A/N: This one was the result of listening to Willie Nelson sing 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain'.
Disclamer: Still don't own them and still broke.
WARNING: Have tissues handy. It's a tearjerker. I got head slapped for letting someone read this at work without warning her.
Special Agent Ziva David knew with absolute certainty she wasn't the only member of the MCRT who had read the file. Each agent had pulled the NIS documents from storage. The older agent in charge of the archives looked the other way and never asked the team members to sign their names on the log sheet.
Still, Ziva could tell when DiNozzo and McGee took their turns. It was in the covert looks filled with both parts awe and pity. The sympathy they tried, not quite successfully, to hide could only have one source. After all, Ziva knew she had acted differently after the long weekend she had the file.
After Somalia, the young woman had felt driven to know the entire story. She had stayed in her old room at the Navy quarters that weekend reading and rereading and crying. She had gone over the autopsy reports and the crime scene photos and the evidence logs with the eye of a trained investigator. The newest NCIS agent had poured over the case notes and had memorized even the minutest details.
One of those details had brought her here tonight. This was a day he should not be alone. The others had tried to show their support today, too. McGee had brought him coffee. DiNozzo had Chinese delivered for lunch which had only been picked at. Abby had stopped by his desk and given him silent hugs several times. Now, it was his newest agent's turn.
She had planned for this evening as she would any mission. Ziva climbed the front steps and entered through the unlocked, front door. She placed her backpack on the floor next to the sofa. A change of clothing and her toothbrush would be ready in the event they were needed. She dropped her pillow on the arm of the sofa. She crossed to the kitchen and placed a container of home-made chicken soup into the refrigerator. A bag of rolls, also home-made, was deposited on the counter. Only then did she approach the basement door.
The petite agent descended the wooden stairs and saw him sitting on the floor. His back was pressed against the wall and his blue jean clad legs were stretched out in front of him. His hands were lying atop his thighs and he was staring at the empty space that was usually occupied by a boat. As she crossed to his position, Ziva was surprised by the absence of a whiskey bottle. She turned and slid down the wall to sit next to him. He still hadn't acknowledged her presence.
After a few moments of silence, Ziva reached out her right hand and slid it under his left. There was a hesitation and then he curled his fingers through hers. Ziva remained silent. She had learned that from him.
"She loved pink and purple. And, she loved anything chocolate." Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, almost without conscious thought, began to speak. "She was afraid of thunderstorms. When she was six, she beat up the boy next door because he was picking on a deaf girl who lived across the street."
Ziva tightened her hold on his hand as he seemed to drift along with the memories. "She learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels when she was four. She was terrified of clowns and she wanted to be a veterinarian. "
"The last time I saw her, she was chasing my truck down the driveway, crying and begging me not to go. That's the last memory I have of her." He still hadn't looked at the younger woman but he continued to speak, "I wasn't here. I should have been here to protect her and Shannon."
"Gibbs, it was not your fault. You were doing your job. You had to obey orders. You had no way to know what would happen while you were gone," the young woman tried to keep her voice strong even as she willed herself to not cry.
"I couldn't save her, Ziver. I feel like I failed my little girl," Ziva heard his voice break on that last word. Hearing this strong, usually invincible man in so much pain was tearing her apart.
The guilt he had taken upon himself made her angry. She turned to sit cross legged, facing him.
"Eli worked the day of Tali's funeral. He ordered one of his trained assassins to kill his only son. He sent his only remaining child to be tortured, beaten, raped and killed." She tightened her hold on his hand and searched those electric blue eyes for some sign she was getting through to him.
When she saw she had his attention, she continued, "And, you sit here alone, almost twenty years later, still grieving. You spend your daughter's birthday mourning your loss. Do not ever let me hear you say you were not a good father, Gibbs. If I ever hear you say you were a failure as a father again, I will kick your ass."
She reached up with her free hand to wipe away the tears she had tried so hard not to shed in front of him, "She was very lucky. Kelly had the best father a girl could ever have."
The hug they shared lasted several minutes. She rested her head on his broad shoulder and cried for the losses they had both endured. He stroked his hand up and down her back. Finally, she accepted the handkerchief he dug out of his pocket and offered to her.
She managed a weak chuckle, "And, I was supposed to be taking care of you."
Gibbs leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, "You have, Ziva. Thank you."
"Well, I am not finished yet." She stood and offered him her hand. As he climbed stiffly to his feet, Ziva told him, "I will heat dinner."
Gibbs put an arm around her shoulders and the pair started for the stairs. "I'm not really hungry, Ziva."
"No, but you have not eaten all day. You must eat something, Gibbs," she chastised.
He couldn't help but laugh and ask, "When did you become such a Jewish grandmother, Ziva?"
"It is genetic, Gibbs. Food may not solve everything; but, it makes the suffering easier." She smiled up at him. "I fixed homemade chicken soup."
"Old family receipe?" he asked as he let her pass through the door ahead of him.
"Yes," she tossed over her shoulder as she pulled the container out of the refrigerator. "It is from your family. Jack emailed me your grandmother's receipe."
As Ziva heated the soup in the microwave, Gibbs washed up at the kitchen sink. He sat in his usual seat and she placed a bowl of the steaming soup in front of him. His stomach growled and he had to admit to himself the food smelled wonderful. It reminded him of his grandmother's kitchen when he was a little boy.
"You hear from Jack more than I do," he told Ziva as she took her place across from him.
Gibbs saw the twinkle in her chocolate colored eyes, "He is a wonderful grandfather.
He gave her one of his most mischievous grins, "Speaking of grandfathers…Isn't it about time you found some nice young man and settled down? I wouldn't mind having a couple of grandkids living next door. I'm not getting any younger you know."
Her mouth opened and her eyes widen in shock, "Oh, my God! Now who is the Jewish grandmother?"
Dinner was comfortable. They ate and talked and Ziva was happy to see Gibbs finished off two bowls of the soup. She raided his freezer and fixed them ice cream for desert. She was one of the few people who knew about his Rocky Road addiction.
It was as he rose from the table to help to put his dishes in the dishwasher that he noticed the backpack and pillow and inquired, "You planning to spend the night, Ziver?"
"Well, it is late and I have such a long trip home, I thought I might stay over." She looked up through her lashes and pretended innocence.
Jethro snorted, "You live fifty meters away. But, stay if you want. I'm going to bed." He stopped to kiss her on top of the head. "Thank you, Ziva."
She hugged him briefly, "You are welcome, Gibbs."
She was just sitting down on the sofa to untie her shoes when Jethro stopped at the foot of the stairs, "About those grandkids, Ziva? You aren't getting any younger either."
He ducked as the pillow hit the wall next to his head and then Jethro jogged up the stairs. In the living room, Ziva thought the laughter that echoed down the stairs was one of the most wonderful sounds she had ever heard.