Rifiuto: Non Miriena

Mistake.

Tim had called her a mistake.

Her father had called her a mistake.

Mara pulled her legs up, crossing them beneath her on the bench. The cloudy New England sky only allowed light, weak rays of sunlight through the darkening clouds. A storm was brewing, not just on the coast of the American East, but within the Embassy itself- for sooner, rather than later- her family implode in on itself; most likely, one of them would end up dead- either her mother or her father, and it would be all her fault.

Because she was the mistake, the problem, the parasite that needed to be destroyed. The answer to her mother's reasons for that long ago night in Berlin.

The secret.

It didn't help that her name literally screamed of what she was- an answer, born of bitterness; a secret, born of deception and selfishness.

"Bitter. Answer. What a wonderful name for a child."

She picked at her cuticles; she knew that her mother had chosen both names within the Hebrew language- for in Israel, the name was everything; it was what a person carried their entire life- but to name a child something so harsh...

And then of course there was Raz- the name- or in her case, nickname- literally meant "secret" in the Hebrew language; something that was perfect for a child being kept from one's lover for eighteen years. It was perfect for a child, one whom had no certain place in her mother's life, and had no idea of the place- if she would even have a place- within her father's.

She had grown up on the fringes of life in Israel- keeping to herself, making on a few really trustworthy friends; she spent more time at the library than at home, spent more time with the agents in Mossad, assassins of the Kidon unit, or her aunt and uncle than with children her own age. She'd volunteered for the IDF at seventeen, if only to spend as much time away from home as possible, not that Ziva had objected. And surprisingly, she'd found her place.

At eighteen, the girl was the youngest agent in Mossad, the youngest assassin within the Kidon unit; her scores even rivaled both her mother and her aunt's. But the men within the unit were neither father figures nor role models; the female officers and assassins anything but friends, and the elders in the groups- those that had come before her, before her mother, aunt and uncle even, those her grandfather's age and older- had no use for a child and so paid her no mind.

So she stayed by herself, perfecting the techniques her mother and aunt had taught hers-

She looked up as the back door of the embassy slammed and someone stepped out into the courtyard. From the distance between them, she struggled to make out who it was. It wasn't until they got closer that she realized who it was.

He took a seat on the other end of the bench, hands in his coat pockets. He barely glanced at her as he sat down, focusing instead on the grey clouds overhead. A sigh escaped his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was contemplative, as though he hadn't just spent the last hour and a half arguing with the woman who'd borne his child.

"I think it's going to rain."

She glanced at him, surprised by such a casual statement. But he didn't look at her, didn't speak again, didn't do anything but tug his coat closer to him, and sigh. They sat in silence for several minutes before she bravely asked,

"What is it... like? Rain?" He shrugged, nonchalant. "We do not... have rain in Israel."

Another shrug. "Cold. Wet." She giggled softly. "Refreshing." It was then that he looked at her, and she realized just how green her father's eyes truly were.

Emeralds, plucked from the shores of Ireland, to replace his gaze. They were beautiful, a deep, rich green that seemed to shimmer when he looked at her- she hoped, anyway. Had his sister's eyes been as green, his father's, his mother's?

He studied her for a moment, drinking her in; he could see elements of himself in the girl, elements of Ziva... he bit his lower lip, unsure of what to say the girl. The sky darkened overhead, and after a moment, he stood. She watched in silence as he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. "Better to stay warm if you're going to be staying outside." Then, he made his way back to the embassy, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.

Watching him go, she tugged his coat around her small frame, pressing her nose into the collar. Her eyes closed on instinct, his scent surrounding her. It was a scent she'd dreamed of her entire life.

"Ziva sit."

She ignored Rivkin, continuing her trek across the carpet of his office, going from his desk to the window and back. She knew Tim blamed himself for his sister's death, and, on some level, blamed her, and she knew that Mara clearly and absolutely blamed her for screwing her up like she had. And Ziva, for all her calculating, all her planning, all her manipulating, wasn't too proud to admit that they had every right to place the blame they felt on her; she was responsible for this mess, after all. If she hadn't seduced Tim that night, she never would have gotten pregnant, Sarah would still be alive, and she wouldn't have brought Mara into the world nine months later like she had- with no plan on how to raise a child and juggle her work in Mossad at the same time. But her siblings had been her saving grace, those eighteen years ago. Yes, if anyone was to blame, it was her, she willingly admitted that-

"You are going to wear a trench in the floor, Ziva! Now Sit. Down!"

She turned to him before dropping onto the sofa near the window. Rivkin sighed, getting up and taking a seat beside her. "I just... he blamed me, Michael. He blamed me for his sister's death, and... I admit, if I had not... this is my mess, but I do not know how to fix it."

"You need to talk to Anat-"

"She will not talk to me. Tim will not talk to me. I will not even talk to me." She got up, going to the window and looking out.

"Then give them time. Let them both calm down and... sleep on it. Maybe they will both be willing to talk then." She turned to him.

"Let them sleep on what?"