The young agent thanked her, mentioning something about a Chrismukkah that she did not entirely understand.

Tony had the same look he had when he found out that she had had a dinner party and invited all of her coworkers, except for him. She could never tell if he was hurt more by being excluded in general or by the implication that she did not want to spend time outside of work with him. She didn't invite him expressly because she wanted to mess with him and unconsciously because she wanted an excuse to cook dinner for just the two of them.

She never admits the second part of that to him or anyone else.

But she had grander plans for him that holiday season. They had recently gone undercover as Sophie and Jean-Paul, and the unexpected heat between them as they pretended to be married and in love wouldn't leave her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to purge them.

She knew he felt the spark as well and they both had fun teasing each other with it for years afterward, even after their relationship turned from testy to genuine friendship and then evolved into something undefinable.

The present was wrapped neatly in the most aggressively bright wrapping paper that she could find at the store. There was no tag to identify it as from her, but she knew he would understand the note she left in the small card attached to the big red, green, and gold bow that adorned the top of the box.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, she arrived at the office before anyone else - as usual - and set the garishly wrapped present on his desk. She went through her usual routine of getting coffee and checking her email as the others filtered in.

As usual, Tony was the last to enter the bullpen. She pretended to be busy working on paperwork - there was so much more paperwork to do here than she had to do with Mossad - as he sauntered over to his desk, humming a song under his breath that she figured must be Christmas-related. She kept her eyes on her computer screen but followed his movements out of the corner of her eye.

He saw the present - it was hard to ignore, which was the point - and frowned at it. "Did anyone see who left this?" he asked to no one in particular. She ticked her eyes toward him and shrugged nonchalantly. The others shook their heads. He picked it up and shook it a little. The little card fell off its perch on the bow and he picked it up between his thumb and index finger. "It better not have the plague in it," she heard him mutter. She had forgotten that he had contracted the plague from an unmarked envelope but she figured his curiosity would get the better of him. He carefully opened the envelope, making sure to hold it away from him just in case.

Once he saw that nothing was in there except a card, he relaxed. He read the simple message to himself - "For the next time we go undercover" - and knew he understood who it was from. He looked up at her, a DiNozzo grin on his face. She kept her eyes glued to the report that she knew she would have to rewrite later when she wasn't so distracted.

He tore into the wrapping paper and almost laughed out loud.

It was honey dust.

The summer Gibbs retired to Mexico and Tony was team leader was a tough time. Suddenly thrust into a leadership role he thought he always wanted, he found himself grasping for straws more than he would ever admit. He is not sure he would have gotten through that summer without Ziva's encouragement and friendship.

He began showing up at her apartment once or twice a week, depending on whether they had an active case or not, take out in one hand and a few DVDs in the other. Ostensibly, it was to educate her in American cinema, but in reality, he sought her advice. Despite her young age, she had been in more sticky situations than him and she had learned a lot through osmosis with her father as longtime Deputy Director of Mossad. She was a good sounding board for him, unafraid to challenge him and make him look at things from a different angle.

As they watched a Bond movie - he can no longer remember which one - she turned to him suddenly and said, "Don't bring take out next Friday. It is your birthday, so I will cook for you. And I will not veto your movie choice."

He wanted to ask her how she knew it was his birthday but then he remembered that she had files on all of them. Her cooking was delicious, so he wasn't about to argue. Plus, she said he could pick the movie. True, he always picked the movie, really, but he at least gave her a choice of a few.

On Friday, he showed up at her door as usual, Casablanca DVD in hand. She looked at the movie in his hand with a slight frown. "Didn't we just watch that a couple of weeks ago?" she asked.

"Yes, but you said I could choose. And it's my favorite," he replied, triumphantly.

She sighed and relented. "Dinner is ready."

Dinner was saltimbocca alla romana, and he had to admit that she had a way with veal. Red wine accompanied the meal, with cannoli for dessert. By the end of it, he was supremely satisfied and stuffed. "For an Israeli, you sure know how to cook an Italian meal," he praised her.

She smiled at him over her wine glass, a genuine smile that crinkled her eyes. The kind that always made him feel like he had just had a glass of really good champagne.

After loading the dishes into the dishwasher, she joined him on the couch with her glass and a fresh bottle of wine. They watched Casablanca side by side on the couch, his shoes kicked off and feet on top of a throw pillow on the coffee table. She was curled up in a way that reminded him vaguely of a cat.

On any other day, she would whack him on the arm or leg if he mouthed too many lines from the movie - "It is distracting!" she would explain, exasperated. But because it was his birthday, she kept her mouth shut when he mouthed all the best lines.

As the credits rolled, she uncurled and stretched, arms above her head, exposing a tantalizing inch of skin at her waist. He watched her, enjoying the show, head slightly fuzzy from a fair share of the two bottles of wine they had consumed. "Are you staying the night?" she asked him casually. Sometimes when he had too much to drink or was just too tired to drive home, he commandeered her couch.

He nodded, and she walked over to her linen closet to pull out a pillow and throw it at him. She came back to the couch with a blanket. He put the pillow at the end of the couch and stretched out on the couch, wriggling until he found a comfortable position.

She gave him another crinkly eyed smile and bid him good night. Then she did something she had never done before and which he did not expect - she leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Happy birthday, Tony," she said softly.

He still thinks this ranks as one of his best birthdays.

The first weekend after he returned from being agent afloat, she showed up at his door. He didn't need to look through the peephole to know it was her. He was simultaneously expecting her and hoping she wouldn't come. He thought about not answering the door. It was 2230 and he was half in a bottle of whisky, a Bond marathon on tv. He just wanted to watch an undisputedly good guy defeat undisputedly bad guys and be drunk. During all his months afloat, he couldn't drink and while he knows it was best in the long run for his liver, he missed the taste of whisky.

He told himself he wasn't drinking to forget. It wasn't working anyway. He could remember everything.

Another knock, this one louder and sharper. He sighed. It was unlikely that she would let up until he let her in and his neighbors were likely to complain about the noise. He got up and slowly made his way to the door. He opened it an inch and there she was, wearing a dark red thigh-length jacket and a frown. Without waiting for an invitation, she barged past him.

"Sure, come on in," he muttered, closing the door and turning to face her. She was standing in his living room, hands on her hips, purse on the floor by her feet. He had a quick thought that he was glad looks really couldn't kill, because she was staring angry daggers at him. "What?" he asked, sharper than he intended. He crossed his arms across his chest and steadily returned her glare.

He watched her shoulders and chest rise and fall as she took a deep breath. Her eyes flicked momentarily to the bottle of whisky on his coffee table then focused back on him. "Why did you not respond to my emails?" she demanded.

"You're still stuck on this?" His look was one of incredulity. He could see the hurt in her eyes when she had asked him before why he did not call her over the summer. But he figured she would just compartmentalize her feelings the way she compartmentalized everything. Including the death of Jenny Shepard.

Her jaw clenched visibly. "Yes!" she hissed between set teeth.

Before he answered her, he needed to ask. "Why?"

At this non-answer, her nostrils flared. She took another deep breath and was silent for a long moment. He thought maybe she wasn't going to answer, thus allowing him to win whatever game they were playing. Finally, in a more controlled voice, she responded. "Because it may be difficult for you to see through your self pity, but this happened to me, too," she said, mimicking his body language and crossing her arms across her chest. "Jenny was more than the director - she was a friend. And I lost her and my position at NCIS all at once. And you were not there."

Her expression had turned from anger to hurt. For a split second, he thought he saw moisture in her eyes but then she blinked and it was gone. The guilt crept back in and settled deep in his stomach. She was right, of course. Jenny had been a good director and he respected her, but she was not his friend. Ziva had come to NCIS because of a position that Jenny created for her trusted friend. Then she had been killed and Ziva's world got turned upside down. Being recalled to Israel was likely as torturous for her as being Agent Afloat had been for him.

He was supposed to be her closest friend in the States. And he abandoned her for his own crushing guilt and misery. All the self-righteous anger left his body and he sat down heavily on the couch. Now it was his time to sigh deeply. "No, I wasn't there," he said quietly, looking at the ground.

"I was miserable back at Mossad, and I needed my friend," she said, moving around the coffee table to sit next to him. "I needed you."

This was the first time he had ever heard her say she needed anyone and he could tell how difficult it was for her. She rarely showed emotion, to the point where he sometimes wondered if she was a robot.

He took her hand and she looked up at him, surprised. "I'm sorry," he told her.

She nodded, accepting his apology. She took a swig from his whisky bottle and stood. "I brought you a present," she explained as she went over to the purse she had deposited on his floor in anger.

It took his whisky-dulled brain a moment to catch up to her sudden change in topic. "Why?"

"A welcome home gift." She straightened, a present shaped like a DVD box in her hand. She sat back down and handed it to him.

He opened it. "Munich," he read.

"We had plans to go see it at the cheap theater the weekend we returned from Los Angeles. Instead, you got sent to a boat and I was sent to Israel. At least now we will be able to watch it."

He gave her a smile, remembering their plans. She tilted her head to the side and returned his smile. It felt like they had not smiled at each other in an eternity.

This was the moment he knew that they would be okay.

It was his birthday and he just couldn't find the energy to give a damn.

What did it matter anyway? He was getting older. Big deal. He felt older, for one, and he did not appreciate it. For another, everyone got older.

Except Ziva. She would never get older. She would be the same age forever, her body trapped forever on a sunken ship aptly named the Damocles.

With great power comes great responsibility.

With great love comes the possibility of great loss. That was the sword of Damocles that hung over every couple in love.

Except he never got the chance to be part of that couple in love.

Scratch that. He had the chance. He had plenty of chances. And he wasted them all.

Rule 12. Jeanne Benoit. Michael Rivkin. He wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. They were grieving the loss of a friend. The timing was never right.

The excuses piled up over the years and buried them. He should have thrown caution to the wind and made her take the leap with him.

And now it was his birthday and he was drinking alone in his dark apartment and she was dead.

Except for the summer where he was agent afloat and she was doing god-knows-what for Mossad, they had spent every one of their birthdays together. It was what partners did, right?

Partners who were clearly in love, maybe. He didn't spend his birthdays with McGee, who was technically also his partner. When he was with Baltimore PD, he didn't spend birthdays with his partners. Just her.

He wanted to blame Michael Rivkin for playing her. Eli David for making Rivkin play her. Gibbs for letting her stay in Israel. He even wanted to blame her for not seeing the truth, for not trusting him. But it wasn't polite to blame the victim. He couldn't blame her, just like he couldn't blame Kate for getting a bullet through her head.

Mostly he just blames Saleem. The bastard she was sent to kill who got to her first. At least now he had a name on which to focus his rage and grief. He was going to take him down, if it was the last thing he did.

This was the last birthday he planned on having, and while he had had his share of crappy birthdays throughout his years, this one took the cake.

His father was taking over his life, trying to make up for all the horrible Christmases that marked Tony's childhood. It was over the top and Senior was driving him nuts, but then Senior handed him the family ring. And Tony supposed it was turning out to be a pretty good Christmas.

Plus, Senior had a knack for baking cookies.

They watched It's a Wonderful Life with the team in MTAC on Christmas Eve, a tradition that Tony had forced on them years ago but somehow, it stuck. He supposed it was a Christmas miracle.

The team had agreed that they would not exchange presents, just participate in the office Secret Santa pool. But after the movie ended and the team began dispersing out of the office, Tony and Ziva had gifts for each other after all.

With a grin and a rare display of tact, Senior said he would go warm up the car and left the two agents staring at each other in the bullpen, wrapped gifts in hand. Everyone else had already left, for which both of them had hoped and were thankful.

"I thought we were not going to exchange presents," Ziva accused Tony.

He made a face at her and gestured toward the slim package in her hand. She smirked at him, silently conceding his point. "Merry Christmas, Zee-vah," he said, handing her a box with a teasing grin.

"Merry Christmas, Tony," she replied, handing her the package in her hand. It was not quite the shape of a DVD, her usual gift to him.

His curiosity got the better of him and he ripped off the gold wrapping paper. It was a book. The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, to be exact.

What is essential is invisible to the eye.

Their break room conversation from weeks ago came rushing back at him. He had shown her the photo of him and his mother and explained that they were going to see The Little Prince.

"You said that you had not read the book," she explained, smiling.

He swallowed down the emotion that was crawling its way up his throat and gave her a small smile. "Thanks," he replied. Her eyes shined back at him and for a long moment, they just gazed at each other.

"Uh, your turn," he said eventually, gesturing at the small box still in her hands.

She half jumped back to life, then carefully removed the wrapping paper. Opening the box, she pulled out a long silky scarf. "It's beautiful," she said, fingering the delicate pattern that adorned it.

"I was out shopping with Senior and thought it looked like you."

"Thank you." She flashed him another smile, almost shyly.

Then she did something unexpected and leaned in to give him a hug.

No, it was not a bad Christmas at all.

Her final gift to him is not one that can be wrapped up and put in a box. She gives it to him from beyond the grave.

Tali loves and trusts like a child who has known nothing but love in her short life. She occasionally will ask him, "Where Imah?" and his heart breaks all over again, but she eventually will stop asking him that and he thinks that might hurt more.

He makes up the parenting thing as he goes along, with some helpful tips from Gibbs and Palmer. Senior knows better than to try to give parenting advice. He makes mistakes but Tali loves him unconditionally. They cling to each other, and that makes life more than just tolerable.

Every time she calls him "Abba" in her little girl voice, he melts and his heart mends a little. It will never be whole, not without her, but he finds that it can be patched up quite well.

This last gift is better than any of the others she had given him over the years because it is her in miniature, with a dash of him mostly in the eyes. It is the reason for life for which he had been searching so long.

She will never truly be gone as long as he remembers her and as long as Tali remembers the stories about her that he will tell her over and over again.

And that is the last gift he gives to her.

END.

A/N: Maybe I am slowly coming around to the idea of the love child. But I refuse to believe Ziva is dead and I think GG was intentionally vague for the same reason the Lost final episode didn't answer so many questions. I'm okay with that kind of ambiguity.

Now excuse me while I go have all the feels.