A/N: This one's a sad one, folks. In a way. I had a pretty rough day and I therefore sat down and wrote this. I'm pretty happy with it. And now, I'm ecstatic, because, guess what? Yeah, that's right, I just received the first part of my five-part order of seasons 1-5 of NCIS. Yep. Exactly. How psyched do you think I am? The answer is very psyched. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling. The Righteous Brothers do...I wish I owned Michael Weatherly and Mark Harmon, but alas, they are the sole property of their wives. And that makes me very sad...

It was not so much the fact that Michael and I danced that drove me into such a state. Any good boyfriend takes their girlfriend dancing, especially the travelling, adventurous types, and Michael was no exception to this. What resigned me to tears and locking myself in the luxurious bathroom was the fact that there were three instances where I had never felt more attractive, loved, and appreciated in my life. And now, as I sit by this gorgeous claw-foot tub, wallowing in both humiliation and self-pity, I realize my stupid mistakes each of the three times.

The first is the beginning of this entire mess with Tony. The one undercover mission as Canadian assassins. Although the sex was fake, and our roles were just that—parts to play—and half of our lines were scripted or prompted, I felt something blossom in my heart, something that kept growing long after the assignment had ended. He had held me, and it had felt right.

The second is the 'love' Michael had given me. Our trysts when he came to Washington D.C., kept secret from Tony; his worry over whether I was okay, when the bar was bombed in Morocco; his support when my father would yell at me … it had all added up to love somehow. But, he made me feel wanted, enjoyed, treasured. That is all I could have asked him for.

And then we come to the third, the very reason I cannot forgive myself. If I had just died in Somalia, we would not have this problem. When the sack had been lifted from around my body, and I had seen Tony sitting across from me, both solemn because of the situation and elated that I was still alive, and had told me that he could not live without me, something had clicked. Something, that day, had clicked. For the second since I had begun working for NCIS, my feelings were inexplicable.

I would not be sitting on the bathroom floor, with self-indulgent tears rolling down my cheeks, cursing the day Jenny Shepherd had suggested to my father that NCIS welcome a Mossad Liaison. But I cannot curse it, because if Director Shepherd had not offered the position, and had I not come here, I would never have met Tim or Abby. Gibbs would be a stranger; I would not have had to assassinate my own brother, of course, but his disloyalty would have gotten him into trouble someday anyhow. Ducky and Palmer would not have been able to regale me with stories, and my present job would not exist.

And I would not have fallen in love with Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. For that matter, I would not have met his father—God rest his soul—nor would I have come into contact with Jackson Gibbs. I would have never known about Shannon or Kelly, I would not have read McGee's book, and I would not have bought Abby a cupcake.

I would not know what Caf-POW is, nor how its order number had been tracked back to Somalia by four people who love and care about my safety, in order to save me from caffeine-addicted terrorists. In fact, I would have not been saved. I would still have been sent on the suicide mission, of course, as I have been part of Mossad, by blood, since birth. And, when I was captured—as it is not a question of if versus when once Eli is involved in something—I would never have been found, and most likely would have died one night after having my head bashed against the cement block walls.

There are many things that I would not have endured, lost, found, accepted, feared and conquered if I had not been assigned as the Mossad Liaison.

But it is my belief, as naïve or shallow or morbid as it may be, that even if I had never been hired by NCIS, I would have somehow gone through everything bad that has happened to date. That being said, I would have also missed everything good. If Eli had turned down Director Shepherd's offer, I would have sat in the kitchen that morning, drinking my tea and reading the newspaper, then gone off with Michael to the public market. I would have wondered where Ari was, why he was not there.

Eli would have received a phone call while I was gone, and tell me with grievous eyes upon my return that Ari had been murdered. Livid, I would have booked a flight to Washington D.C. for that same afternoon, would have come to America, would have sought out who had killed my half-brother, and would have killed him in the same cold blood in which he had stolen Ari's life. I would not have had the compassion and daughterly feelings I have for Gibbs now, so I would have cared very little that Ari had almost killed him. And then, I most likely would have been taken into custody by NCIS. I would have been interrogated by Gibbs, or Tony. They would not have trusted me to restrain myself against killing McGee. The replacement for Kate would joke with whoever was behind the one-way mirror about how intense my eyes are. How strong my jaw is. How wild my hair is. How Tony was going to break me.

He would have stormed into the interrogation room, sat across from me, and stared me down. I would have looked into those beautiful blue irises, framed in the most glorious brown lashes, and lied to him.

Of course I did not avenge my only brother's death. He was my half-brother. His murder means nothing to me, I would have bitten out, my mouth twisting into a sinister smirk. Leaning across the table, sliding aside the pictures of the agent's dead body—completely intact aside from the clean, small hole at the base of his pretty, pretty skull—I would have murmured, I do not believe in revenge.

He would have laughed at me, a gruesome, untrusting bark. Oh, no? Then, why does the bullet our M.E. extracted from Agent Slater's brain match the one we found in your gun?

I would have mirrored his laugh, only more haughtily. Half-brother, would come my spat response, and I probably would have muttered, Tipesh kmo naal.

Please speak in English, Davíd. We are in America. Just because you're father's the director of Mossad, doesn't give you the right to kill our agent.

And since when does NCIS have the privilege of murdering my family? I would have hissed.

When your half-brother killed my partner. Our partner. Our agent.

But Iam NCIS' agent now. I am that agent. None of that happened. I was offered the position, I took it, and I gained something I had never had before. I gained a family.

I wipe the salty, drying tears away from beneath my eyes and stand. Taking deep breaths, fighting to maintain my composure, I unlock the door and take three slow steps out into the bedroom.

Although Tony is nowhere to be seen, I know he is still here. He is always here. I quickly strip down to my undergarments and throw on a beige hemp skirt and one of Tony's clean tee-shirts and murmur to myself, "Oh, what the hell."

"Ana," Gibbs greets softly as I step onto the front porch. He is seated beside Abby on a wickerwork couch, while Tony and McGee sit in respective wicker chairs. On a small table next to Tony sits an empty bottle of beer, another half-empty bottle sitting in his hands, and a glass of blush wine. Blush … Israeli Apricot Wine. The reminder of home hits my heart, knowing that he purposely bought it to make me feel better. I inwardly beg Tony to look up, to look into my eyes, to see my apology, but he continues staring down at Gibbs' notebook.

My stomach in knots, I walk across the porch and sit on a stool next to Abby. Much to my embarrassment—more caused by myself than the question—she nudges me and says, "I heard a door slam upstairs. Everything okay with you and Dave?"

I blink twice, my eyes flitting to Tony for a split second, hoping that perhaps Abby's question caught his attention, but he is still focused on the notebook. Nodding, I slowly begin, "Yes … I believe everything is fine."

"Didn't sound it to me," Gibbs mutters, his piercing gaze suddenly on me. I cower, much like I have seen suspects do during interrogation. My mind returns to my imaginary hell, where his blue eyes penetrate my soul. I fight off a shudder and look away.

I am about to manufacture a long and possibly Ducky-worthy story of what happened when Tony pipes up. "There was a breeze. Blew the door shut behind Ziva when she went into the bathroom."

"Why were you up there for so long, though?" Abby asks, quickly becoming maternal as always. "Is it, like, morning sickness? Or something you ate? Do you feel sick?"

"No, Abby, I am fine." Reconsidering, I backtrack. "Actually, I did feel a bit nauseous, but now I feel better." Still trying to catch Tony's eye, and failing miserably, I cough. My throat has gone dry, remembering my dismal thoughts about what could have been versus what is. Recalling Tony's disappointed, upset features and cold eyes in the interrogation room, what could have happened had I not been an NCIS agent, returns the upset and coiling sensation to my stomach.

"Want a drink? We bought you some nonalcoholic wine while you were holed up by the toilet." Abby reaches across Gibbs, all but crawling onto his lap, and retrieves the wine glass. She comes very close to spilling it on the hand-off to Tony, who looks at her like she has lost her mind. "Give your wife the wine, Davie."

He wordlessly holds the glass out to me. When I take it from him, I am careful to deliberately let my fingers linger on his. His jaw tenses and he lets go of the stem of the glass; it is fortunate I have a good hold on it.

"Thank you," I murmur, taking a sip. It is most definitely not non-alcoholic, but the label on the bottle is very convincing. "I have not had wine in—"

"You'd better say, 'two months.' I don't want my potential Marine grandson starting out deaf or something," Gibbs admonishes jokingly, taking a slow sip of bourbon. "You and my son're gonna be great parents." I snort. Sure, we are. Just marvelous.

It is then that Tony decides to look at me.

I drudge up the stairs after receiving the 'We need to talk' look that I have been dreading. Deciding to finally tell him everything, I head into a room I know is not bugged in any way.

I tensely perch on the window seat and Tony follows me, pulling the floral printed ottoman over and sitting on it. For a while, he stays silent, watching me with those big eyes, and they are blue-green. Confusion and anxiety fill them.

Tony drops his head and steeples his hands. He finally says gently, "So what was that back there?" They are his first words to me in hours.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I shrug and state flatly, "What was what, Tony?"

"Hey." His voice is suddenly very stern. My eyes snap up to his. "You know what I'm talking about, and I guess I'd like some answers."

I want to say, Answers about what? Somalia? but decide that it is too harsh for the load of compassion he is putting into this. Instead, I frown. "I guess I do not know what you want to know."

He only looks at me for a few minutes before hesitantly explaining, "When you were in the bathroom, you said some stuff, and it sort of got to me."

"What did I say?" My heart starts beating faster, a light flush coming to my cheeks.

"You said you didn't 'avenge your brother's death.' That you didn't believe in revenge … You laughed, you cried, you sobbed. No matter how much I knocked on the door, you wouldn't let me in. And then you said something in Hebrew, and accused NCIS of killing your family …" Tony trails off. I look at him in soft realization. My responses to his imaginary interrogation were not only in my head, but said aloud. Although I feel humiliated, I give him a small smile. It must be bitter, because he narrows his eyes analytically, trying to see past my positive exterior.

He has always been one of the few people who can break down my walls. I sniff and gaze out the window. "I was thinking."

"About what?" he prompts. When I fail to answer, he places his hand on mine and murmurs, "Ziva? You know you can trust me, but if you don't want to talk about it—"

I cut him off crisply. "I was thinking about the past." Tony says nothing and although I make no move to continue yet, I allow him to wrap his fingers around mine. After thinking about how to phrase my next words, I resume. "I was thinking about what my life would have been like if I had never become part of NCIS."

I hear him take in a sharp breath and anticipate another question, but am greeted with silence and a soft squeeze of my hand. "What you heard were my responses to you," I explain, "and it was only a plausible conversation in the event I had not accepted Director Shepherd's proposal for Mossad Liaison."

Tony is silent and I can tell he is considering my words. "Ziva, you know I—we—would never think you were responsible for Ka—Agent Todd's death …"

"It was not a question of Kate's death, Tony. It was purely hypothetical." I pause briefly before glancing at him. I can see the desire in his eyes to understand how I feel, and what I am thinking. I return my gaze to the window and murmur, "I came to a conclusion, though."

"And what would that be?" he presses, scooting closer, either intentionally or subconsciously.

I at first refuse to look at him and then remember that he was the one to discover I had been captured by terrorists. He was the one that pressured Director Vance to find me. And he was one of the two people who risked their lives to save me. I turn my head, looking deep into his eyes.

"That even if I had not taken the position with NCIS, I would still have met you. All of you. But not in the right way." I let my legs down over the edge of the window seat, inches from his. "That I still would have been sent on the suicide mission, that I still would have been captured, and that there are only two things that would have been different."

Tony stares at me, his jaw set, most likely out of worry. "What are the two things?"

I look down at his hand entwined with mine and then back up at him. "The first is that I would have died in Somalia." When I do not continue, he rubs his thumb across my knuckles.

"And the second?"

I hesitate before murmuring, "I would not be friends with you." I bow toward him and place a chaste kiss on his lips before pulling away and smiling, fighting the prickling in my eyes.

Tony's voice is husky when he next speaks. "What does 'tipesh kmo naal' mean?"

"It is a Hebrew insult."

"What does it mean?"

I sigh and translate, "Loosely, 'stupid like a shoe.' But … even a theoretical Ziva would have known you are not."

"Why did you say it?"

"I was angry with you for calling Ari my brother." I look away, ashamed that my imagination had run so far away from me. "The entire conversation was with you. You were interrogating me for murdering Kate's replacement, since I was not there to fill in. The replacement executed Ari. I avenged his death."

"Oh, Zeev…." I open my mouth to tell him not to pity me when he places a finger at my lips and spins around. "Did you hear that?" he whispers.

"Hear what?" I get up and follow him, but he whips back around and shoves me to the floor. "Tony, what are you doing?"

"Sh! Hold on. And stay there." Tony creeps to the door and opens it only a millimeter or less. "Ziva, do you have your gun?"

I shake my head. "No. Gibbs told me I could not have it." Reaching under my skirt, I pull the MOD automatic knife from its band. "This is more easily concealed. Why do I need it, though? Were we made…?"

Tony shakes his head, raising a long finger to his lips. I watch him curiously as he motions for me to move to stand beside him, and I heed his silent order. No heat emanates from his body as usual, a sure sign he is terrified. Whenever he is frightened, his body stops producing heat, and somehow, I can always tell.

He slowly opens the wooden door further and inches out into the hallway, taking a Derringer from his pocket. I know I am not supposed to speak, so I refrain, vowing to ask him later…if we survive.

I follow Tony into the hallway and head in the opposite direction from him. Looking in all four rooms at that end of the corridor, I whisper, "Clear." I hear his response and go back into the hallway, knife out. We slink down the stairs and part, checking the entire downstairs. Except for the kitchen.

Where we both know it would be safer to have backup. We greet each other with another loud whisper of, "Clear!" before nodding at each other from either side of the entry to the kitchen. I can hear a knife chopping, something sizzling in a pot, unfamiliar voices mixed with some interspersed well-known ones, and a sudden loud crash. Without delay, we both rush into the kitchen, prepared to fight back.

And we are greeted with Chicken Curry and a very startled Abby Sciuto.

"Babby?" I gasp, quickly stashing my knife in my pocket. "What are you doing?"

The goth girl giggles and is accompanied by Gibbs, who wraps an arm around her shoulders. It is plain to see that they are far from drunk, but do indeed put on a good show.

"We were'm…talking. Right, baby?" Abby slurs before continuing, "You two were upstairs havin' some lovin'!"

Gibbs squeezes his eyes shut and jumps away from Abby. "Leroy?" Tony snaps. "Dad, are you okay?"

Out of nowhere, our boss breaks into dance, and then pauses, looking at us with wide eyes. "You've lost that lovin' feelin', whoa, that lovin' feelin'. You've lost that lovin' feeling. Now it's gone ... gone ... gone ... whoaaaaa," he sings, putting emphasis on the words 'lost' and 'gone.' As he serenades us, he glances over our shoulders at the phone and we suddenly understand.

Someone has disappeared.

A/N: I feel it is necessary to express to you my feelings about Mark Harmon singing You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling. Like...As though I must explain myself. So, here goes. A young Mark Harmon, in my opinion, looks very much like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. So. There you have it.