I apologise for the shortness of these one shots but I just can't seem to come up with anything any longer. I hope you enjoy this anyway.

SHOOTING

Eli David gave his daughter a gun for her tenth birthday and she smiled. She did not smile in eagerness to use it, though she had more idea than most ten year olds of what someone with a gun was capable of, she had maintained just enough of her childish naivety that she did not realise the implications of such a present, though this innocence would not last long.

She smiled simply because she knew that, if her father had given her a gun, he would have to teach her how to use it and that would mean spending time with him.

Eli had not been a constant figure in her life, so often away and, even when he was at home, so prone to ignoring her, so she craved his attention and, even more so, his approval. An older, and infinitely wiser, Ziva often wondered whether it was this desperation for approval that led to her becoming what she was, or at least had been. And whether, if she had listened all those times that Ari tried to warn her about their father, she could have saved them both.

But what ifs were pointless because the fact of the matter remained that Ziva had adored her father and so it was with great excitement that she joined him on the shooting range at the Mossad training camp the day after her birthday.

Eli held the gun carefully to show her what to do then handed it over. She mimicked her father's stance perfectly and he smiled in approval. He placed his large, calloused hands over his daughter's small, smooth ones and together they pulled the trigger.

That first crack made Ziva jump; she had not expected it to be quite so loud and, without thinking, she turned her face into her father's chest. He pushed her away harshly.

"A gun shot is not a noise to invoke fear," he snapped at her. "As long as it comes from your gun, it is the noise of victory."

In the dark dreams that still haunted her on some cold and silent nights, Ziva could still hear that first crack of the gun, still feel the fear she'd felt at the noise, still hear her father's words as he admonished her.

For all the sharpness of that memory what she remembered of the rest of that day was hazy and less clear.

All she knew was that, three years later, she had woken in the night hearing a strange noise. She had shot the intruder three times in the chest, a perfect grouping of kill shots, and this time, in every crack of her gun she had heard, victory.

Again, please review, constructive criticism is much appreciated!