AN: I decided to continue this story, even though it was intended as a one-shot. I have an idea to make this a multi-chapter fic, and this was the first part of that, so I needed to publish it. I hope you like it! Thanks to my beta, burningbridges97. Please read and review!

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.

The dust enveloped her, escaping the clutches of the album that Ziva had picked up, curious as to what this plain ebony book had in store for her. The thirteen year old gingerly turned the front cover, revealing a multitude of photographs of a brunette woman, looking to be in her twenties. She was everywhere. Swathed in an emerald dress, asleep at a desk, talking to a Goth who Ziva recognized as her Aunt Abby.

As she riffled farther into the pages, she came upon more and more pictures of this lady. Someone- whoever had been taking these photos- knew this woman, and knew her very well. It was clear the woman was at ease with the cameraman. Or woman, whichever it may be. The smiles she rarely graced the camera with were easy and caring. The glares, which appeared far more often, showed a fun and playful side, suggesting that she was mock-threatening the photographer and not actually planning to injure the person.

Ziva stumbled onto one example where the woman in question was sleeping- slumbering peacefully on a couch that seemed vaguely familiar to the teenager.That's Dad's couch, she exclaimed in her mind. The image clicked with the information stored in her brain as she recognized the sofa. It was worn out and raggedy now, but her father insisted upon keeping the relic in his "man cave". It drove her mother insane, but since that was his domain, it stayed. And, as her dad liked to put it, there was no point in messing up another couch, as DiNozzo men were notoriously messy with their beer during ball games.

With another epiphany, she realized who the woman must be. Ziva David- her father's former partner. Her namesake. And the love of her dad's life.

As much as both she and her mother hated to admit it, Daddy DiNozzo was clearly head-over-heels in love with his ex-partner. Although he did love his wife and child, it was a different sort of emotion than the one that shone in his eyes every time the old Ziva was mentioned. He would smile a sad smile- filled with need and sorrow and agony and love- and join in on the reminiscing; however, he would always stop himself as soon as he would let slip too personal of a detail. As if that was for him and him alone, he would quickly move on to another subject, but not before those closest to him caught the hesitation; the longing in his eyes.

Ziva hated seeing her parents suffer through the problem. Her mom loved her dad, but she couldn't just sit around and watch him pine after someone else, so she erased all traces of Ziva from their home. Nevertheless, she couldn't erase her daughter, so that daily reminder of the one person keeping Sarah from Tony was still there. Her dad loved her mom, but he could never fully get over Ziva, keeping him from loving his wife like a husband should. She was a pillar of support when Ziva was in Somalia, but after, when Ziva had really and truly died, she was left alone as her husband wallowed in grief. It caused problems with their marriage, but the two were determined to stay together, and to create a happy home for their daughter.

Said daughter plucked the picture of the sleeping Ziva out of the photo album, and raced downstairs to find her father. She needed to confront her father -ask why she had never seen an image of her namesake, tell him all about the pain he was causing her mother, and then, after the berating was over, move on to begging and pleading for every single detail she could possibly glean about the old Ziva.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

A startled Tony jerked his head up from the paperwork he had brought home with him. The calls of his daughter were increasing in volume, signaling the approach of the enthusiastic teenager. He quickly hid his paperwork, a report on a terrorist group in the troubled Middle East. That was no report for a child to see.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

He sat back and waited for the study door to burst open, which it did within a few seconds. Tony was prepared for his daughter to come flying in, bubbling with information about some new topic which had come up at school that day. What he was not prepared for, however, was the index card-sized paper she was holding in her hand to land on the desk in front of him, presenting the image of his partner sleeping peacefully on his trusty old couch.

"Where did you get that?" he inquired, mouth drifting open in pain and shock at the sudden swell of emotion that encompassed him. He remembered taking that picture- hell, he remembered most things he had done with Ziva, to Ziva, for Ziva- but he had forgotten where he had put the object.

"Upstairs, in the attic, in some box that was full of old, dusty stuff. There was a bunch of DVD's and photo albums, but this was the first one I grabbed."

Realization dawned upon him, bringing to his mind the view of a box labeled Ziva on the bottom, containing all remnants of his relationship with his ex-partner. Sarah had banished it to the attic once it became clear that she would have to work to save her marriage.

"Oh, I see. And what prompted you to come screaming to my office, holding a picture of Ziva?" Tony asked with a slight grin. For his daughter to be excited enough to actually answer a question for once, something had to be up.

"Well, I figured out that this must have been Ziva- you know, the old Ziva- and I wanted to know why she was up there, why you have so many pictures of her, and what she was like. Also, I had some things to say to you, but they can wait," she replied, taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She would talk to him later about her mother, but for now, the ex-partner took precedence.

"Well, Ziva. That's a long story, sweetheart. I don't know if I'll have time for it. You might want to call your Aunt Abby and ask her. She loved Ziva- she'll probably know a lot more than I ever will," he fibbed, not wanting his daughter- his precious, Ziva-like daughter- to know how much "the old Ziva", as she put it, actually meant to him.

"No, Dad," she argued, fists clenching on the armrests, "I want to hear it from you. The sheer amount of pictures in that album showed that you knew her very well."

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair, and folding his hands over his stomach. "Well, Ziva- you're going to be here for a while. Anyways, I have many more pictures than in just that one album. I have lots of pictures, and videos, and memories with her. She was more than just my partner- she was my friend… my best friend. We had each other's six, and that creates a bond that no one but partners can understand."

As Tony sat explaining to his daughter the story of his first, albeit untold and most probably (in his mind) unrequited, love, his wife sat outside of the door, crying silently, wishing that her husband would talk about her that way. But that could never be. Ziva was the only one who would ever hold that special of a place in his heart. And she deserved it, because they loved each other. It had been a silent and one-sided and passionate love, but it was a love greater than anything else in the world.