Pivotal Moments

A/N I'm handling Aliyah in two pieces, because the pace of the events in the US and
Israel are really different, and because I have to leave to see Harry Potter with my roommate in 10 minutes and this is as far as I got :). The second part should be up this evening, so stay tuned.

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Ziva leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes fall shut. The tile was cool against the back of her neck. Her hands clenched around the sleeves of her jacket, finding them stiff with dried blood. She felt like a child whose birthday wish was that her little brother would go away who woke up to find him dying. She had said to Tony yesterday, though it was shocking that only a day had passed, that she was only loyal to Michael now. Now even that wasn't true.

"Miss David?" The doctor said softly.

Ziva knew the tone. At least it's over, she thought, and then felt guilty for that, too.

She told Gibbs on autopilot, shrugging off his sympathy and passing Tony without a word. She couldn't believe he had tried to intervene with Michael twice after promising to let her handle things, but the anger she felt over it was remote right now, buried beneath the grief that was numbing all her senses.

Ziva went first to her apartment, realizing only when she'd parked outside that it was a crime scene; she couldn't enter. So she went to NCIS, instead.

She typed up her report for Gibbs, only the barest details. Every five minutes she checked the Autopsy logs from her computer, until she found that Michael's body had arrived. And with a shaking hand, she pushed the button in the elevator and descended.

His face was fairly intact, for which she was grateful. She remembered it laughing. It was suddenly easier than it had been in days to remember why she had cared for him: the way he smiled, the way he touched her, the little gestures of generosity between them, the way he'd stayed up with her in the hospital when she was injured. The last week was unimportant for a moment. He was gone.

Ziva heard a sound behind her and forced all the memories into a knot, and put them away until she could untangle them later.

She could tell from the look on Ducky and Palmer's faces that they remembered Michael from the pictures she'd shown them months ago, that they knew who he was to her. Ducky offered rituals and rites, trying to offer comfort. But she cannot fall apart in front of them right now; surely Hadar will have her home as soon as possible now, and she cannot let herself depend on anyone here.

She made excuses and slipped out of autopsy, but before she could make it to the elevator her memories of Michael had returned, irrepressible, and she darted into the men's room, locked the door, and sank to the ground, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

Tony was on his way to Autopsy when he heard the noise. Like a yelp. In a pitch that could only be one woman. He rushed to the women's room, banged the door open. A woman stepped out with raised eyebrows.

"Is Ziva in there?" he demanded.

She shook her head, looking at him strangely.

He heard the noise again, and a grimace crossed his face. The men's room. Of course. He found it locked. "Ziva," he said softly, then louder and louder. "Ziva, Ziva!"

The noises stopped, but he heard no movement inside.

"Zi!" He pounded on the door, stood back to try to force it with his shoulder.

"Can't force it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, entering Autopsy himself.

Tony turned, deflated. All he wanted was to make her understand, that he'd only meant to come to her, that he had no choice. But Gibbs was right. She couldn't be forced.

"McGee and I are going to check out the scene," Gibbs told him. "Type your report."

Tony nodded, returning to his desk, and tried to do as ordered even if his eyes darted to the elevator, the stairs, and never seemed to settle on his work.

Ziva waited until Gibbs' return before going back to the bullpen. She handed in her report, resisting Gibbs' efforts to talk to her further until he finally all but forced her into a chair.

"Your apartment's been destroyed. A gas fire earlier this morning."

"Perhaps the lines were damaged during the fight. I would talk to Tony," she said quickly

"No, this was no accident. gas lines were cut." And just like that, she was snapped out of grief and back into reality. She had thought, running into her building the night before, that Hadar had not even waited for her call before sending someone to terminate Michael. Even if she had been wrong about his timing, it seemed clear that Michael's death had been inevitable.

"Any idea who--" Gibbs started.

"No."

"That was a quick answer."

"Simple question."

"Ziva, that's your home." There was so much care and concern in his face that it was a struggle to remember this righteous anger that was blocking out her grief.

"No it's not." Absent another way to change, she went to the locker room, found a change of clothes she'd thankfully left at some point, and left her bloody clothes in the trash.

By the time she got back to the squad room, the men were gone. But there on McGee's computer were the pictures she needed.

As she looked through them, she froze. The kind of detonator used wasn't on a long delay. The fire had been set no more than a few hours before it started. And anyone setting fire today would have seen the crime scene, would have asked enough to find out that Michael was dead, could have simply removed evidence if that were their purpose. This had been meant for her. And Hadar would not stop.

In the clarity of this shock, Ziva knew what to do: go to Gibbs. So she went down to the lab, laid out for Vance and Gibbs what she knew about the bomb, and tried not to let her features flicker in relief when Vance announced they were going to Tel Aviv. To stay here would have meant her death.