Hey all! So, as promised yesterday, here's the first actual chapter for the fic. I'm actually using this story as my Camp Nanowrimo project, so that should push me to get it written a lot faster - I'll still have to pace myself for the much slower writing I'll end up having in May, though, so you may get one or two chapters a week? (I still need a buffer!)

Anyway, not much else to say here other than I hope you enjoy it! Read on!

EDIT (13/04/2021): I've made a couple of changes - only minor ones, but I hope they make the story flow better!

Sitting out on the porch with her eyes closed, Ziva breathed in softly. Sure, she wasn't in the sunlight, but the summer heat was wonderful to feel against her skin, and the light breeze that followed occasionally was more than welcome to chase away the cool sheen of sweat lightly layering her skin. Her iced tea sat on a small table beside her, ready for her to drink as the ice cubes slowly melted in her glass, but she hadn't touched it since it had been brought out to her. She was more focused on enjoying the heat that she had avoided visiting for so many years. Part of her was still wondering why she had waited so long to do this, to come back to Israel, but at the same time she knew exactly why.

She knew what memories were linked to this place.

Sighing softly, she opened her eyes and reached for the little book that rested on the small table beside her iced tea. The book was larger than a pocket notebook, probably about A5 size, with a small pen attached to it by the elastic that held the book shut. Pulling up the pen, she detached it before shifting the elastic and opening the notebook so that she could start writing.

It was an assignment of sorts that she'd set for herself. Not required by a therapist or anything, though she had a feeling that if Dr. Cranston knew what she was doing right now she would be very proud. But she needed to get it all out, because this was something she needed to remember. Not just for herself, but for anyone in the future. She needed to remember.

Which was why she had bought the notebook in the first place. That was what was running through her mind as she took the end off the pen, and began to write.

January, 2013

A synagogue. That was where Ziva found herself going as soon as she could. She didn't know how long she'd been there, or how much longer she would end up being there, but she was there. Praying. Sitting in the pews. It almost felt as if she had been there all night after washing her hands clean of blood. Blood that she'd worked and worked and worked to scrub off her hands, but the ghost feeling of it was still there. The blood of her father that had stained her as she'd held him, weeping, crying, mourning.

No matter how much she tried to clean it, no matter how much she prayed about it, she couldn't get the feeling of the blood that she knew wasn't hers off her body. No other death, no murder, no attack or assassination she had been asked to carry out had ever affected her like this. Not even the death of her brother, Ari, had hurt her like this.

But no, the death of her father and her only remaining family member, no matter how estranged thay had been, had her almost destroyed and broken, asking so many questions.

She knew that she should probably tell someone where she was — she hadn't told a single person where she'd run to after leaving the crime scene without another word — but she just wanted to be alone. She just needed to be with her thoughts. And the synagogue provided a sense of serenity that she couldn't feel around the others, and that she certainly wouldn't feel if she was still in that house. She needed to be in a place where she could feel at home without actually being at home, a place away from something that would make her think… make her think of…

The synagogue, in a way, provided that. Even though being in the building should remind her of home, remind her of her blood-family, she could be there without anyone questioning. The rabbi would probably ask her if she needed to be alone for a while, which she did, but then he would leave her be so that she could spend time alone. She could think, and she could pray, and she could open up her heart to a being she was now beginning to question. After all… how could someone so powerful and benevolent let all this happen to someone like her? She was one person, one human, and she had lost everything. Her entire family was gone. She was alone in this world.

It wasn't fair.

Tears began to well in her eyes as a prayer she had often rehearsed and recited as a child spilled from her lips — a prayer that her parents had taught her, a prayer that she'd learnt at home every Shabbat dinner as a child. A prayer that reminded her of home, of a simpler time when she had both her siblings and both her parents around to speak to. To laugh with and celebrate with. Were her prayers ever heard? Did she even believe in them? Could someone who had sinned as she had, someone who had killed and hurt others, even deserve to have their prayers answered? Maybe that was why she had suffered so much pain — for everything that she had done wrong. But, she thought, wouldn't she have already paid for those crimes? Wouldn't she have already lost so much without her father's death being thrown into the mix? Was she paying for the sins of her father? Of another family member? Why was she suffering so much? Did anyone deserve the hurt she had gone through?

"Why?" Those were the first words that left her lips as the Shabbat Candle Prayer, the one she was meant to say that night before everything had gone wrong, ended, her hands moving from where they covered her eyes. The tears had long since dried, the sorrow passing, only to be replaced by a very different emotion. One that she was all too familiar with, particularly when it came to dealings with her blood family. Her late blood family. "Why should I not be angry? With all that has been taken?" Her biological family, every single member, was gone. She was the last one left, completely alone. No one to celebrate holidays with, no one to laugh with. No one to reminisce about the past with. No one. "Why should I have faith in you?" She wanted to let the fury reign, scream and shout until there was proof that her prayers and her questions were being answered. That someone up there was watching over her, someone who truly loved her and cared about her existence, rather than just using it as some sort of entertainment or joke or punishment practice.

"Show me a sign." Her words, her tone, it was desperate now. She needed a reason to have faith in a being that had thus far only allowed her to experience pain. "Show me a sign that I should not lose hope." Because she was so close to just giving up on it all. On everything. On everyone.

She didn't know how, or why, but she felt as if she heard a voice. A voice telling her that it was going to prove to her that this was not the end of the road for her. That it was only the beginning. That she had a long road to go down before she reached the end point, where she could finally rest and have peace.

And that was when she heard the door to the synagogue open.

Ziva didn't know who she had expected to find her at the synagogue. Honestly, she didn't know whether she expected anyone to find her at the synagogue, considering she hadn't told anyone where she would be going, but someone had. She just hadn't known who would. Which was why she would never admit to the genuine surprise she felt when Tony appeared, watching her carefully as though she were a ticking time bomb whilst she had her hand on her holstered gun. Which, in a way, she knew she was. If she ever found out who had hired the man to kill her father, she would be after him — or her — with no remorse or regrets on her side.

"What can I do? What do you need?"

"…Revenge."

But, she supposed, she had asked for a sign to be sent, that she should not lose hope. She hadn't expected… him to be the sign, but he was. Apparently. A small part of her knew that she shouldn't be so surprised that he was the sign, that he had been the one to find her, but it still surprised her. She was just… she didn't get it. Why her? What had she done to deserve this pain? To deserve any of what she had gone through? It wasn't fair. Who had decided that she deserved so little good?

Those were a few of the many thoughts running through her mind as she stood in her shower, letting the hot water run along her skin and down the drain. She so desperately wanted the water to wash away her problems — to wash away the pain caused by everything that had happened and built up over the years to culminate in what had happened yesterday. She wanted to tell herself that she should have expected that to happen some day — probably not yesterday, but one day. Her father wasn't supposed to have a peaceful end; not in the world he had been a part of for so many years. She'd just hoped that maybe, just maybe, they could have had a few more years to make up for all those years of pain they'd shared. Maybe get to that redemption that her father had so wished for. The redemption that she had refused him just minutes before he had been taken from her.

Now she was regretting refusing him that one step to redemption. Perhaps if she'd allowed him that, he would not be dead right now. Maybe he would be here to fully redeem himself. Maybe he would not have bled out on Vance's floor as she chased down the shooter. Perhaps she would have been able to save him.

She quickly reached out and shut off the shower water before she could delve into her thoughts for much longer. She did not need these thoughts invading her brain right now. She had cried enough last night. She had grieved. If anything, she was dehydrated from all of the grieving she had done the night before. It was time to move on.

Soon enough she was climbing out of the shower and getting dressed, following her routine almost mindlessly until she found herself standing by her car, keys in hand and bag over her shoulder as if it were any normal day. It almost hurt her to think that, in the eyes of many, it was a normal day. It was a completely normal day where they could get up and go about their business without a second thought. Not a day where a woman was missing her father far sooner than she should — where a woman was the last of her family at too young an age.

Shutting off that train of thought, she unlocked her car and climbed in, starting up the car and starting her usual drive to work.

Her first stop when she arrived at work turned out not to be the bullpen. Nor was it the gym to workout and get her mind off things, or autopsy. She felt as though she needed a distraction, but also someone who would be willing to talk to her about what was going on. Everyone on her team was ridiculously tight-lipped — Gibbs made sure of that when cases that hit a little too close to home cropped up. She'd been on the other side of that wall before, keeping teammates out for their own safety. She just didn't like being on the side she was on at that moment.

She understood why it was being done, in a way, but she still hated it with a passion.

That was why, instead of heading to all of those other places first, she simply threw her things in a locker at the gym, not taking a single look at the equipment there for her to use, and headed straight for Abby's lab. Her overall intention was to see her father's body, yes, but she needed to know who. And how. Even if the woman was tight-lipped, all of the information for the case would be there. All of the evidence, all of the processed results. It would be easy enough for her to find out more before Abby thought to shut off her screens, right?

Wrong.

She was more than a little frustrated when Abby shut her out, only the scent of freshly-baked cookies wafting through her lab and the comforting hug that could only come from her to make up for it. Not that she took any of the cookies, of course. She didn't feel like taking any of them when she was being refused what she really wanted.

Knowing that her father's death was a secret, though, that she wasn't allowed to publicly grieve… it hurt. A lot. But not as much as finding out that she (as well as Director Vance) were shut out of a case that seemed too personal for them to get involved in. A reason that Ziva thought made it all the more plausible that she should be involved. Should she not be the one to get involved in taking down her own father's killer?

There's nothing to tell.

Even more frustrating. A shooter who knew to cover his tracks by using things so easily accessible.

"Anywhere?" The question came out more as a statement, but the nod Abby gave was enough to tell her that she knew it was a question anyway. Albeit rhetorical.

"I'm sorry, Ziva."

She knew she would be hearing the apologies, the pity, the sympathy from her friends… but she didn't want it. If she was not allowed to grieve, to tell the world that her father was dead, then she would not be accepting them. It would be hard if they came from Abby, knowing how much that woman cared for the people around her and how determined she was to make sure all of her friends… no, people Abby considered family, were okay, but Ziva just could not accept it.

"It is alright," Ziva said, the words coming out with a sigh. "You did not create the list. You are only following the rules for my well-being and because Gibbs asked you to."

Somehow, her acknowledgement didn't make the saddened expression on Abby's face lessen or disappear. If anything, Ziva would admit that she thought it made it worse.

"Please, Abby." She did not like to beg her friend, but in this case it had to be done. Otherwise she would keep at it with the sympathy and it would feel like pity and then all of the feelings she was trying to hold back because she wasn't allowed to truly grieve the death of her father—

There was a moment of hesitation, before Abby steeled her expression. For Ziva. "Okay. I'm—" She cut herself off before she could say anything else. Ziva knew she had been about to apologise again.

Instead, the forensic analyst turned back to her tray of cookies and picked it up, holding them out to Ziva. "I request that you take one. For your travels."

One of Ziva's eyebrows rose. "Abby, I am only going down to autopsy." Not that it was a proper reason, but she did not want to be eating in a room where dead bodies were cut open. And there wasn't enough time for her to eat a whole cookie between the lab and autopsy.

"That's gonna be a tough journey."

The sentiment behind that made Ziva crack a smile, and she reached out to take one of the cookies. To placate her friend more than anything. "Thank you," the female agent said, and she meant it.

The wide smile Abby gave her was enough to lift her spirits a little. Only a little, but it was enough to make her smile.

Ziva honestly didn't know how she was able to hold herself together when she went to visit Ducky in autopsy, to see her father's body, but she did. She did, and she didn't know whether she felt cold because there were too many conflicting emotions or indifferent because she wanted revenge, but a small part of her was concerned.

The metal of the drawer her father's body rested in was cold to the touch. Somehow it felt colder for her father's body than it had been for any other victim or suspect or killer or whoever's dead body had ended up down there. It made her emotions feel as cold as the metal she was touching. She hated it.

The heartfelt speech from Ducky had been kind, truly, but she still felt bitter about being sent away. Not even to her own home, but to someone else's. Tony's, yes, but it was still someone else's home. She had been there plenty of times before, but it still wasn't her home. A small part of her understood why Gibbs had done what he'd done — shut her out and sent her away — but she still absolutely hated it.

And really, she wanted to enjoy being at Tony's. She wanted to be open with him and enjoy her time with him and Shmeil. But she hurt too much to truly appreciate what her friend… no, at this point she was pretty sure even Gibbs knew that Tony was more than a friend. But she wanted to appreciate what he had done for her.

But even with Shmeil there, she couldn't.

That was what was running through her mind as she stood in Tony's shower, somehow still feeling the need to wash the day off even when she hadn't done much. It was almost as if the shower from that morning hadn't been enough to wash off everything from the night before. The water from the shower head beat down on her, the heat almost soothing her as she stood there. She probably shouldn't be using up all the hot water, and she knew Shmeil and possibly Tony needed to use the shower, but she couldn't bring herself to leave for at least another five minutes. When she finally did step out of the shower, the steam practically blinded her, creating a thick fog that even billowed out behind her as she left the bathroom itself, wrapped in a towel. She passed through the main lounge area as she headed back to Tony's bedroom, spotting Tony and Shmeil chatting together on the couch. Even though Tony was facing her, she didn't spot a single wandering eye coming from his direction.

Unusual from him, if she was being honest, but she appreciated it. This didn't feel like a situation that warranted wandering eyes. She wasn't in the mood to tolerate any wandering eyes.

Stepping into the room she was staying in — Tony's room — she had barely reached the bed when her phone buzzed a couple of times. She paused, frowning a little at the noise. She supposed Abby knew she was staying with Tony… but what could she possibly need now? Who else could possibly be contacting her at this time?

Of course, when she saw who had actually contacted her, she realised her assumptions had been wrong.

[Text from: Andrew]: God, Ziva, I'm so sorry.

That one message alone from the teen was enough to put a crack in the walls Ziva was trying to hold up around herself. It shouldn't have — everyone showing her sympathy, everyone being kind to her, had lost a parent. Tony had lost his mother as a child. Shmeil was parent-less now. Gibbs had lost his own mother. Abby had lost both her adoptive parents. All of them were her closest friends, she had known them for years and would probably trust them with her life if it came down to it.

How is it that one message from a teenager who scowled at her whenever Gibbs sent her over to keep an eye on him was enough to crack her façade that little bit?

She didn't realise a tear had fallen until it was halfway down her cheek, and she hurried to wipe it away. She couldn't have Tony walking in and seeing her upset — because, of course, that would be the part that he'd pick up on. Not the fact that she was sat on his bed in a towel and nothing else.

Speaking of, a knock on the door quickly followed that thought. "Ziva! You decent? We wanna order takeout!"

She took a deep breath, hoping her voice didn't sound as tearful as she felt. "I will be out in a minute! I am not decent," she responded, before focusing back on her phone. She couldn't just ignore it. She had a feeling that Andrew would have been told where she was staying by Gibbs, and he was close enough with Tony that he would ask the senior agent how she was doing if he felt pushy enough.

And she had seen him get pushy before.

[Text to: Andrew]: Thank you.

What else could she say? She stared at her phone for a few moments before putting it down. There was nothing more she could add, really, and Shmeil and Tony were waiting for her to get food. Andrew would understand those two words well enough. At least, she hoped so.

She got her response soon enough.

[Text from: Andrew]: Just message if you need anything.

She felt the urge to laugh at that. Getting that sort of response from a teenager was amusing, definitely. But that also just made it more heartfelt, in a way. Andrew was a high school sophomore, he didn't have the time or energy to provide that level of emotional support. Or, at least, he shouldn't. But he did. And, well… it was kind of nice.

At least he wasn't directly tied to the situation and stopping her from doing what she wanted.

Before she could get too sucked into her thoughts or text Andrew back, though, she pushed herself to her feet and put her phone down, moving to get dressed.

Perhaps takeout and a cup of tea would cheer her up a little.