Chapter 3
"Disagreement"

She hated how he always had a way of romanticizing his actions, but she still found herself helping him pick out new clothes at the department store after work.

He was a well-dressed man, but with a certain comfortable look about him. Suit jackets were a must, but ties were not. He was stylish and handsome, and at one time his attractiveness had spoken to her like no one ever did before.

He was a wise man and he knew not only the ways of the world and his place in the world, but he also remembered his size in clothing and shoes whether his one true love was right there with him.

In the next second she heard a loud, dull thud behind her and ended up sending a hanger and its shirt to the floor.

"Just a cardboard box." Jackson assured her.

Her distaste for him could not be hidden, nor did she want it to be. She knew what he did and he knew, too.

"You're upset with me." He states, knowing their usual roundabout. "It seems pointless, Ziva. You will love me anyway. You will love me like you always have."

"No." She growls while facing him full-on. "You murder people."

"I am ordered to murder people." He corrects her while moving in closer to her. "Don't do this here."

"Then where?"

He nods to one of the workers. "I'd like these."

"Would you like these wrapped, Mr. Carter?"

"No. Just charge them to my account and have them sent to my apartment." He instructs.

"Right away, Mr. Carter.

The tiny size of her kitchen should make it warm, but instead the cold circles her like an ice blanket.

Jackson lifts the kettle and pours water into his mug. The tea bag inside begins to work its magic and soon the tan liquid is a dark brown. Reaching for her bottle of honey, he squeezes a small amount inside his mug before turning around to face her.

"I thought you quit."

Ziva takes a drag from her cigarette, but does not answer.

He smirks at her coldness, knowing that in a few days she will be back to her usual self. The person he can rely on to help him get through his ups and downs.

"I'll be away for a few days." He blows on his tea momentarily. "New York. To help a friend." He pauses. "I owe him."

"Another friend. Was the Marine from last night a help to friend?"

"Yes." He keeps it simple like he always does. "I'm sure you understand how much friends mean to one another." His hazel eyes morph into another color. "They must teach you that and remind you of it everyday while you're working."

"The people I work with, they are good people."

"Oh, I know they are." He smirks. "And I know how much they mean to you. That's why I leave them to do their jobs and in return I hope they will leave me to do my own." He clears his throat, then sets his drinking mug down on the counter. "You know, Ziva…I would hate to find a problem in this arrangement that we have."

"NCIS does not specialize in keeping murderers safe." She inhales from her cigarette. "They are criminal investigators. We…'we' are criminal investigators." She mentally scolds herself because of her slight error.

Jackson is behind her now. His hands running up and down her arms for a minute or so, but when she starts to feel the chill biting at the end of her spine, he notices her discomfort and firmly places his hands on the tops of her shoulders, then presses down ever-so-slightly.

"Do you remember the day we met?" He asks as his mind takes him to that very moment. "You took my breath away."

Behind his hands, she feels her blood begin to boil, but chooses to sit as still as she possibly can.

"I knew that despite where we can from and despite our differences, we still had one thing in common." He sighs; dreamily. "We kill because we're good at it." He pushes down on her shoulders harder so he can stop her from speaking. "I don't give a shit whether you choose to kill once or twice out of the month because you are only following what you've been taught at work. The point is you kill and when you do, you do it with the ease that you always have. You take pride in it." His hands grip her shoulders tightly now. "Just like our marriage."

She tries to take another drag from her cigarette, but her lips are shaking.

"I don't want to do this anymore." She says quietly, on the verge of tears.

"But you will." He enforces. "You always do, Ziva. You always do." He lets go of her shoulders and walks away from her and picks up his drinking mug again. "You know how much I need you."

"I've got someone you could meet with. He'll give you the information you need to move forward with the case." He waits for her to look him in the eyes, but she does not. "That way the case is completed and I stay out of trouble."

"This is wrong."

"So is everything else in life." He shrugs. "It never has stopped us before."

"Damn it, Jackson! I understood when I was doing the same thing more or less, but I'm not anymore. For the last two years I've been operating under the control of Gibbs and his team; of NCIS, and I can't sit back and watch people get killed."

"Nonsense. You did not see anyone kill that Marine last night."

She opens her mouth at his heartlessness, but words are unable to come from her mouth.

"Jackson, please-"

He slams his mug into the sink and a crack can be heard through her tiny kitchen.

"NO!" He hollers. "What the hell do you expect me to do, Ziva? He is already dead and many more will die. This is what I do. This is my line of work." His eyes are nearly black now. "…and as much as you want out, such a thing doesn't exist. You're in this with me and you're up to your fucking neck in it." He towers over her with his hands on his waist. "Cry about it if you have to, but get over it, and fast."

She stands abruptly; tired of his dominance.

"I will not!" She snaps.

He grabs her elbow roughly and jerks her to him, and waits until she looks at him.

"Stop being a fucking Girl Scout."

"I want a divorce." She blurts around unshed tears.

He holds on to her with a temper that is ready to burst, but just as the air becomes thicker around them, he roughly lets her go so that it feels like a push, and laughs knowingly as he walks out of her kitchen and out of her apartment door.

She stands there unable to physically move, though her mind is racing.