A\N: Sooo, this story pretty much consists of anecdotes narrated by Tali David about her family and her life as she knew it. I've been playing with the character of Tali for quite some time based on the few details we were given about her. There are a lot of Tali(s) swimming around in my head right now and this one seems promising, mind you she's quite tortured and anguished and hardly gives an unbiased opinion… I promised myself I would post my stories this summer and not let them rot under my bed!

Anywho, here are the things you MUST KNOW:

1.) These anecdotes are NOT in order (nor do they really need to be, you can probably figure it out for yourself)

2.) The circumstances of some events may never be entirely specified. (I have to leave some things open to interpretation!)

3.) Lets just say Tali was born around 1984ish, Ziva is 4 years older than her, Ari is 4 years older than Ziva.

4.) I am open to requests. If you would like Tali to explain any of the hints we've gotten from the show about the David's early life, just leave me a comment Thanks, now read!

My brother and I faded away together. It was a bittersweet process, we were two world weary souls waiting for permission to move on, both of us were deteriorating in similar circumstances. Ari's visits had decreased since my mother died, and he had medical school to worry about. Even with that our father still sent him on missions that I never dared ask them about. Ziva was in the IDF at that time, and around even less than he was, she couldn't have visited if she wanted to. I found that being an only child did not suit me well, but that point I had grown accustomed to my isolation. As long as I kept to myself, no one bothered me.

When Ari left for England when I was 9 I told him never to come back unless it was absolutely necessary. There was no need to convince him, of course. Those "absolutely necessary time increased around 4 years later, when it turned out my father had a very different definition of 'absolutely necessary' than we did. Ari started showing up at our doorstep at the most random times, yet Father always acted as though he had been expecting him. He always made quite an entrance.

He was usually a wreck, exhausted, bruised, and bloody. Although it wasn't always his blood that stained him.

His boots would be filled with water or sand and caked with dust and mud. His clothes were almost always in poor condition. Sometimes he came with broken bones that had not been properly set or cuts that had been badly mended. I can't count how many times I had to remove sloppy stitches from his wounds and redo them neatly.

Ari rarely arrived in one of the fleet of Mossad cars, but he used the bus or a cab, and sometimes even on foot. The most remarkable were the cars he sometimes brought. They could be in the worst shape or the best shape, and always had a sketchy unknown origin. I helped him burn a Buggati Veyron once, that night he arrived in a full tux with a Halliburton case that he immediately gave to our father. We brought the car out to the desert and scattered its remains.

I knew he had stolen it, but I accepted that. It probably had something to do with the contents of that case, and the secrecy- well that came with the lifestyle.

Ari always managed to get into a fight with our father whenever he came back. He arrived under the cover of darkness the first time he showed up it was merely twilight in Neve Tzedek, our neighborhood in Tel Aviv. It was a Saturday night and you could already hear the city buzzing to life.

They were yelling for a good long time before I got curious enough to creep downstairs, the sight of Ari nearly broke my heart. He stared at my father with bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark circles. He was covered in dust and he had dirt smeared across one cheekbone. I intervened as quickly as I could, even though I knew nothing of their argument from the unintelligible yells I had heard. I told them to stop, and that this conversation could wait until they were back at headquarters in the morning. My father looked at me much as he had my mother when she had done things like that, and Ari wordlessly allowed me to lead him away.

Ari hated our house. It held too many memories of our childhood, a childhood both of us would rather have forgotten. He was 22 and I was 13, but in our eyes we were both the same age, that is- the age of being too old for your real age. We had lived lifetimes more than we ever should have in our few short years, weighted down by things that are not understood by normal people.

The house in Neve Tzedek had ceased being a home to Ari when he started spending more time in Gaza with Hosmoya and our father refurnished his old room to be a guest room. There was not a single sign that the room had once been his, not the paint on the walls, not a stain on the carpet.

It was almost as though Ari Haswari had never been there, as though the very house had disregarded his existence. Of course, this only contributed to his hate of returning to visit.

As soon as she left, I had moved from my space in the attic to Ziva's room, which we had shared back in the day. I had tidied it up and wallpapered it with a pleasant yellow and blue print. I knew she wouldn't be happy, but maybe she would decide it wasn't worth fighting me over and retreat to Ari's old room.

Ever since my mother had died Ari had stayed in my room. He had cared for me while I was recovering from the shock of her death. I had two beds squished together that were always freshly made up, a pair of dressers with a small TV on top and a very comfy rocking chair in the corner.

It felt more like a bed and breakfast and Ari was used to drab hotel rooms that felt nothing like a home, my room was a happy median. Maybe that's why he always preferred to stay with me. Or it was because he was still worried that I would wake up crying, screaming or shaking as I had when I was small.

Then again, I had always been the faithful and loving sister, even in later years when my demons caught up with me and wouldn't go away. I took care of him to the best of my ability every time he showed up at our doorstep. No matter what kind of state he was in, I never pried. He didn't want to accept my help at times, and he sometimes he tried to push me away but I never faltered. I had always loved him, and I never asked any questions.

While he was showering in the bathroom attached to my new room, which I painted a candy red I liked, I would take his clothes and shoes (if they were worth saving) and sneak down to basement while avoiding my doubtlessly busy and pissed off father.

No matter what hour of the night it was, I would wait until the wash cycle was done, throw everything in the dryer and clean his boots just in case he had to get an early start. When I got back upstairs I would place each on the dresser and throw a blanket over my passed out brother.

When I woke up some mornings he was long gone, leaving no trace asides from a few creases that barely disturbed the ironed comforter and an occasional muddy footprint on the tile floor. Other days he would still be out cold, drooling on my pillow and would stay that way until the next night.

One particularly memorable incident occurred while I was on Christmas break during the year I was a student in Paris. It was my last day home and I was both relieved and disappointed that I had not seen Ari. Just hours before I was to leave for my 6 a.m. flight, he came. He showed up with more cuts and bruises than usual as well as a gun shot wound to the shoulder.

At first he was furious that I didn't know how to fix a bullet wound, but I promised I would learn how. In the end he didn't mind so much, no one can fix everything.

Even though I lacked a driver's license, I drove him to the ER in our father's beamer. Ari was treated, and before we could be questioned by the police we escaped.

When we got back to the house our father was awake and waiting. The Mossad work day began at 5, after all. He held out his hand and asked for his keys back. I guiltily handed them to him and he gave Ari a strong, meaningful look. I arrived in France later that same day. I went to school sleepless, jetlagged, and moody. I did not tell anyone what had happened; I never mentioned how I truly lived.

Year after year we would meet in quiet moments in the dark of night. We rarely spoke, just fell asleep or lay awake side by side, wasting away, watching as our hopes and dreams drifted farther into the distance. We had nothing but each other, and one day soon, we wouldn't even have that.