A/N: After the next few, ethe chapters will be a bit longer as we get into the actual story. It may be a few days between updates. Please do not think I have abandoned the story - I just want to make sure it comes out right!

Ziva rolled over and opened her eyes. The bright red numbers on her alarm clock proclaimed that is was nearly midnight. With a sigh, she tossed back the covers and stepped out of the bed. It seemed sleep would be just as elusive tonight as every other night. Already dressed in yoga pants and a tank (early Mossad training refused to let her go to bed in any condition other than ready-to-roll), she picked up her gun off the nightstand and walked toward the kitchen. She stood in the doorframe, considering her options.

She had cleaned her gun last night. Sharpened her throwing knife collection the night before. She could make another cup of tea, but she was starting to question if she could really live off of the stuff. She briefly toyed with the idea of another run, but she had already done a few evening laps earlier in hopes of getting to sleep. Her eyes landed on the car keys hanging by the door. A drive tended to calm her nerves (though, according to her teammates, that is not what it did for them).

Why not? She thought to herself. After all, I have already been lying in bed for two hours. Another hour on the road cannot hurt. Mind made up, she picked up the gun, took the keys and grabbed a sweatshirt on her way out the door.

The Mini was parked right outside her apartment. Though she remained on alert, she saw and heard nothing alarming as she made her way to the vehicle. She pulled away from the curb with no real destination in mind, racing down route 50 toward the Navy Yard, pulling off at the exit and idly taking the car in widening circles around the neighborhood. As she came down a particular street, she slowed, and Gibbs' house rose up to meet her.

Although the first and second floors were dark, a dull light still shined out of the windows on the ground, from the basement. She pulled the car into the driveway and sat for a few minutes, wondering if he had simply forgotten to turn the lights out. Regardless, it was not really appropriate to show up unexpectedly at anyone's house after midnight. She had almost made up her mind to head home when the violent buzz of her cell phone in the cup holder made her start. She did a slight double-take at the name on the display, and then picked up.

"David," she answered.

"Gonna stay there all night?" Gibbs' voice echoed in the dark car.

With a slight laugh, Ziva replied, "Just on my way in." Gibbs hung up, and she shut off the ignition. The door to the house was unlocked, as always, and there truly were no lights on the first floor. Fortunately, the light shining up from the basement was easy to detect, and she made her to it and down the stairs with ease. Gibbs was sitting on a stool in a white t-shirt and jeans, sanding a piece on his boat, looking for all the world like it was everyday that his agents dropped in on him unannounced during the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, she supposed, in his case, we really do drop in unannounced at all hours of the morning. She took the other stool in the corner without saying a word, as she was not really sure why she had come anyway. After a moment, he put down the sandpaper block, got up, and walked over. The whiskey was already out, and if the mason jar next to it was any indication, he'd already been into it once this evening. He picked up another jar, this one filled with screws, and dumped it on the workbench. Uncorking the whiskey, he poured them each about a jigger and handed her a jar. She stared at it a moment, then they each took a drink. He set his on the bench and sat down across from her.

"Wedding jitters?" He asked, allowing the half-smile on his face.

"What?" Ziva replied, confused, before catching on. "Oh, no. And you?"

"Been there, done that."

"Right," she said, and took another sip. "I could not sleep."

"Figured that out, Ziver." He took a drink himself while he studied her expression. "Not the mission." It was more of a statement then a question. Ziva shook her head.

"No," she replied crisply. "It is not the mission. I do not believe we will have much trouble." This she meant, as it was certainly not the worst undercover assignment she had ever been given. Playing the trophy wife of a well-to-do military man in a multi-million dollar home… it could hardly be considered a hardship, even if her first few missions had not left her simply wishing for an assignment in which she had running water. Israel was a very advanced place, but a number of countries that her Mossad operations had sent her to were not. No, it was not about the mission.

"Eli?" Gibbs had been fairly certain of the reason his agent had come to visit in the dead of night, but he still felt compelled to ask. Rule #8: Never take anything for granted. Ziva did not respond immediately, but the slight tensing of her shoulders spoke volumes.

"I…I think so." Her voice was unsure, not wracked with emotion, but not stable either. "I cannot… I cannot stop thinking about what I said to him, the last thing I ever said to him, before I went outside to call you."

Gibbs waited for her to continue, knowing that he could not push her into revealing anything anyway. Watching him, Ziva took a deep breath.

"I told him… That some sins, his sins… are… were… too great to be forgiven."

Ziva waited for a response from Gibbs, hoping he would tell her what she thought she needed to hear, that her father would have understood she spoke out of anger, that regardless of what he had done in his life, and what she had said about it, they were still blood. Which is why Gibbs' next words surprised her.

"Some sins are." His tone was matter-of-fact, and he chased the statement with the remainder of his whiskey. She looked up from her drink, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones. He shrugged.

"Can't change the past. Can only change the future."

Ziva dropped her gaze and nodded.

"When I… think about what he has done…" Ziva's voice was barely audible, "I think that he must have deserved to die."

Gibbs sat very still, sensing that Ziva was confessing to him something she was almost afraid to admit to herself.

"I have," her voice wavered, though her face showed no sign that tears were imminent, "Nightmares… about Somalia. About my mother. About Tali. About…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Ari. My father…" her voice grew stronger, "My father was the cause of much of that. Yet, I cannot stop wishing… that I could tell him I am sorry for what I said."

Ziva drained the rest of her glass.

"You know," Gibbs began. He leaned forward, his proximity forcing her to meet his eyes. "You can forgive the man, without forgiving his actions."

She nodded.

"I know. But I do not."

There seemed little left to say after that. Softly, he reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder. They sat that way, for several minutes, neither of them speaking. Finally, Ziva rose, inclining her head towards Gibbs.

"Thank you. I should go."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows slightly, and Ziva made her way out of the house.

Gibbs watched as she ascended the stairs, rounded the corner and disappeared onto the first floor. He listened as her feet made their way down the foyer, then the front door opened and shut. The Mini came to life outside, the headlights shining through the basement and sending flickering shadows across the room as the car backed up and turned out of the drive. Then, all was quiet. Gibbs leaned back on the stool until his head touched the wall. Suddenly, he felt very drained. Moving the whiskey back to the cupboard, he headed up the stairs, flicked off the light and found his way to the couch by instinct. He sank into it, firmly ordering himself not think about any actions that he wished he could undo, and completely failing to do so.

Ziva parked back in front of her apartment just before two. She checked her mirrors before exiting the car, and made her way to the door with one hand resting on her gun. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened, and within a few seconds she was inside the house again. Acting on autopilot, she cleared each room before returning to the bedroom and sliding the gun under her pillow. She did not question the usefulness of these actions in her own apartment—more than once, being proactively cautious had meant the difference between her life and death. Kicking off her shoes, she dropped onto the bed, and for the first time in nearly two months, fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.