Pivotal Moments

Same disclaimer: not mine. This chapter follows Roadkill (6x10). Ziva finds herself in a moment of silliness that illustrates what she has in common with the men in her life. The character Rebekah, who appears briefly in this chapter, is my own construction and first appears in the first chapter of this piece.

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December 2008: DC

Ziva thought she heard a footstep and spun around in her chair. Two agents she didn't know were waiting by the elevator. She rolled her eyes at her own alarm and turned back to her computer monitor.

She was surprised to find she lacked the confidence Tony and McGee had that let them post pictures of themselves online. Confidence in their own silliness. But just looking at the picture she'd taken of herself air-guitaring made her smile. Tony had been right when he said that here, in his world, she could be silly or stupid without worrying about the consequences. And she was surprised how good it felt.

Ziva opened an email and attached the file, then stared at the empty "to" box. If she could be sure Tony would be in proud friend mode, she'd send it right away, but if he was feeling sarcastic—she didn't quite have the surety of her own stupidity to send it anyway. She'd have to show it to him in person, when the mood was right. Instead, she hesitantly typed in Michael and Rebekah's email addresses. They came from her world too, but hopefully they knew her well enough to appreciate the photo. She clicked send.

Her inbox dinged with new mail right away, and she rushed to turn down the speaker volume as the sound rang out in the empty bullpen.

What the hell? Michael had written.

Ziva felt a perplexed look cross her face. She scrolled down to her message: no words, just the picture of her jumping in the air, screaming, waving her arms. She laughed aloud, again breaking the quiet, as she realized that Michael was having the same reaction she'd had that morning—out of context, the picture was bizarre.

I'm pretending to play the guitar, she send back.

Instead of emailing her further, Michael opened an instant message dialogue.

Why are you pretending to play guitar? He asked.

She smiled to herself as she tried to explain. The men I work with have been competing all day to see who can do it best. It is for a website. I thought I'd try too.

At work?

The disdain in Michael's words was as clear as if he'd been speaking.

We had some free time between cases, she defended them. And Americans are not like us in this way. They were raised differently. You must understand, they do not learn to be on the alert all the time—there is less to be on the alert for than in Israel. While some of their pursuits are puerile, it is enjoyable, I've found, to simply play every once in a while.

Michael took a while to respond.

Well, just don't change too much, he finally wrote.

I won't, Ziva typed. Then she hit the backspace key, erasing the words. She was changing, and she could hardly promise not to. Before she could come up with another response, Michael wrote her further.

I find I have to be on the alert all the time now. I found out today that Mossad has had people trailing me, taking pictures of what I do during the day.

That's not too unusual, Ziva began to assure him. My father was having me tracked when I first came to Washington for a while. Took photos of my partner coming over to my house and had one of his flunkies accuse me of sleeping with Tony!

Again Michael didn't respond right away and Ziva wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say.

I wasn't, of course, she added quickly.

Don't worry, he finally answered, there's no doubt in my mind that you would be with someone who could spend much of his day pretending to play guitar.

Now Ziva found herself defensive. Certainly she'd have said the same and more to DiNozzo, but Michael didn't know him the way she did.

It was just for fun, she typed, and hit the enter key angrily. She took a deep breath once it was sent. Reading it over, the words didn't contain the harshness she felt, but she supposed that was just as well. It occurred to her for the first time to wonder what would happen if she and Michael had a fight. Would he betray her skepticism about Mossad then?

Fine, then, Michael sent, as if he did sense her irritation and was backpedaling in order not to anger her. I'm glad you had a good day.

Thanks, Ziva wrote back. And then, tired of talking to him, she signed off without a farewell. Her own defense of this behavior surprised her, though as she calmed she acknowledged that she was defending Tony and McGee, her friends, and that she knew she would do to the death.

Her mood was dampened as Ziva gathered her coat and bags to go home, but as she reached for the computer to turn it off, her email dinged once again. She could feel herself tense as she went to read it, but instantly relaxed when she saw it was Rebekah who'd written her.

Reminds me of this... was the entire text of the email. Ziva quirked her eyebrows in confused a moment before opening the attachment Rebekah had sent. She laughed when she saw it: a moment captured years earlier, from the time just after Tali's death when Rebekah had taken her out, often and in many countries, to karaoke bars for camaraderie and alcohol and the music that seemed to restore some small about of joy to her bearing. In this particular picture, Ziva was gesticulating wildly with one arm, while the other held the microphone seductively close to her mouth. Her hair was untamed, her clothing vaguely french—Ziva wondered what the song had been. A smile transformed her as she gazed at it. There had been a time when she'd had fun. She wasn't quite sure when it had passed, but it was reassuring to think she wasn't as different from her friends as all that.

Before turning the computer off, Ziva printed the picture, as well as the one she'd taken earlier, and slipped them into Tony's desk, laying them in the drawer he'd open tomorrow morning to lay his gun while he worked. She couldn't wait to see his reaction. She only hoped Gibbs would be there to make Tony's reaction all the more amusing as he tried to stifle it.

As she slid the drawer shut, Ziva smiled once more. If this wasn't silliness, she didn't know what was, and she found herself glad she had come back to America long enough to learn this about herself, that she had the lingering capacity for light-heartedness.