Pivotal Moments

Author's Note: This used to be chapter 3, but I tucked a new chapter in before it, making this now chapter 4. If you're trying to read the new one, click back and check it out. This chapter falls after Nine Lives, as Ziva takes off on her mystery trip back to Israel.

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October 2008: Tel Aviv

Tony's farewell had caught her off guard, and as she stood in the elevator Ziva was surprised to find her pulse racing. Surely she'd put any interest in him behind her; since they'd returned from their respective assignments elsewhere, they'd been as friendly as ever but also as professional. Well, she smirked to herself, she'd been as professional as ever. She hadn't expected Tony to go out of his way to remind her that he cared, to try to make her flight more comfortable, after his near obsession all week with finding out where she was going.

If she were honest with herself, there was more than the need to tease Tony that had kept her from talking about the trip. Between her father's orders and the vague way Michael had been discussing their plans for the weekend, she wasn't sure what she really was traveling back for, and it was easier to make a game of it than to try to put into words in a foreign language what she might or might not feel for Michael Rivkin.

The elevator opened on the ground floor and Ziva got out, trying to put Tony's words out of her mind as she planned out the fastest route to BWI.

***

As she stepped out of the airplane terminal into the airport outside Tel Aviv, Ziva glanced around for Michael. He hadn't been sure if he could pick her up. She turned on her cellphone and checked her texts: there it was, she should come to his apartment when she got in. The grin that crossed her face at the news should have warned her how serious she wasn't about this man. She walked quickly toward the rental kiosk.

At the counter she flashed her MOSSAD badge and glanced over the list of vehicles passed to her before settling with a grin on her favorite brand of motorcycle. The attendant politely found her a helmet and led her out to the bike. As she flew through the dry heat of an Israeli morning, Ziva delighted in the speed she had at her control. Tony needed to feel this, she thought, if he were ever going to understand how she drove.

Near the airport was a small, open-air market where Ziva could remember shopping with her mother and sister as a girl. When she was older, Ari would take her there to practice tracking random strangers in the crowd. He'd always act proud of her prowess, and she'd glow with his approval. Almost enough time had passed for her to remember him only fondly, and she allowed herself a small smile as she glanced back through time at the market before returning her eyes to the road.

***

She dropped her backpack in the living room of Michael's apartment and showered quickly, washing off the dust of travel and the dregs of exhaustion from sleeping through a travel-shortened night in a chair. Dressed again, she wandered aimlessly around the apartment, unsure when to expect Michael back. He'd continued to email her once in a while over the past few months for support with his mission, and she'd diligently replied through her MOSSAD email in words that adhered exactly to the company line—but she'd also called him a handful of times, on tired nights after long days when she needed to shoot the—wind? Tony would know—and needed someone who knew her life to talk to. The others at work would have talked with her, she knew, but if her reassignment to MOSSAD had taught her nothing else, it was that she shouldn't depend on one small group of people for every facet of professional and personal relationships.

When Michael finally returned, he found Ziva poised on his couch, weapon drawn, an American movie with Hebrew subtitles on the TV screen behind her.

"Everything alright?" he asked, half-laughing.

Ziva sighed. "I was asleep, I heard a noise..." She smiled self-consciously, but when Michael nodded with total understanding she dropped the gun, swung off the couch, and stepped forward to hug him.

Michael pulled back after a moment to kiss her, gently then harder.

Ziva stopped him after a minute and went to turn on the kettle. "So, Michael, how have you been?" she asked as she reached for mugs in the cabinet. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he'd set his things down and was watching her fondly. At her words his expression grew remote for a moment.

"Well. I've been fine. There are some things we should talk about, though."

Ziva nodded as she set out teabags. "Here?" She wondered if this was personal or not—though her face never betrayed it, she began to worry what she would do if he said something she would be required to share with her father.

Michael shook his head. "After we drink our tea, we'll drive to the sea. I made us a reservation for the weekend."

Ziva smiled at the prospect. "Can I drive?"

***

That evening, settled into their room and having made good use of the bed before dinner, Ziva and Michael walked along the beach. The sea was nearly turquoise, the color water was supposed to be, Ziva thought. When she saw the ocean near Washington it never seemed quite so familiar.

Michael stopped abruptly in the middle of the sand, jolting Ziva from her thoughts as their joined hands jerked her to a stop.

"What is it?" she asked, surveying his pensive face in the dim light.

"Your father called me into a meeting a couple days ago."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're being sent on a mission?" She had been waiting for his assignment to the States for a while now.

"It's not that," Michael said slowly. "I am, but that seems fairly straightforward. He asked me, while I'm in America, to keep an eye on you. To monitor your loyalties."

Ziva wasn't sure what she felt in that first moment, processing Michael's words, but she was sure it wasn't surprise. She knew her father was bothered by her ties to NCIS, knew that if she weren't his daughter she would never have been reassigned where someone else held such influence over her. She nodded slowly. "He asked me to do the same."

"What?" Michael was startled.

"He asked me to watch you, gauge your commitment to MOSSAD."

"When? Why didn't you tell me?" Michael burst out before reigning in his emotions.

Ziva watched him closely, answered slowly. "The last morning, before I left to return to the States. Not," she emphasized, "before Morocco. I have not relayed any of our communication to him—I didn't tell you because there didn't seem a reason to. If you'd been too concerned about watching your words, they would have suspected you all the more."

Michael nodded acceptance, but he held himself rigidly upright in unconsciously military posture, and Ziva could tell he was still bothered.

"I told you now," she pointed out. It surprised her to hear the words come out of her mouth. To worry about his feelings so much that she'd come so close to apologizing—the way her anxiety eased at the softening of his features told her she was valuing their relationship more than she'd planned.

"So what do we do?" Michael asked softly. "Trust each other or guard ourselves against the slightest slip of the tongue?"

Ziva slid her hand into his. She wasn't sure how serious this was, but she knew that her father had chosen to be her director instead, while Michael had chosen her friendship despite the risk to his career. "Well, I've got your back," she said softly. When she glanced up into his eyes, he was smiling.

"Good," he said warmly.

***

The rest of the trip was easy, relaxed, the sort of escape from Washington Ziva hadn't even known she needed. And laying in his arms the last morning, Ziva wondered if love wasn't like this, the contentment she felt here, sated and comfortable and exhausted.