Rifiuto: Non Miriena

Thanks to Buddy5647 for reviewing 1, 2, and 3, and Sazzita, Guest, Reader aka Sun Samurai, mcgeeksgirl and Paula Galtarocha for reviewing 3.

Within a week of Ziva's staying at Tim's, the contractors had come to work on her apartment; there was so much damage it turned out- not only to Ziva's apartment, but the apartment surrounding it- that the entire apartment building needed to be gutted and rebuilt, which put not only Ziva, but the others in that particular building out of a-

"Ziva, it's your home."

She met Tim's gaze; her own dark eyes glazed. "No, it's not."

The bedroom door slammed as she slipped from the kitchen area, and Tim sighed, wrapping his hands around his mug. Since she'd started staying with him, Ziva had become even more distant in regards to any mention of her apartment or Rivkin and what had transpired. And with Tony still working directly across from her- and not speaking to either the younger agent or Mossad officer for what he saw as "betrayal", something he and Abby both shared- come on, they were grown adults, and pouting like toddlers- it made work exceedingly uncomfortable for both Tim and Ziva alike. Which was why the pair both asked for a sabbatical from work, in hopes that, without their presence in the bullpen, both Tony and Abby would hopefully realize how childish they were both acting and get over it.

But then again, this was Tony and Abby they were talking about.

After a moment, he got up, going to the bedroom and pushing the door open. She lay on the bed, her back to the door; even from this distance, her shoulders were shaking, and it was clear she was fighting her emotions. Silently, Tim shut the door behind him, making his way towards the bed. He climbed onto it; she lifted her head, glancing over her shoulder as he joined her, his arms sliding around her waist.

Now, it was evident the tears on her cheeks, and gently, he kissed them away. To an outsider, it was the sight of a man comforting the woman he loved, though in reality, love was the furthest thing from either's mind. At least, at the moment. Months later, they would find themselves in the same position, for an entirely different reason, with their very futures at stake, but on this night, it was nothing more than one friend comforting the other.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, Ziva. Crying is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of strength."

She swallowed thickly, shaking her head, and Tim lay beside her, letting her deal with it, giving her support. Eventually, sleep took hold, and her breathing evened out; once she was snoring, Tim slipped off the bed, tiptoeing out of the bedroom and shutting the door softly behind him. He took a seat at the typewriter, and after adding a new sheet of paper, began to type.

The winds of winter enveloped her, the snow fell, blinding her vision and embracing her like the cold hand of Death, beckoning her forward. She had never seen such... desolation before; the remains of the manor still smoldered, despite that the fire had been put out centuries before she had even been born. Her gaze roamed over the skeleton, the ancient brick and charred wood nothing more than a withered foundation; there was hardly any resemblance to the magnificent mansion it had once been, centuries ago, when the kings had run Europe and ships such as the R.M.S. Titanic were the grandest way to travel.

Slowly, she reached up, grasping at the silver medallion around her neck. How she'd managed to stumble across it in the antique shop where she worked was beyond her; it was almost as if it had... called to her. Whispering her name from the depths of time, reaching for her very soul, leading her through time and space to this very moment, this very... era. A ghost, witnessing the end of a family dynasty, the destruction of a town, and the explosion of a feud that took the entire family- nearly the entire town- with it.

She glanced down at it, at the name engraved upon the back-

Hannah.

The sound of something hitting the floor in the bedroom jarred his focus from his work, and Tim stood, rushing from the living room. He burst through the door, prepared- as any good, trained federal agent should- and flicked on the overhead light-

Only to find his house guest, sitting on the floor among a heap of blankets, tears running down her cheeks.

"Ziva?" He quickly unloaded his gun and set it on the boudoir before making his way towards her, holding out a hand. "What hap- oof!" The Israeli launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck as he leaned down to help her up.

"I woke up... you left me alone... do not leave me alone, Tim... please..." The unadulterated fear in her voice tugged at his heart, and after a moment, he slid an arm around her lower back and slipped his other arm beneath her knees, scooping her up. If Ziva noticed the shift, she didn't acknowledge it, just buried her face in his shoulder, soft sobs escaping her throat, her arms tightening around his neck.

Without a word, Tim carried her into the living room, gently laying her on the sofa and grabbing a blanket. With a firm kiss to her forehead, he settled at his desk, returning to his writing. Ziva watched him for several minutes, her eyelids soon becoming heavy, the click, click, ding! of Tim's typewriter as his hands flew over the keys lulling her to sleep. By the time Tim finished with his chapter, removed it from the typewriter, and slipped it into the folder and then into his desk drawer, Ziva was out like a light.