I will never understand why people insist upon leaving reviews and PMs criticising a story, not because it is a particularly bad story, or for any technical reasons, in fact not leaving any constructive criticism at all, but because they simply do not like the characters – particularly when the characters used are displayed before they start to read, surely if you do not like a character, you could simply avoid fictions with them as a focal point – or because they do not like the plot line, even if the plot-line was hinted at if not clearly laid out in the summary. I know I have certainly stumbled across stories that I did not like, but I would never think of criticising someone's work because they did not write it the way I would have done, or because I did not like the characters, I just hit the back button at the top of my page and put it out of my mind. I know if there is an issue with continuity I will on occasion point it out through a PM, or a polite review, and I am all for constructive criticism, it makes us better at everything we do, but when it is complaining for the sake of complaining I really do not understand it.

I do often wonder whether the people who leave such scathing reviews have ever actually received such a piece of harsh criticism on their work as they dish out. It reminds me of being a child and my teacher not liking the way I had written a piece of prose and giving me the lowest mark in the class for it, something I was not accustomed to, and something that increased the rate of bullying for three months until I came home with a black eye and a bruised ribcage. When I took it to another teacher to ask what I had done wrong, she said there was nothing wrong in a technical sense, and it was written well and fit the brief that we had been given and the only reason it had been marked down was because of a personal preference.

I remember my mother used to say, "If you do not have anything nice to say, do not say anything at all." I always took constructive criticism as being nice, because in the end it will make you better at what you are doing. Personally, I find criticism of the constructive nature to be better than praise because I can use it, whereas praise does not help you improve, however, non-constructive criticism I just find disheartening.

Is it just me? Am I being unreasonable? I probably am.

Although, I have to say, I much prefer that if I am to have someone criticise me, it be via PM rather than review. Less humiliation to add to the sinking feeling of disheartenment.

Therefore, if you really do dislike my work so much that you feel you must be vocal about it, please try and do so via PM instead of reviewing. I would follow the same courtesies with you were our roles reversed and I felt so passionately about something that I just had to write what could be taken to be a rather impolite comment.

Gripe over. Sorry for bringing the mood down. It has not been a good day already and to read reviews and PMs such as some of the ones I have today I momentarily lost control. It is a very small percentage of reviews and a slightly higher percentage of PMs, but none the less, a percentage all the same.

I was considering deleting this Author's Note, and then I decided against it. It might come across harsh, but so do some people's criticisms.

Facing Reality

She sat with the pregnancy test in her hand as her world fell down around her. It couldn't be happening.

Not to her…

It couldn't…

She couldn't…

They couldn't…

They had used protection.

Or had they?

They had both been drunk, and, well, most of the night was a blur – an amazing blur – but a blur all the same.

Maybe it was all just a mistake – a false positive.

But she knew that statistically getting three false positives in a row was very unlikely.

She was Mossad for crying out loud, she should have been in control of herself.

It had happened the night they were angry with McGee for writing his damn book about them. They had still been ranting about him when they had reached his car and neither noticed that she had climbed in next to him and he had driven to their favourite watering hole. They stormed into the bar and took their usual seats, not caring that they didn't have their usual company there, or that they hadn't finished a case. The bartender, Gerald, placed a martini, a mojito and a dish of peanuts down for them without even asking. He knew them. They came in with the other group of odd people. He knew their orders, too. He knew all the regulars' orders.

They hadn't noticed the glares of the people around them as their tirades grew louder the more they drank.

They didn't notice when their angry cries of protest turned into slurred murmurs of how it was just a stupid book.

They completely ignored the guy who came up and asked them if they were actually the people who Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa were based on and if he could have an autograph.

Ziva lunged when the same man suggested that she should lay off the alcohol if she was pregnant.

Neither of them heard the cheers when their lips collided and silence descended, so absorbed in the kiss that they couldn't care less who was watching, or that the cheers weren't so much that they had kissed, but that they had shut up. Except for the guy who had asked for the autograph. He was cheering for them kissing.

Neither saw the irony of it as they stumbled towards the taxi that Gerald had called for them.

She didn't invite him for coffee, she was a little preoccupied. It is, after all, hard to offer someone coffee whilst you're moaning into their mouth. They'd made it to the bedroom door before they gave up with walking. And clothes. And the idea of a bed.

At some point they had made it the extra four foot to her bed, tossing all of the covers off when they got in the way.

She woke to an empty bed in the morning like she had expected, and nursed a hangover as she went through her usual Saturday routine with a lot less vigour than normal.

By Sunday a deep sense of foreboding had settled itself in the pit of her stomach and refused to leave.

By Monday she was externally back to normal, but internally an emotional wreck.

When she missed her period she put it down to the stress she had put on herself because of the fear of missing her period.

She ignored the nausea.

Or at least she did until Gibbs walked past with extra strong coffee in a cup without the lid because his coffee shop had run out of lids. The litter bin next to her desk was the furthest she made it before emptying the contents of her stomach.

She claimed it was the stomach flu and took the rest of the day off.

And went straight to the drug store.

And so there she sat, her flushed cheek pressed against the cool porcelain of her bathtub, contemplating at which point fiction had morphed into reality and how McGee had predicted what was happening.

She had to tell him. She would never be able to hide it.

Or maybe she could… maybe she could wear baggy shirts, and stay sat down for nine months. Then what? Hide the kid, too?

Yeah, it wasn't going to work.

Maybe she could leave it for a month or two…

No, the longer she left it, the worse it would get.

Anyway, it wasn't going to be difficult, just phone him up, tell him about the baby, tell him he has no obligation and leave it at that. He can go back to his playboy ways and everyone will be happy.

Well, maybe not everyone, but she would cope.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and slid down so she was lying on the floor with her knees raised. She hit speed dial 1 and waited for an answer. He picked up just as she was about to leave a message.

"Tony?"

"Ziva? You okay? You sound awful. Hang on, I'll be right over. I'll bring chicken soup." And he hung up. He hadn't even given her a chance to explain. He hadn't given her the chance to tell him she didn't want chicken soup.

She lay on the cold slate tiles, the finger of one hand drawing spirals around her bellybutton as the other hand traced the strict lines of the grouting between the tiles. She closed her eyes, trying to find any indication that she was in a bad dream. She couldn't find any.

Gibbs had warned them there would be consequences, although she was certain these weren't the consequences he was talking about.

He burst through the door then, looking rather out of breath, like he had run up her stairs and picked the lock on her front door. He probably had. "Ziva? Ziva?" He crouched down next to her, about to check for a pulse.

"Touch me and die, DiNozzo." She growled, not even opening her eyes.

"Got it. You okay?" She shook her head and sat up abruptly, vomiting in the toilet. When she was done she looked down and grabbed the pot of chicken soup he had brought with him, tipping it down the toilet as well. "Hey! Chicken soup's supposed to make you feel better! I brought that for you!"

"It made me feel sick."

"You didn't even try it."

"I could smell it." She groaned, reaching up and grabbing the bottle of water sat on the edge of the basin, knocking the three pregnancy tests to the floor in the process. He looked at them, not realising what they were for almost a minute, and then his head swivelled to stare at Ziva, then down to her stomach. He took on the same expression he had when he had read McGee's book and she slapped him to wake him up. Then tried a head slap. Both failed. So she slowly eased herself up, not trusting her legs to hold her upright but not having any other choice, and helped him to his feet. She placed two hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently through to the sofa, where she forced him to sit down. He continued to stare into nothingness as she walked to the glass-fronted cabinet between her bookshelf and her upright piano and grabbed a bottle of Scotch and a glass. She poured a generous glassful and placed it in his hand, sitting on the coffee table in front of him as he knocked it back.

She filled the glass again and he chuckled. "Trying to get me drunk, Zee-Vah? Isn't that how we got into this mess in the first place?" She closed her eyes at the jibe and slammed the bottle down next to her. "Sorry." He mumbled as she stood up and walked over to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass and closing her eyes to create a barrier to prevent the tears from falling.

"Get out."

"Ziva…"

"Get out!" She whirled on him, her eyes flaring with a fire he had never seen in them before. He'd never seen the mixture of hatred, disgust and offence in anyone's eyes, but the combination was particularly hard to look at in her beautiful chocolate eyes.

"What do we tell people?"

"We?! WE?! There is no WE Tony! I will tell people that it was a one night stand, as it was, and you will keep your mouth shut! Now get out of my apartment!" She grabbed his collar in her fist and shoved him out of the door. "Go. Please." She slammed the door in his shocked face and slid down the wall, curling into a tight foetal position and crying herself to sleep.

Okay, I really cannot leave it there. I was going to, and now I have realised that I cannot. It would not be right.

This was also supposed to be a lot funnier than it turned out. That might have something to do with the rather snippy author's note at the beginning though. Oh, well…