Rifiuto: Non Miriena

He let the water rush over his ankles, attempting to tug him into the ocean, and for a moment, he considered letting it, but then he turned and moved back a ways; he'd removed his shoes and jacket, leaving them further back on the back. Taking a seat, he rested his elbows on his knees and sighed. Ziva's voice rang in his head, running circles until his head began to hurt.

"My son, Timothy! My. Son! I raised him those first eight years of his life! Me! Not you, me!"

His wife was stubborn, so stubborn, there were times when talking to her wasn't even an option. He loved his wife, deeply, desperately, but he also knew that they couldn't go on living like this if neither one was willing to admit that they'd hit too far below the belt. They'd kill each other before then, if the violence didn't kill them first.

He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, studying the tattoos on his wrists; the thought that he might never have had them added hurt deeply. He loved being a father, watching his children grow and doing all he could to protect them. Tears slid down his cheeks as he traced Asher's name on his tattoo. That little boy had taught him how to be a father, how to learn and accept the mistakes he made, when he and Ziva were first together after they came over from Israel. He had done all he could to make sure Asher felt comfortable around him, and then he'd realized that it didn't matter if the boy was comfortable or not, just as long he was there, spending time with him, loving him like a father should. What his wife didn't understand was that Tim had been trying, from the moment she introduced him to Asher, to make up for the eight years he missed in his son's life. Even now, he was trying his hardest to make up for not being there, and it killed him whenever something went wrong.

But Tim loved all three of his children equally- which is why he'd had the quote removed from the top of his wrist, and another Celtic fatherhood knot added, with what appeared to be the birthstones of his children and his wife within the four points of the knot in the middle- each with their name in cursive in whichever arm of the cross the stone faced. He understood, he did, why Ziva was so attached to Asher- eight years with only her son as a reminder of the man she loved- and why she would be so reluctant to let Tim in. Eight years apart could do strange things to a person. But this...

Neither would admit considering favoritism among their children- that was one of the things that had driven him up a wall while at NCIS. Everyone knew that Abby was Gibbs' favorite- she had always been his favorite, and no one- not Kate, not Ziva, not Tim or Tony- no one, had ever measured up to the Goth. And Abby had milked her favoritism for all it was worth, even managing, on occasion, to turn Gibbs against the other members of his team. That had been part of the reason he and Ziva had left and never returned- yes, with NCIS turning their backs on the team, but also because they were sick of the favoritism, and he and Ziva were done playing those games.

Throw in the fact that the team had done all they could to contact the couple since Sarah had spilled the beans, and try to get them to come back to D.C., to come back to NCIS, and forget about this little "spur-on-the-moment adventure" as Abby had so nastily called it one night when she talked to Ziva. His wife had promptly ended the call and hung up on her, refusing to answer when Abby or the others tried to call back. The only ones that hadn't called or tried to get in contact with them were Ducky and- surprisingly- Tony.

He sighed. Tony had told him after Ziva had run off to fight for his family. To fight to bring them home, fight to keep them.

He knew that he had to, he just... he didn't know how much fight in him he had left.


Asher swallowed, quickly wiping the tears off his cheeks. His brother and sister sat close, keeping silent. Asher had begged them to understand, that he wasn't the favorite, he wasn't the problem, and they both assured him that they knew, that they understood and didn't hold it against him. Though they did hold it against Ziva, for the time being. The other three stayed close, but let the siblings take care of each other, prone as they were to do.

Devin turned as the door opened, and Asher and his siblings looked up as Tim returned, shutting the door softly behind him. "Abba!" The three rushed towards their father, and Tim wrapped his children in his arms and holding them close.

"You left..." Asher choked out. "I'm sorry, Abba, I'm so sorry..."

"Shh. Shh, Asher, sweetheart, it's not your fault. None of you are at fault, okay? None of you are, I promise." He pressed a kiss to each head of dark curls.

"But Abba-" Tim knelt down, taking his oldest child's face in his hands.

"You listen to me, Asher Malachi, and you listen good, you hear?" The boy nodded once. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay? You are my son, and I love you so, so much. You and your brother and sister are the best thing to happen to me, in a long, long time, and don't you ever forget that, you hear? Are you three listening to me? Are you?" Asher and his siblings nodded. "Don't any of you ever let anyone think that you aren't good enough or aren't important, or are a problem." He made sure each of his children met his gaze before he continued. "No matter what Ima and I say, it's not true. Do you understand me? They are words said in anger, not in truth. Never in truth." He took a deep breath, as Asher wrapped his arms around his father's neck. Liron and Zipporah curled into Tim's embrace, and Tim took a deep breath, pressing firm kisses to each of his children's heads. "I love you three, so, so much."