It was early afternoon, with Ziva napping lightly against him as Gibbs let his mind wander. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular—he was simply enjoying Ziva's presence and the warmth of the sun from where it shone through the window. This time, he was on the side of the bed closest to the window, and Ziva was propped against him, causing her to face the door slightly. He was so relaxed and absorbed in his own thoughts that he was not aware of a foreign presence until Ziva shifted on the bed next to him.
Shaken out of his reverie, he found that she had twisted on the bed to place herself between him and the tall, gray-haired man that stood in the doorway. Her posture was defensive, and when he moved to get off the bed, the heavy presence of her bandaged hand kept him in place. The intruder was obviously not a doctor, as he was dressed in a dark suit, complete with a nice tie and polished black shoes. His skin was golden, similar to Ziva's, and his bespectacled eyes were weary. Gibbs would have said he looked kindly, if not for Ziva's suspicious reaction.
Before Gibbs had a chance to question the stranger, Ziva spoke rapidly in Hebrew. Her voice was hard, heavy—resigned. The sound of Ziva's native language put Gibbs on edge, and he again attempted to get off the bed, this time to eliminate the threat this unknown man posed, but Ziva's hand was unyielding this time her two unwrapped fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. He had predicted that this would happen; that Director David would send someone to make sure that Ziva was dead. More Hebrew was fired in the man's direction. Gibbs eyes remained glued to the unfamiliar figure, even as the man raised his hands in an attempt to ease their suspicion.
"Please, Ziva," the man said, his voice husky. Gibbs was surprised the man answered in English—he had expected to be excluded from conversation entirely. "I am not here to harm you."
"You expect me to believe that?" Ziva responded, slipping expertly into English as well. "Coming from you? You will have to do better than that; I am no longer comatose." Her cynicism would have made Gibbs glance her way, but he was too preoccupied with the stranger to do so.
"I cannot make you trust me," the man said. "I am merely hoping you will remember that I have never lied to you. That I would never lie to you. Please, Zivaleh."
Gibbs' eyes flashed to Ziva at the use of the endearment. It was clear to him that they knew each other. The man, he deduced, was Israeli—which meant he was still a threat in Gibbs' eyes. However, much to his surprise, Ziva relaxed after a moment of hesitation following the man's plea. She didn't move from her position in front of Gibbs, but the hand not on his leg came up to brace her ribs. The motion had become familiar in the days following the cessation of her medication, and Gibbs didn't pay it any mind. The man, however, tracked the movement with his eyes. In the next moment, his expression turned angry. Hebrew passed his lips, and this time it sounded familiar to the Marine's ears. Ziva had said the same words in his basement, when she had realized Eschel had set her up. Gibbs had looked her words later: "filthy pig", they had meant.
The man started to move forward, but stopped. He then looked at Ziva, as if waiting for her permission to come closer. His restraint impressed Gibbs—it showed that he was familiar with and respectful of Ziva's need for space. After a moment, Ziva nodded toward the chair next to the bed, inviting him to sit down.
"Thank you," the man said as he sat down. "Ziva, I—"
"Agent Gibbs," Ziva interrupted, "this is Officer Bashan. He is on a long-term assignment at the Israeli Embassy. I went to him for help after I witnessed the bombing in Georgetown."
"Did he help?" Gibbs asked, his eyes glued to the man, who refrained from offering a handshake, instead giving the Marine a nod in greeting.
"I had to drag you away from your Mexican beach," she said dryly. "What do you think?" After a moment, she added, "But he did try. It simply was not enough."
"Do you trust him?" came Gibbs' next question. A moment of silence followed as she gathered her thoughts.
"I do not know anymore," she answered finally. Gibbs' eyes caught the slight shift in Bashan's eyes. He thought he saw a glimmer of disappointment, and even hurt, but it was gone before he could be certain. "But I believe him when he says he is not going to kill me," Ziva continued.
Gibbs looked at her in surprise. Her expression was just as guard as Bashan's, but to his keen eye, he saw something indistinguishable in her gaze as she focused on her fellow officer's. Silence fell as neither spoke.
"I see our assumption of you sleeping with Agent Dinozzo was incorrect," Officer Bashan said finally, almost conversationally. Gibbs looked at Ziva in mild amusement. How had he not heard of this before? Mossad was known for being adept at gathering accurate intel, which means that that must have had have seen something of a questionable nature. He was curious to know what it was. "But it seems were not entirely off-base," Bashan continued.
"Michael—" Ziva started, her voice warning, but Bashan waved her off.
"I am happy for you, Ziva. It has been a long time since…" His voice tailed off, and Ziva looked down at the bed covers on her lap. Gibbs did not miss the change in mood, though Ziva quickly picked up the conversation again.
"Why are you here, Michael?" she asked. "I know that if you are not going to kill, your visit was not sanctioned."
"You are correct. It has not been sanctioned. No one knows I am here, as my staff believes I am on a day trip to Paris." He paused before continuing. "But I thought you deserved better than not hearing this in person, from a friend." Ziva looked at him expectantly, which Bashan returned with a pained look before morphing his features into a mask of indifference. It was a look Ziva assumed when forced to do something she disliked. "You have been reported dead to the Israeli government. Your position at Mossad has been terminated. You are not to return to Israeli soil at any time in the future, for any reason. You are not to contact any citizen of Israel, regardless of their location. Any violation of these orders will be considered a threat upon the state of Israel, and will be responded to accordingly." Bashan paused. "Do you understand?" Ziva had not averted her gaze during the man's recitation, and when she spoke, her voice was strong.
"Yes." Bashan reached out and took one of her hands in his. She glanced at the contact, but didn't react, her expression stony. After a moment, she met the older man's gaze once more.
"I am sorry," Bashan said. Now his expression was tender, his tone gentle. "But there is no other option." Ziva's hand curled around his.
"I know," she said softly. "I knew this was going to happen. Thank you for telling me in person, Michael." Her voice was grateful, reassuring, letting the man know she didn't blame him.
"My visit was also for personal reasons," the man continued. "I also came to see you, Zivaleh." A tiny squeeze of her hand accompanied his words. "You must know, Ziva, I had no knowledge of Officer Rivkin's and your father's actions until after the fact."
"Michael, what happened was not your fault. It was going to happen sooner or later, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him."
"Did you really kill Ari?" he asked.
"Yes." Her answer was firm.
"I never doubted your report when you revealed him to be a traitor to Israel." Ziva looked at him. "Many of us believed you. Your actions were justified, even laudable, given your personal relation to him. But your—"
"I know, Michael," she interrupted. She winced slightly as she spoke too loudly, stretching her still-healing ribs too much. Bashan saw this and reacted, even as Gibbs ran his hand gently over her ribcage, knowing the motion would comfort her. Anger flared in Bashan's eyes, but Gibbs recognized that it was not directed at Ziva or himself, but rather toward the injury itself.
"I did not want to believe what Ari told Gibbs about my father," she continued. "I was able to avoid the issue for the two years I was first at NCIS, and then when I returned, he was eager to be more involved in my personal life. I was able to believe Ari had lied." She paused before continuing. "But now, I know he was telling the truth."
"Your father is not the man he believes himself to be," Officer Bashan told her. "He claims to uphold traditional values, but he merely perverts them." He leaned closer to her, looking deep into her eyes. "He will rot in hell for doing this to you," he said. His voice was so venomous that Gibbs knew the man believed his words whole-heartedly. "If I had known his intentions, I would have stopped him, Zivaleh, even if it meant putting a bullet in his head." His words surprised Gibbs—how well did the two Israelis know each other? It was obvious that they had a history, but it seemed more than just a professional relationship.
"Please, Michael, it is done," Ziva told him. "Do not risk your career, or your life, on me." Her voice was quiet. Bashan scooted his chair closer to the bed, covering their clasped hands with his free hand.
"Ziva," he said, his voice low, but blatantly honest, "I would do that and more for you. I never approved of the way Eli raised you and Ari. When you and—" At this his voice skipped, and Gibbs almost missed it. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hands clench Bashan's tightly. "When you joined our family," the older man revised, "I sought to give you what he refused. At first it was a moral obligation, and an easy way to keep the future deputy director's daughter safe. But in just a few weeks, you had carved a place our hearts. Those years before…" Again the man caught himself. "Those years you were with us, you completed our family." Bashan paused. "Hanna still asks about you. She is always worried about you."
"I have tried to keep in touch," Ziva replied, her voice thick. "But it is difficult, even in America."
"We know," he reassured her. "And we both understand." The man glanced at Gibbs, and saw the confusion in the Marine's eyes. "I think your friend is feeling a little left out," he said to Ziva, who looked back at Gibbs, as if just remembering he was there. "I think he would not mind an explanation."
"It wouldn't hurt," Gibbs said. But then he suddenly felt the need to backtrack, sensing that this was an extremely sensitive topic. "But you don't have to," he added. "This is something between you and Officer Bashan."
"No," Ziva said. "You are right. You should know. I want you to know. I think." Her voice was uncharacteristically thick, heavy with barely concealed emotion. It reminded him of the days following the death of Andy Hoffman, when she had been plagued with guilt and doubt. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke once more, her voice sounded marginally stronger.
"I know Officer Bashan on a personal level because I went to school with his son. Shmuel." The name sounded familiar to Gibbs. "Shmuel Rubenstein," Ziva specified.
"Isn't he--?"
"Yes," Ziva answered, knowing where his question was going. "He is the boy I hit on the playground because he told me he liked me." She smiled, and even Bashan chuckled.
"He was mortified, I remember," the older man said. "But he doubled his efforts in his combat lessons after that. He told me it was to make sure he beat you the next time around, but Hanna and I suspected it was to impress you." Turning to Gibbs, he said, "Hannah is my wife. Shmuel took her maiden name; an added layer of protection against those who would target my children for who their father is."
"We became best friends after that day on the playground," Ziva said. "Our families were already close, due to our fathers' connections. We used to go everywhere together, and as we progressed through school, we always shared classes."
"They were inseparable. From the time they were eight… even when they joined Mossad. After Ziva's mother died, we made sure that she and Tali were able to spend time in our home whenever they wished. Their father spent most of his time in the office, or away on assignment, and Hannah could not bear the thought of them spending all that time in an empty house." Bashan smiled. "You and Shmuel used to get into so much trouble, even with Tali acting as your voice of reason. I think she just gave up on trying to save you two."
"She did," Ziva informed him. "She told me one night. She was eight, and already telling me I was too headstrong for her to bother with anymore. After that, she just wanted to hear the stories of our exploits." Gibbs grinned, imagining the different kinds of trouble Ziva must have gotten into. He had already gotten a glimpse of her ability to prank, and he was sure that it had only been a taste of what she was capable of. "We were fourteen," Ziva continued, "when Shmuel first kissed me." Gibbs eyes found hers, only to see that they were slightly unfocused, and he knew that she was lost in her memories. "We used to sneak out at night to meet each other, so that my father would not find out."
"Hannah and I gave up trying to ground him. Especially once we discovered exactly who he was sneaking out to meet." He smiled warmly at Ziva.
"He helped me when my mother died, and again when Tali was killed. He kept me from losing myself to my hate. He became my voice of reason, the only person who could get through to me." Ziva shifted on the bed until she could face Gibbs. Her expression was nostalgic, but also full of pain. "I was engaged. To Shmuel, when we were nineteen." Gibbs felt a jolt of shock run through him. He kept his expression blank though, knowing that any shift on his part could cause her to abandon her story.
"We hid it from everyone," she continued, "even Michael. At that point, we had both joined Mossad, and in Mossad, two agents cannot officially engage in a personal relationship. Many people have affairs, especially when on a mission, but no one ever marries their colleagues. At least, not while they are both part of Mossad. One of the couple would have to leave Mossad, if they wished to put their love life before their country. And my father would not have approved of our relationship. I was too valuable, with too much potential as an operative. I could not leave Mossad, and Shmuel refused to let me join alone. So we waited, remained engaged for years."
For several moments neither Israeli spoke. Gibbs looked at Ziva, and found an all-too-familiar expression. Her brown eyes were dark, focused on some indistinguishable point in her past. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her jaw tense. Her breath was slow, deliberate—she was trying to keep her emotions in check. She didn't want anyone to see what she was swirling her around in her mind, and she didn't her emotions to show. Suddenly, Gibbs felt his heart fall, knowing that this story was not going to have a happy ending.
"What happened?" He asked finally, his voice soft and careful. His heart hurt—he didn't really want to see her have to recount how her childhood love story had ended. Because, he reasoned, it must have ended, for she was now with him, and not Shmuel. He hoped that it had simply been a bad break-up, but from hearing her talk about their relationship… he knew that only one thing could have ended it.
"Shmuel was sent undercover," Bashan said when Ziva did not immediately answer, "to infiltrate a Hamas cell. He was successful in his mission." The man's voice was now slow and careful. "He remained undercover within the cell until his cover was compromised."
"There was a case," Ziva said, her voice quiet, "a few years ago. We busted a chop shop, remember? And we found a cooler in the trunk."
"I remember," he said.
"I had a conversation with Tony." She cleared her throat. "Did you overhear it?"
"Yes." He recalled the conversation, vaguely. It had been when Ziva had revealed she would never be captured alive. At the time, he had not found the revelation surprising. Many of his fellow Marines had had similar vows, and it was logical for people in the intelligence community to have them as well.
"I told Tony that it had been a friend." Her voice strained under the weight of withheld tears. "But he was not just a friend." A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and traced its way down her cheek. More quickly followed, though she tried to wipe them away furiously. For a few minutes, Gibbs thought she was going to lose it completely, but true to form, she managed to keep her emotions in check. The tears disappeared, and she cleared the sobs from her throat.
"Shmuel's head was shipped to Mossad by overnight express," Bashan said, his grip on Ziva's hand tight. "His control officer alerted Ziva to the package, and—" He halted his story as Ziva squeezed his hand even tighter. The tears in her eyes returned as she gazed up at Bashan once more. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. Gibbs' keen ears were able to hear her clearly, but it was in vain as he quickly realized she had reverted back to Hebrew. After a few moments, he heard the same words being repeated over and over.
"Aní mitzta'éret meód," she repeated. She clutched Bashan's hand as if it were a life line. The older man moved to sit next to her on the bed, and quickly took her into his arms, though gently enough for the movement to not cause her pain. Gibbs didn't need to understand Hebrew to know that she was expressing her guilt over what happened to Shmuel. Knowing how Ziva usually compartmentalized, Gibbs realized that this was probably the first time she had spoken of her remorse to Bashan.
Ziva clung to the older man as tightly as she could. She buried her face in his shoulder, her own shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Gibbs watched as kind, weathered hands wrapped around Ziva, giving comfort as they held her close. Gibbs knew that in any other instance, the scene in front of him would have caused jealousy to flare within him, but he had been on the receiving end of Ziva's rare display of heavy emotion. He knew that once the tears started, once she revealed how vulnerable she really was under her defenses, it was impossible to keep yourself from doing everything in your power to ease her pain.
"Shhh," Michael whispered comfortingly in her ear. After a long moment, her shoulders stilled, and the older Israeli pulled away to make direct eye contact. "It was not your fault, Zivaleh," he said in English. "Shmuel knew the risks. We all do. Your father offered the mission to both of you, but to Shmuel there was only one option." He paused to brush a lock of hair from Ziva's damp cheek. "He would not have been able to live with himself if had willingly let you go on that mission. You know how Hamas treats their women. Shmuel was not going to let that happen to you."
"But—"
"No, Ziva," he interrupted. "He made the right decision. Hannah and I miss him, but we have been able to come to terms with his death because it meant that you were still safe. It is how he would have wanted it." A thick silence fell then. Gibbs let it continue, knowing it was not his to break. Instead he waited, giving the two friends time to gather themselves. Ziva was the next to speak, and her husky words triggered another bout of tears.
"I miss him too." And then Bashan was hugging her once more, pulling her smug against him as her arms wrapped around him in reciprocation.
"I know," the man said softly. "I know." Both Israelis gave and received comfort for several long minutes as Gibbs' mind went into hyper-drive. He hadn't had any idea Ziva had been so involved with anyone in her past. What little she had revealed about her past had been relayed in a detached, almost cold way, and had always painted an equally cold childhood. But now he was being told that Ziva had found love, a love she had been willing to marry for. She had trusted a man with all her heart, her soul. And she had been forced to bury that love, a sacrifice given to Mossad and the greater good of Israel.
No wonder she was so quick to shut others out, to keep them at arm's length. Everyone else she had held dear had ended up dead, a murder, or a traitor… or all three. So much pain, and yet she had not shared it with him. It was pain she still felt, if the vice-like grip she had on his leg was any indication. A quiet thought whispered in the back of his mind; Shmuel was Ziva's Shannon. Shmuel had shaped Ziva's life, and his love and death had made Ziva who she was today.
Gibbs remained patient, gazing at the two friends, knowing first-hand that acceptance and forgiveness was necessary to heal such a broken past. His mind drifted to Shannon and Kelly. He knew the pain of losing a loved one, and he knew the pain had almost ended him. He wondered why Ziva had never told him about Shmuel. Granted he had never told anyone about his wife and daughter—she herself had only learned about their existence when she had done research for the dossiers she made for Ari. But had she thought he wouldn't understand? But he scolded himself. He had never told anyone about his own past because it helped him cope. Keeping his wife and daughter his secret kept them close to his heart.
Finally, Ziva and Michael parted. Ziva took a moment to compose herself, and Bashan removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. In the moments that followed, Gibbs took one of Ziva's hands and gave it a gentle squeeze. She looked at him, half-expecting him to be hurt that she had never mentioned such an important part of her life with him. But she found only understanding and love in his eyes, and it made her shoulders lift slightly, as if a burden had left them.
She squeezed his hand in return. She couldn't bring herself to smile for him, but Gibbs didn't seem to care. He pulled her into a gentle one-armed hug. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she knew that they would be continuing this conversation later, and more deeply. But for some reason, she didn't mind. Perhaps it was because she felt he deserved to know, or that he had been through a similar heartbreak. But maybe, just maybe, it was because it had felt so good to get it off her chest, this weight that had been pressing down on her for almost a decade.
"Zivaleh," Bashan said, his voice clear, "where did he shoot you?" The question was off-topic, but it still needed no clarification of who 'he' was.
"Here," she said, indicating the region between her chest and abdomen. "My ribs shattered upon impact, because they had already been broken before the shot." Her voice was now clinical as she recounted her injuries. "But I am healing well," she assured the old man.
"I would not have expected any less of you," he replied, a smile crossing his lips. "You have always been a quick healer. Hannah said it was because you are a survivor, but I am of the belief that you simply do not have the patience to heal for the customary period of time. Your body has simply learned to adapt," he added with a wink.
"She forgot to mention the fractured femur, cheekbone, and fingers," Gibbs added. Ziva held up her bandaged hand for the older man to see.
"Two pins," she said, her tone slightly prideful. Gibbs bit back a grin. Of course Ziva would have no problem showing off her injuries with an old Mossad friend. He half expected the old man to reveal some of his own battle wounds to compare. However, Officer Bashan did not.
"I know that you were in a coma as well," the older Israeli said. "I waited for you to wake up, so that I could come visit you. Hannah insisted I come earlier, but I knew I would only have one chance to speak to you." Bashan smiled warmly. "She will be comforted to know her motek is doing well." Then his eyes shifted from fatherly to deadly serious. "Ziva," he said slowly, "your father did not kill you."
"Not for lack of trying," Gibbs interjected sharply before Ziva had a chance to reply. The older Israeli looked at him.
"You do not understand, Agent Gibbs—"
"I understand plenty," Gibbs interrupted. "The bastard shot his own daughter point-blank and left her to die."
"I am not debating the state of his moral character, Agent Gibbs. I agree that Eli David is indeed a bastard. And I understand your anger. But I believe that there is a distinction to be made, one that may lend some peace to Ziva. Eli David did not kill Ziva."
"What the—"
"Jethro." Ziva's voice was low, but strong. He looked at her, pressing his lips together as he waited for her to speak. "Did you see what happened to Officer Machuv?" Realizing Gibbs would not know the name of the man who had aided Rivkin, she continued. "The one who earned himself a bullet between the eyes." Gibbs nodded, remembering how the Director of Mossad had killed the man without hesitation. "The Director could have done the same thing to me. If he wanted me dead, I would be. It would have been just as easy to shoot me in the head, or even the heart. But he did not."
"He gave Ziva a chance. A small, minute chance, but it was enough," Bashan explained. "That means something."
"Do not misunderstand us," Ziva continued before Gibbs could speak. "As soon as the bullet left the gun, I was dead to him. He did not spare me. It was merely his way of absolving himself of guilt. If he had killed me, with a bullet to the head, then my blood would be on his hands, just as Ari's is on mine. By shooting me as he did, he gave me just enough chance to live so that he could not be held accountable when I still died anyway." Her voice had turned dark, and her brown eyes were stormy. Bashan grasped her hand gently once more, but didn't speak. Gibbs remained silent as well, not knowing how to respond. When Ziva also refrained from speaking, the resulting silence filled the room. After a few minutes, Officer Bashan glanced at his watch. His shoulders fell as he realized it was getting late.
"I must leave now." He stood, but paused at the side of her bed, gazing down at her fondly. "I do not think I will be able to get in touch with you again," he said, "with things the way they are." Ziva nodded, her face calm. "But Hannah will know that you are alive—and happy." He turned to Gibbs. "I have made arrangements with your Director for Ziva to become an American citizen and to become a Special Agent at NCIS if she chooses to accept it. Her job is safe, but the rest is up to you, Agent Gibbs. Take care of her," he instructed, not unkindly. He extended his hand, and Gibbs shook it firmly from his position on the bed.
"I plan to," the Marine responded. The older man gazed into Gibbs' clear blue eyes, searching for something. It seemed that he had found it, for after a moment or two he nodded and shifted his attention back to Ziva. He said a few soft words to her in their native Hebrew. When he finished, Ziva gave a nod. Bashan leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Shalom, bat," he said. He made his way to the door, and then turned back. "Your father's influence within Mossad is not unchallenged," he said, his tone serious. "And he is an old man; you shall outlive him by many years." He gave her a pointed look. "I will see you again, Zivaleh."
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Silence fell as Gibbs processed everything that had just been shared with him, and Ziva lost herself in her own thoughts. She was only broken out of her reverie when Gibbs finally spoke.
"Why does it matter how old your father is?" he asked. When she answered, her voice was expressionless. Gibbs let her slip back into her habitual state of disguising her emotions, knowing that the conversation had been taxing for her.
"My status was determined and ordered by the Director. As long as he lives, and is in power, my status will not change."
"Your status?" She looked at him, but her gaze was resigned, rather than judgmental of his ignorance.
"I have been exiled, Jethro," she said. There was a pain in her voice that Gibbs almost missed, and he knew that it bothered her more than she was going to admit. "I am not allowed to return to Israel or have any contact with my friends or family there. Any violation of that decree is punishable by death." She paused. "Michael took a great risk by coming here. He should not have."
"But if he hadn't, you wouldn't have known you had been exiled," Gibbs said. When she didn't answer, instead focusing on the blanket in her lap, he sighed with realization. "You already knew."
"Yes," she replied simply. "I know enough about the inner workings of Mossad to know an exile when I see one."
"So you knew your father 'let' you live out of self-preservation rather than love, and you knew that your existence meant your banishment." He didn't phrase it as a question, for it was really for his benefit only. She answered it anyway.
"Yes. I am dead to him, and through him, to Israel as well. I will remain dead for as long as he lives, and remains Director of Mossad." Her hands clenched the bed sheet.
"This I what's been bothering you, isn't it?" he asked. "You've been trying to deal with this on your own."He looked at her, but his tone was not accusatory. "You tried to hide it from me." At his words, Ziva bristled slightly.
"There was, and is, nothing you could do," she said brusquely.
"Maybe not about changing your status," he said indignantly, responding to her growing hostility. "But I could have been there for you."
"You are here for me," she interrupted, her voice now full of strong reassurance. The shift in her tone made him look into her eyes. "You are here for me, Jethro. You have no idea how much your very presence in this room means to me. I have never had that before," she explained, "not even with Shmuel." She paused. "Whenever I was in the hospital, my father would send a protection detail. Nobody was allowed in or out of my room except for medical personnel.
"I am not usually one of those people who talks about every little thought that passes through their heads," she continued. "Neither are you, and I think that is the only reason you have waited this long in addressing your concerns. I know you are worried about my state of mind, and that you have been waiting for me to break down, like any other girl would. You think I am shutting you out, withdrawing from you. I haven't been. I have been my usual self, Jethro." She smiled slightly. "You are simply being paranoid." Gibbs blinked, fully aware of how accurate her words were.
"You now know almost everything that has happened in my life. It frightens me a little, to have someone know me so well. But I know that there is no other person I trust more to not abuse the power you now have. We will still talk about things, Jethro, but… But I do not want to talk about this, not now.
"Please, I am not pushing you away. I just—it is too much. You know what happened to Shmuel, and who he was to me. If I talk about him anymore, I do not think…" Her voice halted, breaking slightly with her last words. Her breath was heavy as she strove to control her emotions.
"All right," Gibbs said. "I understand." He wrapped her in his arms. "I'm sorry." She twitched slightly as the forbidden apology passed his lips, but remained silent. "But I don't want you to think you have to go through this on your own."
"I know," she said into his shoulder. "I know. Now I have you."
"That's right," he said. "And I'm not going anywhere." A minute or two of silence followed before she finally responded.
"Thank you," she said. He gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. She leaned back against the pillows. Looking at her tired expression, he realized that Bashan's visit had been physically draining as well and emotionally. It would only be a matter of time before she fell asleep.
She shifted her legs on the bed slightly, and a rustle of paper against the blanket caught Gibbs' attention. Looking toward the noise, he found a small envelope resting against her covered legs. He reached down and grasped it in his fingers, bringing it toward him as he scanned it with his sharp eyes. Flipping it over, he saw Hebrew glyphs inscribed on the paper. Ziva peered over his shoulder at it, and upon recognizing the seemingly nonsensical squiggles, gently took it from him.
"That is Michael's handwriting," she said. "I wonder why he did not simply hand it to me." Her attention focused on the envelope, as if not entirely certain she wanted to know what was inside. But then a moment later, she was using her unbandaged fingers to pull out what Gibbs recognized as a photograph. She turned it over, and the colors of the picture came into sight. It took less than a second for Ziva to recognize the picture, and she let out a soft, pained sigh.
He reached out and tilted the photograph toward him so he could get a better look. The image on the thick cardstock took his breath away. It featured two people, wrapped in each other's arms against a backdrop of the vibrantly blue water of an ocean and faded stone buildings adorned with exotic designs. Green trees shone along the water shore, providing shade and adding to the beauty of the scene.
The taller of the two people was male. Startling gray eyes looked down on the woman in his arms. White teeth gleamed against his tan skin, and a mop of unruly black hair fell over his brow. His attention was focused entirely on the young woman who stood next to him.
A lump formed in Gibbs' throat as he recognized the girl—Ziva. But it was not the same Ziva he had met four years ago, after Kate's death. The Ziva in the picture was young, vibrantly full of life, even through the lens of a camera. Her hair was not quite as long as it was now, but it was rich and silky, not as unruly as it had been when she first joined NCIS. In the picture it was casually twisted and pulled over one shoulder, exposing a tan, gracefully sloping neck to the wind and sun.
Her back was against the man's chest, his arms encircling her waist. She was bent forward slightly, as if he had pulled her to him just as the picture had been taken. They were both dressed for warm weather, with her in a simple tank top and he in a plain t-shirt. Ziva's arms were toned and muscular even then, her skin glowing in the warm sunlight. The man's arms were unobtrusive, but were clearly strong as well. Gibbs' knew both of their sleek musculatures were a result of years growing up to be part of Mossad, trained to kill; but to anyone else, they were athletic, young, full of life. Ziva's hands rested casually on the arms holding her, her palms flat, as if reveling in the contact. It was her face though, that captured Gibbs' attention the most.
Her brown eyes were sparkling as they looked directly into the camera. They crinkled at the corners as she laughed. Gibbs could hear her full-throated laugh echo through his head as he gazed upon her younger self. She was happy—happier than he had ever seen her before. She appeared so carefree; the ever-present burden she carried now was gone, leaving only smiles and sunlight to be found. She was so comfortable, even in such close proximity to the man—Shmuel, Gibbs deduced.
In his mind's eye, he could see the scene play out, with Ziva leaning back into Shmuel's touch, as the man's hand splayed over her firm stomach. Her eyes closed, and Gibbs knew she was taking a snapshot of memory, before turning in the man's arms to face him, lacing her arms around his neck. Their foreheads touched as they smiled into each other's eyes. They were so absorbed in the other's presence that they forgot anyone else in the world existed.
Gibbs could see that Shmuel was as deeply in love with Ziva as she was with him. The devotion in the man's eyes was clearly tangible as he gazed down at her, even in the picture. The two of them were no older than 20, and though Gibbs knew that in Israel they were more mature than Americans nearing their thirties, the two lovers seemed much younger, as if their love had overshadowed the horrible events that forced them to grow up before their time.
Gibbs found himself longing to know this Ziva of the past. To know this Ziva who had not yet experienced the loss of her sister, her brother, her innocence, and, most recently, her country. But Gibbs knew that Ziva was gone. He had seen glimpses of her, yes, but he had fallen in love, and still loved, a different Ziva. And he still counted himself incredibly lucky. He glanced over at the woman next to him, and was not entirely surprised to see her silently trying to keep her tears at bay. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her eyes fought to find something else to focus on, but were repeatedly drawn back to the photo in her hand. Her breath became increasingly more erratic as the tears threatened ever harder.
Gibbs placed a hand on her wrist in an attempt to comfort her, but the soft touch pushed her over the edge. Her brow furrowed as her eyes squeezed shut, but the tears escaped anyway. Then her brown eyes opened and her gaze fell on the photo once more. Not able to tear her gaze away from it, her head turned toward him. Her mouth opened and closed once or twice, trying to speak without letting the sobs to escape.
"I miss him so much," she said, her voice breaking. And then she crumbled, her hand coming up to her forehead as her eyes closed tightly, sobs finally wracking her frail form. Her breath came in short gasps as she struggled to breathe between the heavy sobs. Tears flooded from her eyes, tracing down her cheeks to finally drop from her chin onto the blanket.
Gibbs immediately wrapped her in a hug. Her arms came up to clutch against his back. She clung to him, shaking against him as she finally let her anguish be known. Gibbs felt his heart crack with hers. He was familiar with this pain, the pain of losing a love so deep. He said nothing, only held her as she mourned the man she had managed to lock away for so long.
Even after she had fallen into an exhausted slumber he continued to hold her. He had no intention of letting go before she re-awoke. He would be there for her, both in the morning and in the difficult months ahead, just as he had promised, not only to himself, but to Officer Bashan as well. He would help her through her pain, emotional and physical, and help her realize that even this dark abyss of pain had a silver lining.
They had both lost so much, but had rediscovered it in each other: Love.