Rifiuto: Non Miriena

The next morning found Ziva at her desk, staring across the bullpen at Tim's, lost in thought. She couldn't get either Tim or Sarah's eyes out of her head; the misted, almost blank looks in their eyes, as though they'd both been put through so much torture that they'd drifted away from themselves to preserve what little sanity they had left, the silence, the sheer pain they were both obviously in. She looked around, but she was the only one in the bullpen, it was only about oh-six-hundred, after all.

So she got up, going to Tim's desk and kneeling down. Gently, she picked up the nesting doll and studied the detailed portrait of the last Russian Tsar painted upon the wooden surface. It was beautiful, delicate, much like Tim was.

Standing, she returned to her desk and set it down beside her computer. Her fingers traced the delicate strokes the brush had left, and the features of Nicholas, forever frozen in time. She reached up to lift the head off, and just as she began to pull the two pieces apart, Tony entered the bullpen with a yawn. Quickly, Ziva snapped the doll shut and hid it in the bottom cabinet of her desk with her gun. "Morning, Tony." He mumbled something as he sat down, leaning back in his chair and promptly falling asleep. As she pulled open her drawer, Gibbs entered, pushing Tony's feet off his desk and telling them to get back to work on their cold cases.

She'd only barely managed to stuff the doll into her bag before she left at ten later that night.


"Now, I understand that you wish to-"

But Tim wasn't listening to what the man was saying; he couldn't get the sight of Ziva standing in the hallway the night before, out of his head. She'd stood and fidgeted, playing with the sleeves of her jacket and shuffling her feet like a nervous teenager trying to ask her crush to the dance. He'd just watched her fidget, keeping silent while Sarah talked.

In all honesty, though, he'd longed to ask her to come in, to take her up on her offer to listen, and tell her everything that had gone on since discovering John's diagnosis. How Sarah had called him up one night, telling him about the phone call their dad had made, mistaking her for Emily and accusing her of infidelity, how he'd called his father and confronted him, and how, the next time John was docked in port, he'd tracked his kids down and- thanks to the tumor causing his irrationality, his change in personality- proceeded to try and beat his daughter to death, when Tim had stepped in and ordered Sarah to flee, taking the first beating his father had ever given either of them.

He'd longed to tell Ziva of how, once finished, John had sat back on the floor, sobbing, begging the ghost of his wife to forgive him for what he'd done; how Sarah had come in from the hall and sat on the floor, holding her father and whispering that it was okay, that she forgave him, even going so far as to kiss him softly on the lips, like their mother would do. And how, once his father had left, he and Sarah had locked themselves in the bathroom, how she'd forced her brother to sit on the edge of the tub and how Sarah had had no choice but to cut the strips of skin left from when his father had taken the hammer Tim had used to hang a picture the day before and used the claw of the hammer to beat him, since Tim refused to go to the hospital. Fortunately, one of the neighbors heard the fight, and, being an RN, had come over to check on the siblings. She'd helped tend to the wounds on Tim's back, only after promising the McGee kids that she wouldn't tell. He longed to-

"Mr. McGee?" His head snapped up, and he met the other man's gaze.

"I'm sorry?" The older man sighed.

"Maybe we should do this another time. I understand that your father's death is still very wrong, so how about you take a few days to come to terms, and then we can meet again on Friday? How does that sound?" Slowly, Tim nodded, not understanding, but accepting if it meant he could leave. They quickly shook hands, and then Tim rushed out of the office, stepping into the cool early evening air. He slid his hands into his pockets, and headed down the street, stopping near the coffee shop. He stared at his reflection, lost in thought, before shaking away the thoughts and hurrying back to his apartment.

All he wanted was to be home with Sarah, watching a movie to block the pain of the last couple days. When he slipped into the apartment, he found Sarah sitting on the sofa, Memoirs of a Geisha playing on the TV. "Do you think that'll be us?"

He removed his coat and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Who, Sar?" He asked, fixing a cup of tea. His sister didn't take her tear-filled gaze away from the movie.

"That?" She nodded to the screen. Tim furrowed a brow.

"You thinking of become a geisha?" He tried to make it a joke, but found the humor stuck in his throat.

"No, Timmy. Do you think... do you think we'll... be able to... to do great things. Like Sayuri." Tim joined her on the sofa, setting a mug in front of her, confused.

"I don't understand, Sar." She meet his gaze.

"She was taken from her family... sold into basically slavery and... became a geisha. She lost... both her parents and her sister... and she moved on. She did great things. Do... do thing we can do the same? Move on?" He sipped his tea, thinking.

"I don't know, Sarah. Maybe." She sniffled, curling into her brother's embrace, tears slipping down her cheeks. He sighed; if the movie could take their minds off the chaos their father's death had thrown them into, even for a few hours, he'd willingly sit through the film. He just hoped he could concentrate on it.