A/N: Warning: Where Faith goes, so does some inevitable cursing. Which for me isn't a problem since I'm a colourful curser most of the time myself, but if you're easily offended, you might want to pretend you're not. Kay?

This chapter happens more or less concurrently with the last section of the last chapter. Enjoy!

Monday, 2015
JC Academy, England

"So he fronts up to me with a big shit-eating grin on his face and says 'Faith, baby, let me show you what a real man can do for you', – which pretty much just proves how damn stupid Clonach demons are since my sword was still sticky with the green goo from his buddies' insides and all – but he's got a bottle of Jose in his hand," and here Faith pauses and smiles knowingly as Xander and Caitlin laugh, " so I take a swig and he's so busy watching my lips, the idiot takes his eyes off my sword and his head hits the ground about the same time the alcohol burns its way down into my gut."

Caitlin applauds, and then hiccups and sinks back into the overstuffed armchair as Faith eyes her warily. Her dark eyes turn to Ziva and she quirks an eyebrow challengingly.

"Your turn, Z."

Ziva stares at her, unsure of what to say. Once upon a time, killing came as easily to her as breathing, but while she knows the rush of adrenaline that comes when a target lies dead before you, it always left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She was doing her job – eliminating traitors and terrorists and yes, they deserved what they got – but each time she pulled the trigger a little piece of her slipped away.

Faith, on the other hand, seems to have no such problem. Quite the opposite – with each story, she grows more and more animated. Perhaps it's due to the bottle of tequila that's being passed around the group, half-empty now and clutched by a giggling Caitlin.

Ziva reaches over and takes the bottle from the younger girl, the glass cool under her hot palms, and frowns at the label. Jose. She wonders whether…

Opposite, Xander shoots her a half-smile and eyes the bottle, then looks at Faith. "Don't call it the demon drink for nothing, huh?" His gaze turns back to Ziva and softens almost imperceptibly. "Faith's just teasing. You don't have to share."

Faith scoffs and snags the bottle from Ziva's grip. "Couldn't top that anyway," she says, but there's no real scorn in her voice and her little shrug could almost be an apology.

They've been sitting in the staff lounge for the past half hour or so, swapping stories and reminiscing about things they've killed in between swigs of tequila. Word must have gotten around, because staff members keep popping in to listen, though they generally only last about five minutes before Faith shoots them a glance and they stammer and leave quickly.

"This ain't a fairytale," she'd said pointedly to a red-haired man who had been back twice 'searching for his copy of Girnock's Demonology Compendium'and looked particularly disgusted at Xander and Caitlin's account of a demon hunt in Paris last summer, "You want a happy ending, there's plenty of fluffy Disney crap down in the Slayer's common room. Go. Study. Sing along."

He'd fled and Faith had smirked wickedly, making Ziva think that maybe part of Faith quite enjoyed playing on people's impressions of her. The Wild One, the Lone Slayer. Like Buffy the bubbly California girl, or Tony the incompetent bumbling clown.

Ziva of the unflinching countenance and hard heart thinks, oh Tony.

Her head is spinning, more from the sheer impossibility of some of their exploits than from the alcohol. Tony (and probably McGee) would kill to be here right now; listening to a doe-eyed woman named Faith talk about wrestling alligators. Among other things. She wonders what they're doing right now, what their latest case is. Whether they have a new team member yet, and if he or she is driving Tony up the hall.

She bites her lip at the thought, because in all honesty if he were here –

The phone startles her from her thoughts, and she watches as Faith springs from her chair and grabs it, passing the bottle of tequila to Xander as she mumbles a greeting into the phone and then straightens up sharply at the response from the other end.

"B, you calling to check I haven't corrupted all the little slayers this time? I'm touched."

Ziva eyes Caitlin, who is trying to convince Xander that she can in fact pat her head and rub her stomach simultaneously. Slayer reflexes fail in the face of her hiccups and she sinks back onto the couch with a pout.

Ziva wonders what exactly constitutes 'corruption' in Buffy's book, and Faith's eyes flicker guiltily over to meet hers, making her realize that Buffy's heard about the misunderstanding.

"They're prob'ly talking bout you," Caitlin says unnecessarily, and Faith waves at her to keep it down. She leans in close to Ziva and whispers, "Siobhan tol' Giles all about it just 'fore he left to go Washington. But don't tell Faith, cos' she's gonna be – "

Faith hauls open the door and starts yelling down the corridor as Caitlin winces and finishes " – really, really pissed."

Ziva's still stuck on Washington, and she grits her teeth with the effort of not asking what exactly Giles is doing there. Meeting the President. Sightseeing. Demon-hunting. The odds of meeting Gibbs or Tony or anyone who knows her are slim in a city of over 500,000 people.

You just heard a Vampire Slayer tell you stories about killing demons with broadswords and her bare hands, Ziva, she thinks with a groan, and you are evaluating the odds of your two worlds colliding?

" – she's got skills. Hey, some of the girls – "

Xander touches her shoulder gently and it takes all of her tenuous control not to break his fingers. He studies her, eye patch slightly askew. "Buffy's not going to be mad at you, if that's what you're all tense about," he says simply and if he noticed her reaction to his touch he doesn't show it.

"I am fine," she says quietly.

"Yeah, and Caitlin would pass a field sobriety test," he says with an amused glance at the blonde slayer, who has curled up on the couch and is blinking heavily as though fighting sleep.

Instead of answering, she reaches for the tequila and takes a long swig, long enough so that she can pretend the steady burning in her throat and behind her eyes is alcohol-induced and not at all a result of her past flooding over her. She chokes and sputters and the room warps, in and out and around.

"Right, I'm cutting you off," Xander says, taking the bottle from her nerveless fingers and tossing it deftly to Faith who is saying something about a ceiling fan and the chains from the East Wing storage cupboard. "And as a former bartender in a bar that served evil cavemen-making beer, believe me when I say that alcohol? Not the world's greatest problem solver."

Xander adjusts the patch and Ziva wonders how he lost his eye, why they haven't just… well, they healed her wounds with magic, why not his? She realizes she's staring and looks away quickly, though not before catching his knowing look. He sees everything, she thinks with a frown. It is… disconcerting, to say the least.

Faith hangs up the phone with a shrug and a puzzled look, vaulting neatly over the back of the three-seater Ziva's curled up on and landing squarely on the end cushion with a little jolt. "Don't go getting all self-important or anything," she mutters to Ziva, who just stares at her blankly. "You were listening, yeah?"

"Not really." Maybe a little, but not enough to hear whatever's got Faith looking almost… embarrassed. Should have eavesdropped, Ziva.

"Oh. Well, in that case… Forget it. Xander, tell Z about that time you and yours found the wicked nasty Cuag'torth in the sewer and you only had your – "

Ziva listens with amusement as the two of them banter, filling in the gaps in each other's stories and trading insults in what is obviously a well-practiced dance. There's comfort to be found in the familiar repartee, even if it makes her throat tighten with what-might-have-beens. What still could be, she reminds herself, even if she can't for the life of her figure out how.

(That's what you get when you rig your bridges with enough C-4 to take out a small town, no matter whose hand covers yours as you light the fuse. Crash and burn.)

"Well ladies," Xander says eventually with a loose grin, "It's been a blast, but some of us have to get up at the ass crack of dawn. Still waiting for the upside of the whole 'Field Operations Director' gig. " He wobbles a little as he stands, pulling a protesting Caitlin with him.

"Xander! Lemme go!"

He wraps his arm around her waist and says slowly, "C'mon, Cait, I'll take you back to your room and tuck you in," then looks vaguely horrified at the implications, adding, "In a strictly platonic sense, because you're like my little sister and it's even more wrong than Giles hinting that he has a sex life."

Faith snorts, a mixture of laughter and approval, and Caitlin pouts for a minute before breaking into giggles. Xander looks her up and down apprehensively. "We'll find you a bucket on the way, just in case."

The younger girl looks up at him like… like Ziva once used to look at Ari, and it might just be the tequila numbing the jagged edges of her memory, but the comparison doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would have once.

Pain is a relative term, after all.

Faith shrugs and turns to Ziva. "It's still early, and the weather channel says the rain's gonna hold off until tomorrow. Nice night for violence," she says casually, her eyes burning with anticipation. "You wanna come with?"

Ziva shakes her head and the room spins a little . She's sorely out of practice at holding her liquor compared to the brunette slayer, and even more out of her league when it comes to demons, despite her solo (sober) San Francisco success. Faith just shrugs and holds out her hand, pulling Ziva up slowly.

She's grateful for small mercies, given the fact that sometime between the story about the Clonach and what Xander called the 'butt-ugly-pig-dragon-dog demon', the world has turned into a washing machine and her cycle is currently hovering somewhere between 'agitate' and 'light-speed spin dry'.

"Your loss," Faith says with a lazy grin, studying her. "You good to find your way back through the maze? I've told Giles a bunch of times they need better signage in the hallways, but no luck so far."

"I think I have been here long enough to know my way around," Ziva says with a trace of impatience that she hopes hides her hesitation. God… how much tequila did she drink? Four, no – five passes of the bottle around the circle, plus the sixth just before which probably counts as six and seven. Possibly seven and a half, and she's talking swigs not shots…

"Z?"

…If this were a Mossad operation, she would have been to the bathroom at least twice by now to purge the alcohol from her system. The necessity of having a clear head and above-average reaction time means that a drunk assassin can easily become a dead assassin. Obviously for Slayers (or perhaps just Faith), things work a little differently….

A sigh and a popping of joints as Faith flexes her limbs. "This's why I told Giles to put the damn guest quarters on the ground floor."

The world tilts alarmingly as she's unceremoniously slung over the shoulder of a slayer, who sets off toward the staff quarters with a spring in her step. Ziva wriggles and swears colorfully as her head off bounces Faith's lower back, but she might as well be talking to a brick wall for all the response she gets.

"When I told myself I'd find someone to take home tonight after patrol, this ain't what I had in mind," Faith says after awhile, and from her tone it's blatantly obvious that she's grinning from ear to ear. "You actually speak all those languages, or just know a sailor in every port?" Ziva rolls her eyes and tries to maneuver out of Faith's steely grip.

"I can walk, you know." The floor continues to move at a dizzying pace. "Faith!"

Things turn right-way-up with a lurch, and Ziva leans against the wall, breathing hard. She stares angrily at Faith, who doesn't look the slightest bit affected by her Ziva-laden run up three flights of stairs.

"Level Three," Faith says with an overdramatic flourish, "Electrical; Sporting Goods; House of Ninja. And you're welcome, by the way."

"I did not ask you to throw me over your shoulder like… like…."

"A constipated soldier?" And, bizarrely, Faith starts singing a song about testicles under her breath, what Tony would call a 'big shit-eating grin' on her face. Her anger evaporating, Ziva can't help but laugh; even if she has the suspicion she's being played. Must be the tequila.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle at the same time as Faith stops singing and cocks her head, listening carefully to something Ziva can only vaguely hear. It's somewhere between a crackle and a high-pitched hum, strangely familiar and yet not instantly recognizable.

Faith moves past Ziva and unlocks the heavy oak door to her rooms carefully, though the movement seems more a confirmation of suspicion than an all-out offensive approach. Ziva doesn't even have time to ask when exactly Faith managed to take her keys (most likely it was sometime on the way up the stairs), before Faith is turning and shooting her a puzzled look.

"You got a visitor," she says with a frown, and Ziva can count on one hand the people who would be in her room unannounced at the gloriously late hour of… 2100. Huh. Time doesn't fly like you'd expect it to when you're hearing stories about demon beheadings.

Faith fades into the background, still watching but physically stepping back from the situation, and just as Ziva's about to step cautiously through the door Buffy steps out, stiff-backed and hard-faced. The look in her eyes sobers Ziva more effectively and instantly than a cold shower or a finger down her throat ever could.

"Buffy?"

It's easy to forget that essentially, a Slayer is a predator, an alpha, something fierce and primal inside a body that still looks weak and entirely unassuming. Ziva's heard a little of the First Slayer story from Giles, and wonders now if that was the reason that the Shadow Men chose a female in the first place – to maximize the surprise (and therefore damage) factor when a sweet-looking woman kicked the ass of whatever she was hunting.

Ziva knows something about that, having lived it for the past ten-odd years even without the bonus of supernatural strength and agility, thanks to another man who saw an opportunity to maximize damage and played on it.

Buffy couldn't be more hunter-like right now than if she was nose-up to the wind, tracking the scent of her prey. The realization that she, Ziva, is the prey comes slower than she'd like.

"Washington no fun? I can see that happening, with all the politics and crap floating 'round. Bet even the demons are uptight." Faith says in an attempt to lighten the mood, her confusion evident.

Buffy's eyes remain on Ziva as she answers, her tone light despite her unchanging gaze. "Demons are demons. Politics, on the other hand… well, it's probably lucky I left Giles there to do all the politico-talk for me, though once NCIS is done asking questions…"

It takes everything Ziva has in her not to fold like she's been sucker-punched in the gut when Buffy mentions NCIS. As it is, she bites the inside of her mouth so hard she tastes blood, and she's almost certain that despite her best efforts, she's failed miserably at keeping her feelings out of her eyes. Tony. Gibbs. McGee. Abby. Ducky.

The assault of names and memories continue, blinking in unstoppable loops like a projector with a broken 'off' button. Buffy's still talking, and she fights to keep her attention on the blonde slayer.

Never take your eyes off your combatant, she hears in her head, a lesson well-learnt over the years. She's not sure they're at drawing weapons stage just yet, but it never hurts to be on your guard.

"….we'll probably have to start his 'keep it simple' training all over again. If their ME, Dr Mallard, was female he'd be Giles's dream partner. He'd also be a total cougar, but still, age is only a number."

"Unless they're under sixteen, then it's a jail sentence." Faith counters quickly, stepping a little closer to Ziva. "Benedicta land you in the wrong room or somethin'? Thought she was a pro."

"She is," Buffy says curtly. "Faith, don't you have an elsewhere to be?" The message is clear, but Faith only looks from Buffy to Ziva and then shrugs as if clueless. Ziva's not entirely comforted – Faith's eyes are a little cooler toward her than they were five minutes ago, but mostly she just seems confused by the unexplained tension crackling through the corridor.

"Nah. I'm good here for now. NCIS? Thought we'd worked with all the arrogant acronyms there were in Washington. CSI boys get a makeover or somethin'?"

"It stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Services," Ziva says between rising waves of nausea, looking Buffy directly in the eyes. "Which I am sure you expected me to know, if the look on your face is any indication."

She closes her eyes tight and breathes deeply, fighting the renewed spinning and almost entirely sure that this time it has very little to do with the tequila, and more to do with having her feet knocked out from under her just as she'd begun to make sense of the ground again.

"Much as I'm lovin' all the super-uncomfortable suspense and meaningful looks between you two, can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?" Faith demands, and Ziva holds up a hand in the universal 'give me a minute to decide if I'm going to vomit or not' gesture.

"Don't give me the 'drop it, Faith' hand wave!" the brunette slayer says hotly.

Perhaps not so universal after all.

A door opens further down the hall and light floods the hall as a tousled head pokes out. Buffy waves an apology to the unknown figure and as the light recedes Buffy's eyes shift back to Ziva.

"Inside," she says, and it's not quite an order but it's fairly clear that it's not optional. Ziva doesn't need to be asked twice, bolting past Buffy's unyielding figure as her stomach churns unpleasantly with all the things she knows are coming. Figuratively and literally.

She's not sure what burns more, the tequila or the memories.

Afterwards, she rinses out her mouth and splashes water on her face and feels no better than she did before. It's clear that whatever Buffy has seen or heard, she's suspicious (which really, Ziva can't fault her for because once upon a time she would have kneecapped first, asked questions later) and there's no way to avoid an explanation.

She walks out of the bathroom with her head held high, thinking of a Russian joke she'd heard from a senior Mossad officer early in her career, after her first near-miss.

She'd been released from hospital that day – alone – and found him waiting outside the hospital doors with an envelope in his hand and an almost-pitying smile on his scarred face. "A soldier is being led to his execution," he'd said by way of greeting, taking in her bruised jaw and slow stride.

"Some bad weather we're having," he says to his envoy.

"Look who's complaining," they reply, "We have to go back."

The man had smiled at her confusion and patted her on the shoulder awkwardly, mindful of the stitches. "No matter how bad it seems, remember that it can always be worse," he'd said as he handed her the envelope and disappeared into the parking lot.

The next morning, she had been on a plane to Cairo with her new orders in her sweaty hand and his words echoing in her ears.

Buffy is waiting near the door, perhaps a fraction less hostile than in the hallway though it could be a trick of the light. Behind her, Faith lounges casually on the bed, both Slayers watchful and waiting. ...Tell me everything you know about NCIS, Ziva thinks as Buffy pulls a familiar photo from her pocket and hands it to Ziva. She holds it lower than necessary so her angled head blocks the tears that well in her eyes.

"You worked with them."

"Yes."

"In what capacity?" She doesn't know this official-sounding Buffy with the clipped words and suspicious eyes.

"I was a Liaison Officer between Mossad and NCIS, though I did not actually do much in the way of liaising. The Director at the time owed me a favor, and I needed to… I needed to get away from Mossad for awhile. I was on Gibbs's team – " she names him without hesitation, because surely if Buffy worked with Ducky she must have been investigating a murder, and Gibbs's team are the only one who would be involved in that sort of case, " – for almost four years."

"How'd you end up back in Hell Aviv – sorry, Tel Aviv – I went there last summer and damn they breed their demons mean in that part of the world – if you were meant to be Washington Liais-o Girl?" Faith asks curiously.

"My fath… my Director requested my return after..." She can't say the words. Pause and fidget and breathe. Wish for tequila, or a mind-numbing blow, anything to take away the wrenching ache inside. The words roll around in her mouth like poison and for a moment she wants to be sick again.

After Tony killed Michael to protect me from what I should have suspected. "…after an incident in Washington led to the death of a Mossad officer, and NCIS being summoned to Tel Aviv. My Director was… displeased… that I had such a close relationship with the Americans, and compelled me to return to Israel to finish what Officer Rivkin started. If you ask Gibbs, he might tell you that I forced him to choose between Agent DiNozzo," her voice breaks on his name and Buffy's eyes flicker, "and myself; and that is the truth, but I never had a choice. I hope Gibbs's gut told him that."

She laughs bitterly and it scorches the air. Her throat feels pulpy from the acid and the threat of tears. "I do not know what I expected to achieve by returning to Mossad. I already knew that my father was not to be trusted, and I not only put myself directly in the spider's web but I severed all ties with anyone who might have been able to help me, afterwards."

"Your father?" Damn.

"My father is the Director of Mossad," Ziva says simply.

Faith and Buffy both just stare at her, making the necessary connections. Buffy's mouth moves as though she's trying to offer comfort but someone's hit the mute button. Faith breaks the tension by leaning back into the headboard of the bed and saying, "Daddy issues. No wonder you fit right in here with the poster children for dysfunctional parenting. Sending your daughter out on missions that could kill her? Damn, that's cold."

Ziva bristles inexplicably. "How is it different to Giles sending Buffy out patrolling at the age of sixteen?" She's not even sure why she said it, given her feelings about her… Director. Other than a last name and genetics which she mostly can't change, there's nothing much else that she wants to share with the man ever again.

She sighs and turns away from them, thinking of men and impossible choices. "We do what we think we have to at the time. Even if it hurts the ones you love."

"The mission is what matters," Buffy says in a low and thoughtful voice, and when her eyes meet Ziva's there's no trace of General Buffy left in them at all. And to think, it only took the almost-baring of her soul to accomplish it. Ziva can't be angry at Buffy – the slayer was simply protecting her mission, though in a different way to Faith.

She makes a mental note never to cross either of them.

"Who's the spunk-rat?" Faith says with a low whistle, having picked up the discarded photo. Ziva looks over at her and she points to Tony with a little hip jiggle. "In between him and the silver fox, I'd never get any work done,"

"Which is why you get assignments like wiping out demon clans in Africa and I get assignments like coffee and cake with the President," Buffy says with a grin, and Ziva feels the tension drain from the room like a cosmic plug has been yanked. She's not entirely sure why, but given what she knows about both women she supposes the idea of impossible choices strikes something of a chord.

A Tristram chord, she thinks oddly as the two Slayers continue their good-natured teasing. She wonders suddenly if there's a piano here. Wagner created the progression for his 1865 opera, flying in the face of standard harmony by continually resolving one particular type of dissonant chord with another, keeping audiences waiting on a tonally acceptable resolution for whole scenes or even until the third act.

Buffy and her friends are the real-life example of the musical phenomenon - tension that never really resolves, just gets buried amongst all the other action on the stage until suddenly you realize it's been humming underneath the whole time.

Ziva first saw 'Tristan and Isolde' in Paris at the tender age of 22, hanging flirtatiously from the arm of a man who was something of a music history buff as well as being a traitor to the state of Israel. He taught her about music and fine clothing and wine, and in return she shot him twice the head and slipped out the window into a balmy summer night. She didn't touch the piano for months afterward.

"So… what now?" Buffy asks her carefully, perching on the edge of the bed. "Not that you're not welcome to stay here, but…" She sighs. "This is gonna sound hypocritical as hell, given my stance on burying certain hatchets, but you should go talk to them."

"I doubt I would get further than the NCIS security desk," Ziva replies bitterly. "My father never does anything by halves, and by now I am most likely persona non grata in the American intelligence world. Not to mention with Gibbs's team. They are… Things did not end well, and they would be suspicious of my sudden reappearance."

Buffy shoots her an unreadable look. "You might be right about that," she says evenly, "but after what they saw me do in their morgue this afternoon, it may not be for the reasons you'd think."

Hello ... *waves* Anyone still reading? LOL