A/N: Howdy. I had been hoping to get this chapter up last night, but that didn't work out. My best friend moved away for college and I was working on a care package for her. Anyway, it's up now, right! That's alllll that matters. ::wink:: Don't think this is the end of the mission. Gibbs said four months and he means four months.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or its actors or its affiliates...I do, however, own the first, second, and sixth seasons on DVD, and that will soon become all of them. I also do not own John Wayne or TMC. Bummer, dude..


Tony and I sit on the bench by the dinner table, his arms around me, as I huddle away from the cold realization seeping into my body. He softly smoothes my hair, placing a kiss on my temple. I shiver, but it is not from his touch. Rather, it is because of the fact I now know why this case has been so important.

It involved a marine, first of all. Second, if the Damocles was taken down amongst several other ships, this is more terrorist action than anything else. Third, if the terrorism is related to embezzlement or drugs, we have more than just a little danger on our hands.

And now that Buck has gone missing, I believe there is much, much more than that.

"I wanna pull you," Gibbs mutters. McGee and Abby have successfully debugged the entire house, now that our prime suspect has disappeared, and we do not have to watch our words, just our actions. The blinds and curtains are pulled in the kitchen, preventing much air flow through the room and house. "Both of you. Our guy knows we know." McGee, frantically typing on his laptop, is breaking into a sweat. "What've you got, McGee?"

"Boss, I don't know if this is related at all, but, Lance Corporal Jackson's brother was on one of the ships that was bombed," he offers, still typing. "I wonder if—"

Abby, also looking up information on her own laptop, jumps in, "No! Timmy! I mean, Tommy—I like 'Tommy' better, don't you, Gibbs?" Grinning, she turns to see his straight face. Characteristic of the Gibbs from D.C., one eyebrow is raised. Without having to hear his stern voice say, 'Abby!', she rambles on, "Oh, right, okay. So, Tommy, there is no plausible way that Lance Corporal Jackson's brother is related to this case. You wanna know why?"

McGee nods, prompting Abby to giggle, "Good, because I was going to tell you anyway." She spins her monitor around and points to the left side of her screen. "Okay, this is the fecal matter that Tommy collected from the crime scene."

"What does this have to do with our investigation, Abs?" There is just enough bite to his voice to make Abby jump to attention.

"Because, Leroy," she murmurs thoughtfully, enjoying the opportunity to call Gibbs by his given name without a consequence, "I tested the feces and, like the rings, it showed similar DNA to Lance Corporal Jackson's."

Gibbs, sensing there was more to the story, grunts, "But…?"

And Abby jumps right back into her story. "But, it wasn't the same. It was different for one gene, and that was hair color."

I make a face. "Hair color? But, Abby…that proves very little. Many people have several different hair colors. Take Tony, for example. He has brown hair on his head, but his beard—"

The Goth girl interrupts, "Which is getting kinda scruffy, by the way. You might wanna shave that soon." I like it… "Sorry, continue!"

"—his facial hair is more blond. How can that lead us to the killer? Or Jackson's relative?"

"Because, Ziva," she groans testily, "that means that someone other than Jackson and his killer witnessed the murder. Someone related to him."

Gibbs props his elbow on the table. It is plainly written on his face that he is growing more and more agitated. "Who was it?"

"I'm getting there, Leroy! Our guy's name is…" We lean in under the suspense, and I can feel Tony's chest pressing into my back. Somehow, I feel safer knowing he is so close. "Robert Andrews."

I throw a concerned glance around the table. "Wait, that is Buck's full name, is it not?"

"Sure is!" Abby states cheerfully, shutting her laptop.

Our boss stands and starts for the door, grabbing his jacket off of the coat hook. "McGee, you're with me. Someone's got it out for Jackson's family." He casts his stern eyes upon us once more and mutters at me and Tony, "You two, find out why. And don't leave the house," before sweeping out and down the front steps.


Abby has cooked us an Indian cornucopia for dinner. Chicken Curry, basmati rice, and Channa Dal Payasam, which is similar to a sweet (but savory) pudding. I am surprised that Tony ate anything at all, seeing as he is such a picky eater, but he is just spooning his third serving of chicken onto his plate as I stand to put my own in the sink. After such a heavy meal, and such a harrowing afternoon, I know that meditation will be necessary.

I had anticipated excusing myself quietly from the kitchen, but the moment I step into the hallway, Tony has cleared his plate into the waste bucket, grabbed a beer and bottle of wine, and rushed to my side.

"I can maneuver the stairs by myself, Tony." I chuckle and make for the first step, when his arm shoots out and he grabs a hold of my wrist. "Is something wrong?" Turning, I search his face for a sign for me to be concerned. I find nothing.

"Gibbs is worried. He doesn't usually get that way, especially when something so trivial happens." Tony pulls me down next to him, looking down at me. "It makes me wonder if we're in danger, too."

Shaking my head, I feel obligated to assuage his fears. "I would feel more paranoid if that were the case, Tony. Gibbs' orders were for us to not leave the house. He said nothing about leaving the kitchen. We are safe, you are here, Abby can kill people with any of the chemicals she has in her bag, we are fine."

I can tell that he is not entirely assured, but his mien begins to show otherwise. "Well, fine. But I'm coming upstairs with you." Tony takes me by the shoulders and points me toward the stairs. "There's a special on The Duke tonight at nine on TMC." In a facetious attempt to make me go faster, he gently taps my bum. I turn around, eyes narrowed playfully.

"That is fine," I agree, nodding. "I will take the stereo into another room for my meditation, then." His eyes pop open. "Is there a problem?"

"Ye-heahhh, there's a problem. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Like I said, Gibbs is worried. If he's got cause for concern, there's obviously something wrong." Pursing my lips, unable to argue with his logic, I continue up the stairs and into the master bedroom to change into my pajamas.

Without thinking, I grab the first pair I see in the drawer, briefly forgetting the fact that it is the Turkish silk set that my father bought me as repayment for the summer. Ignoring the fact that Tony has followed me into the room, I change and toss my other clothes into the hamper. As I make my way toward the door, I retrieve the small stereo Tony had packed and two of my meditation CDs from beside it.

"What room're you going to be in, Zeev?" Tony asks, hopping up onto the bed and lying back onto the pillows. "I dunno if Gibbs is coming back here tonight. He'd better, or Abby's going to have a coronary." Flicking the remote at the television, he grins as the screen comes to life. He does, however, mute the volume and sit up to look at me. "Nice PJs, Davíd."

"Eli bought them for me," I respond stiffly. "Thank you, though."

"For?" Without letting me answer, he mumbles, "That what they're wearing in Tel Aviv now?"

I nod curtly before retreating into the hallway. We have not yet confronted the obvious chemistry between us and I do not want to fall to the temptation eating away at my stomach.


After I plug in the stereo, I sit with my feet on each knee, picking up one of the CD cases. My best friend from Israel had sent them to me for Christmas my first year as a Mossad Liaison with NCIS. They reminded me of home, the real home. Luckily, they had been in my desk drawer at Headquarters during the entire Michael ordeal, and had therefore survived the explosion—and demise—of my apartment.

Thoughts of Tony intersperse themselves into my decision of what track to start with. I am torn between the fourth and sixth, but finally decide upon the fourth. Jim Brickman has always had a way with connecting piano keys to my heartstrings.

Closing my eyes, I try to find peace and mentally clear all thoughts from my head. I slow my breathing and try to focus on the things that make me happiest.

Tea. Jasmine Green Tea. From Tazo. Jasmine Green Tea from Tazo and a book. A book about flowers. A book about flowers and rain. A book about flowers and rain and rose petals. About flowers and rain and rose petals and sunshine. Jasmine Green Tea from Tazo and a book about flowers, rain, rose petals, sunshine, and sad endings.

The song ends and a faint wood flute signals the beginning of the next song. I am transported to a desert, far from an oasis, far from any live species, especially humans. As I wander along, I see a truck parked in the sand, smoke billowing from under its hood. Two men hop out of either side, and a large encampment manifests behind them. The sweat beading on my forehead and the cold feeling the pit of my stomach tells me all I need to know.

The men are Tony and McGee, and this desert place is Somalia.

Before I have to force my eyes open and stop the nightmare that is about to ensue, the stereo clicks and I am greeted by the next song. Fluid notes of piano trickle into my ears and, as my breathing calms again, I can sense there is a small smile on my face.

Behind my eyelids, images materialize and then disappear quickly. Every few seconds, I see Tony's face, grinning madly at me, speaking inaudible words, his eyes sparkling beautifully. Memories of our past undercover assignment flash in and out. The moment we met. The second I woke up tied to a pole, with SecNAV seated before me, asking me not to turn him in for smoking Cuban cigars, when Tony walked in and unlocked the handcuffs. These memories blaze in the back of my eye sockets, but it is not an unwelcome or uncomfortable feeling.

And then, just as soon as these images appeared, they are gone completely, and my mind is finally at rest. I sit there for what seems like only a few minutes, as I am completely oblivious to the music and conscious thought now, until the door opens and someone slowly walks over to the bed. The creak of the bed frame makes me briefly wonder who is with me, but I am too relaxed to open my eyes and turn around. They do not say anything, so I am not worried.

I slowly open my eyes, and blink when I realize I am sitting in the middle of pitch black. Easing out of my meditation position, I stand and unplug the stereo. When I turn around, I see Tony sitting on the bed. So that is who came in …

Without having to ask him, he answers my question. "I heard Jim Brickman, and thought I'd sit in and listen."

I let out a tinkling laugh. "And watch me meditate." Shrugging, I add, "It was no distraction, so there was no harm done."

He squirms uncomfortably but tries to disguise it as a shift in his weight. "Gibbs called, too." My eyes snap to his, and I feel my face tense. "He's pretty sure he knows where Buck is."

"Where is he? Did he kill again?"

Tony shakes his head. "Uncle Roy says it's not Buck we have to worry about."


Abby is not the only teammate who is insistent on upholding our characters. Although we have the entire house debugged, there is nothing to say we are not being spied on with either infrared cameras from down the street, or even something as simple as a telescope. There is credible cause for caution.

I sit cradled in Tony's lap on the couch, sipping my tea, with a John Wayne movie playing in the background. One of my hands is wrapped around the side of my mug, while the other is entangled in his.

To be honest, I am rather concerned. Although Buck is not the murderer, someone is after his family. Since Tony and I have been in close contact with him, we have a greater risk. All of our team does, now that they have all met the farmer.

"You're scared," Tony whispers into my ear. His stubble brushes against my skin, and his warm breath tickles my neck. He buries his face in the crook of my neck.

"So are you." I sigh, settling into him. "Do we not have good reason to be? We could be next."

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say that's why Boss said we have to stay in the house." Tony rubs his thumb across my knuckles.

"But that would make us sitting hens," I murmur, taking another sip of tea. I feel his chest rumble below me briefly. "I got it wrong again, didn't I?" I ask in discouragement.

"Yes. But I knew what you meant." There is a pregnant pause, during which I make an actual effort to pay attention to the film, until he softly says, "It's kind of cute."

I turn my face toward his, confusion easily readable on my features. "Our being possible victims is cute?" Tony frowns, seemingly frustrated. "What else could be cute?"

"Your misusage of American idioms." He sighs heavily and states, not necessarily for me to answer, "When I said I was tired of pretending, I meant it."

Oh. The elevator, after I broke orders. When we were trying to save DOMINO. Fantastic.

I sip slowly on my tea, remembering that event. I had been torn, the entire time, between fighting to protect Tony and standing down to protect myself. Ultimately, I had chosen to defend him, which led to the capture of both of us. I had never been certain from the moment he had stormed out of the elevator whether he had purely meant the corruption and kept secrets in the case we had been working on, or his feelings toward me.

But, when I had said the words 'So am I,' I had been referring to my feelings for him. And that had hurt very badly, the not knowing, the uncertainty, the awkwardness, and the danger I had put myself in for him. I hesitantly get out, "I broke orders. I said it would not happen again."

Tony sarcastically murmurs, "Oh, yeah. How'd that work out for you?" Although his tone is snide, his hand is gentle, as he plays with my fingers. "Sorry. That came out wrong…"

"You are referring to the suicide mission," I state matter-of-factly. "I did not break orders. Ben did." He remains wordless, but wraps his other arm around me. "In truth, the only 'suicide' part of the mission was my choice to go on it. Ben had been ordered to kill me, by Eli. I am almost sure of it. I would have either been murdered by Michael or Ben." I pause for a moment before finishing softly, "I am not sure which I would have preferred."

Once more, Tony kisses the back of my head and gives my hand a squeeze. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand."

Shaking my head, with newfound determination to get all of the words out once and for all, I launch into the horrid details of both the suicide mission and my captivity in Somalia. As I tell him of the more macabre parts, I can feel my eyes begin to prickle, and I will myself not to let the tears fall. Though he remains silent, I know it is one of two reasons; the first, he is angry and attempting to keep a strong grip on his composure, or the second, he is shocked and trying to purge images from his mind. I could only be so lucky.

"I thought I was going to die there. I told you that." Reconsidering, I breathe, "Or did I not?" It has been far too long since I have discussed any of this. My report, in all of its mocked up glory, had been on Director Vance's desk the morning I returned to NCIS headquarters. For each question, section, and title, I had cleaned up what had happened. During my psych evaluation, too, and polygraph, I would not expand on statements or questions asked. The only person who knew what had truly happened there was Saleem, and me.

And one of us was dead.

"Zeev?" Tony pulls me closer and I am too lethargic from the overflow of emotions to push him away. It is impossible for me to prevent the tears, as I have only just realized that I am crying. "You don't have to tell me. Forget it. You can talk about it when you're ready. Just … forget I asked."

But that is the problem.

I can never forget.

Never will I be able to purge from my memory the images of Saleem, standing over me, the fly of his dirty cargo pants undone, his nauseating manhood protruding from it; Saleem, demanding that I perform ghastly favours for him whenever he asked; Saleem, raping me and hitting me, binding me, kicking me, flogging me with hooked whips, allowing his other men to violate me in ways I had never known possible.

I had not been the only woman. No, no, I had been one of three.

I was the only one who survived. I was the only one who had enough self-loathing to agree to such sordid activities. I was the one who wanted to die.

And I was the only one who would never forget.


A/N: `Kay. So, before I get yelled at for not having Tony care more about Ziva's story, I just wanna explain. Not a cop-out, just so you all know. I have read fan pieces (very, very good fan pieces, of course) that have Tony freak out when he hears what happened to Ziva in Somalia. This is a plausible reaction, and I agree with it. But I believe that there is another realistic reaction, and that is shock. Pure and utter shock. And for Tony, I think it would be that of silence. And then, a few days later, he would re-approach the topic. So.. just stick with me here. :)

Ziva's pajamas (I totally want them, they're so pretty): .?ID=483212&cm_mmc=LINKSHARE-_-n-_-n-_-n&LinkshareID=8T80SibTww

Feel free to pick up a pair. I don't own them :)