A/N I would like to start out by thanking my many reviewers for taking me to 70 reviews. That is just awesome, and, hopefully, it means I'm on my way to 100! I know, I have to write a lot more drabbles to get there, but I'm closing in. So, thanks and keep it up.
This drabble is a response to "Recoil." (I know, another one) I actually really liked the episode, (though I understand why others didn't) and it gave me a million ideas for fics. This is sort of my take on why Ziva was so unseated by her, in her opinion, failure when handling the Hoffman situation. It is also setting more background for my version of Ziva's early life.
Drabble 12
Title: "My Training" or "Don't Forget to Remember"
Words: 1395
Warning: Spoilers for "Recoil," Child Abuse
Ziva stared into the glass in front of her. After experimenting with different mixed drinks for a large part of the evening, Ziva had lost track of what exactly she was drinking. She couldn't even bring her brain to process the color of the strong liquor.
She couldn't believe she'd almost been killed so easily. The man's training as a marine was minute compared to hers. He had to drug women to kill them, but he'd somehow managed to nearly take out the daughter of Mossad's Deputy Director David, who'd been trained her entire life as a Mossad machine.
Unwillingly, Ziva thought back to that time in her life when her father was molding her into the perfect assassin.
-- -- -- -- --
Thirteen-year-old Ziva cringed as her father punched her stomach. Officer David had stopped holding back on his daughter long ago, right after Ziva learned not to cry out.
Ziva choked slightly as air was forced out of her lungs by another blow, and she almost missed her father's words.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Ziva? Don't let your opponent take away your options. If you give them that, you give them control. If you give them control, you have given them your life and the fate of the mission." David accentuated the words with one last gut shot that sent Ziva to her knees on the padded floor of the training room her father had commissioned for the David home.
David looked down his nose at his pained daughter. "Your continued failure disappoints me, Ziva. It is obvious that you require training both before and after school."
Struggling to her feet, Ziva stood at attention for Officer David. "Yes, Father," she said with as much strength as she could through the burrowing pain.
David eyed his daughter for a moment as she stood with her back straight for him, searching for any weakness in her stance. Seeing none, David nodded. "Good attitude, Ziva." The complement was said without care or praise. "We will meet here tomorrow at 0430, understand?"
Ziva nodded. "Yes, Sir!" she barked military style.
Her father actually cracked a small grin at her obedience before turning and leaving without another word.
The moment the door closed behind her father, Ziva shakily leaned against the wall. Clutching her stomach, Ziva slowly slid to the padded floor, her attempt at slow measured breaths failing to calm her shivering.
Knowing that her father would notice she was still in the room, Ziva braced her hands on the wall behind her, trying to create leverage to regain her feet. The moment her abdominal muscles stretched, however, Ziva was sent back down with a pained whimper.
"Ziva?"
The thirteen-year-old panicked for a moment, immediately trying to hide any sign of weakness. When she looked up, however, Ziva was met with the concerned gaze of her older brother rather than the wrathful one of her father.
"Ari," she sighed with relief. "You sounded just like Father."
Ari nodded in understanding before approaching his younger sister. "Don't worry," he said as he grabbed her upper arm to haul her up. "He got a call from the Deputy Director. I doubt he'll be back until after dinner."
Ziva sighed in relief as her brother gently maneuvered her arm around her shoulders and helped her limp out of the training room.
"Come on," he said gently. "I'll take you up to your room and tell Chava you're sick."
Ziva said nothing, instead allowing her brother to brace her as they climbed the stairs together. The two were just about to disappear into Ziva's room when Chava David spotted them.
"Ari, Ziva?" she called to her daughter and stepson. "What's going on?"
Ziva cringed slightly. She'd been hoping to avoid this. Every time her mother caught her being visually injured after a training session, the David home became a battlefield for Mr. and Mrs. David.
"It's nothing, Mom," she lied. "I'm just sore after Krav Maga training."
"Really?" asked Chava, walking up to the siblings. Before Ziva could prepare herself, her mother gently pressed against Ziva's abdomen.
The unexpected contact caused pain to run through Ziva like a jolt of electricity. The girl couldn't prevent a cry from escaping.
"STOP IT!" yelled Ari angrily, slapping Chava's hand away from his sister.
"I wouldn't have had to do that if you two had just told me what was going on!" Chava insisted sternly, glaring at Ari.
The two looked as though they were soon to be caught in a battle of wills when Ziva spoke up.
"I didn't want you and Father to get into another fight," Ziva said quietly. Her voice sounded almost pathetic as it trembled. It seemed her mother's light touch was perfectly placed to cause the maximum amount of pain. Knowing she wouldn't be able to stand much longer and not wanting to show any more embarrassing weakness to her mother, Ziva looked pleadingly up at her brother. "Can I go lay down now?"
Her words immediately softened the eyes of both family members.
"Of course, Ziva," her brother said, pushing the door to their left open and guiding her in. After placing her on the bed, he gently removed her shoes before pulling up the covers.
"Do you want anything, sweetheart?" he mother asked from the doorway where she looked at her daughter with pained eyes.
Ziva shook her head. "No thanks, Mom. I would rather just rest." She spoke softly, rubbing her face into her pillow and letting the cool fabric comfort her flushed cheeks.
Noticing the sweat on Ziva's face, Ari gently felt her forehead. Feeling unnatural heat, Ari turned to his stepmother. "Chava," he said, all traces of his early aggression towards her gone. "Could you get me a cool cloth? Ziva's a little warm."
Concern flashed in Chava's eyes, and she quickly went to feel her daughter's forehead. "Oh, Ziva," Chava said sadly, feeling the slight fever.
"I'm fine, Mom, Ari," Ziva insisted stubbornly. Looking at her mother earnestly, Ziva asked, "Please, Mom, don't yell at Father."
"And why shouldn't I?" asked Chava angrily, already preparing her husband's lecture about the difference between children and recruits in her head.
"It makes Tali cry."
Ziva's words stopped Chava short. They all knew that the conflicts within the family scared and distressed the four-year-old, littlest David. The tiny treasure was loved, spoiled, and adored by everyone, and was, perhaps, the only reason they hadn't all torn each other to shreds yet.
"Okay, Ziva." Chava acquiesced. "If that's what you want."
Ziva stuck her chin out proudly. "It is," the thirteen-year-old said with as much authority as she could muster.
Chava and Ari shared a look of pride for their little Ziva before Chava left to get a damp cloth.
As his stepmother left, Ari turned back to Ziva who was once again wincing in pain. "So, little sister," he said in an effort to distract her. "What did Father teach you today?"
Ziva immediately smiled before launching into a long list of tactical strategies and Krav Maga moves that she had learned from her father. Her youthful adoration of Micah David kept her from criticizing his teaching methods, or placing blame on him for her injuries. Ziva accepted them as her punishment for her weakness, and would not let them hold her back.
It was just the David way.
After that confrontation, Micah David had the freedom to train his daughter as aggressively as he wished.
Chava respected her daughter's wish, and stopped arguing with her husband, no matter how much she wanted to.
Ari made his displeasure known to their father, but kept his peace at home. Inside, anger grew each year, and the hatred between David and his son blossomed.
A presence at her elbow brought Ziva back to the bar in the present.
"Let me buy you the next one?" Michael Locke's voice came from behind her.
For the rest of the evening, Locke gave her the comfort she needed, the kind without attachment or risk. Ziva and Michael weren't looking for a relationship with each other, just the comfort of another body, another heartbeat, another soul while they waited for that one real relationship to return: the one where love came without limits or requirements or rationality.
Until then, however, they just need to know they weren't alone.
Okay, another one bites the dust. It was a little dark, but hey, no one died! As always, keep those reviews coming! They are my little drops of sunshine in a cold and dismal world.
Okay, not really.
Peace,
Hobbit Killer
