Darkness was a heavy blanket over the cosy bedroom, when the shrill ring of a cell phone woke the occupants, who were snuggled close.
Tony, untangled himself from Ziva's expensive sheets, with a grunt.
"It's Saturday," he groaned, as he tugged his cellphone from its charger.
He found it to be silent, with no incoming call. A far too early hour blinked back at him. He checked his phone, wondering if had missed a call, or if he had heard a phantom call. Then he came to the relisation, that pre-dawn disturbance was not meant for him.
A familiar hand on his shoulder, he was lightly pushed him back to bed. Warm cosy bed. Back to the land of nod, he would go.
"Go back to sleep, Motek," Ziva soothed, her cellphone pressed to her ear, as she slipped from the bed. There was a ruffle of the duvet. A woosh of cool air. "Schmeil has forgotten the time difference, again."
He spent the next twenty minutes, tossing and turning in bed, the soft murmur of Hebrew, drifting from down the hall. In the end his aging bladder, roused him from bed, and his rumbling stomach led him to Ziva's kitchen. Last nights dishes were on the drying rack. The fruit, they both pledged to eat more of, on their new health kick, sat mostly untouched on the counter.
Ziva was sitting, feet curled under her like a cat. That coffee coloured throw she kept on the the couch, wrapped over her shoulders. The phone still pressed to her ear. A cup of tea steamed from the coffee table. Her smoke signal.
He found she had put the coffee machine on for him. They had slipped so easily into these little routines. Doing little things for each other. How natural it felt. How nice. It was the little moments, he and McLoverBoy had agreed during a car trip, as they talked about the changes the year had brought. Look at us, McAdult, we're being grown-ups.
She had left a mug out for him. A warm orange colour. Next to the mug sat a candle, encased in a cup. He studied the sticker, with its writing in Hebrew, what he believed to be Yiddish, and finally in English; memorial candle.
It had been a year. Twelve months. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes. Wasn't that how that song went? Ziva did like her musicals. He found it so hard to remember, she used to be Mossad, when she hummed along to Seasons of Love.
So much had happened in the space of a year. So much had changed.
Vance, had taken a four day weekend. Their new Probie, Ellie with her inability to sit on chairs, and obsession with food, had poked her little head up, and asked why. Neither, he or McGee had managed to form enough words to explain. Eventually, Ellie had clicked, registering Vance's glum face, and Abby's asking after Ziva. She was quieter than usual, like Ziva used to get when they mentioned Kate. The black cloud hovered over the team. He hoped it would part soon, bringing some much needed sun.
Ziva's conversation ended, and the white noise of the Hebrew faded out. He sipped his coffee, and watched, as she sat still and silent. Her dark hair reached down her back. She sat like a statue, eyes looking far away. Her thinking face, he liked call this. She moved slightly, pulling her knees to her chest, and resting her chin on her knees. It made her look young. So damn young.
Early morning light streamed through apartment. It was still damn early. Too damn early.
She turned toward him. Eyes piercing right through him. He made his way to her, holding his coffee cup with one hand, and the candle with another.
"Whatever you need today," he whispered, as he sat next to her, depositing his coffee cup next to her tea cup. "We'll do it. Whatever you need. Anything."
He reached for her hand, knotting his fingers into hers.
"I thought, I wanted today to pass without comment," she said, her voice soft, and distant.
You must shut down to survive, she had told him once in that year, after the summer they never mentioned. She might have laid down her guns, but the survival instinct was still there.
"Okay," he said, wondering if she really wanted that. "Shutting up now."
"I was wrong," she said, shifting just a tiny bit closer to him. Her knees still pressed into her chest. "When I heard Schmeil's voice, it was comforting. I had not realised how much I needed his wise words."
"How is the man of steel?" he asked. "Getting over his bronchitis?"
Old age, and the trip across the Atlantic in December, had led to a sick Schmeil. Worry had stewed in Ziva. She had begged the universe not to take her Schmiel, from her too. She had lost far too much.
"Yes," she said, as a slight smile crossed her face. She pushed her cellphone to him. "He is not the only one, who has offered comforting words."
He flicked through her phone, and found texts from Abby, McGee, Palmer, and even Ducky, offering thoughts and kind words. All of them said they were just a phone call away.
"They care," he said softly. "They care a lot."
He knew, that when she left, she had worried, how her relationships with the others in the little chosen family, would survive. She had feared that by leaving the job, they would all drop away. Things had changed, but they were still there. McGee, had helped her when she had computer issues. Abby, liked to take Ziva out on girls nights. She and Ducky, sometimes had tea, and shared books, now that she had more time to read. All of them had turned up for her birthday dinner, and her Hanukkah party. Things had changed, but friends had not been lost.
"I know," she replied. She let her legs go from under her, and sat on the couch. He wrapped his arm around her. Holding her close. Holding her tight.
"Seriously, Ziva," he said, as he placed a kiss on her forehead. "Whatever you need today. We can do it."
In the past months, they had shared their little rituals of remembrance. For her sister, the songbird, with her wings clipped, they had gone to the opera. For her mother, there were dishes cooked, and memories shared. She had broadened his palette, with new tastes and spices. For his mother, there were movies watched together. His endless quest to broaden her cinematic knowledge. Maybe, one day Pirates of the Caribbean would drop from her top five favourites.
"And, if I do not know what I need?" she asked, turning to face him. Voice crumpling.
This was not her first rodeo, she thought darkly, remembering how her father had messed that idiom up, during one of their last conversations. She had seen too many funerals. There were too many days which did not have to be marked in her calendar to make her sad. This rodeo was different, she had told Schmeil during their early morning call.
Is it because I am the last one? she had asked, as he sipped his tea, half a world away. Is it because I am all alone?
But, remember child, you are not alone, Schmeil had offered, as their conversation closed.
"Then we can work that out," he said. "I found the candle. When do we light it?"
"Later," she said, as she took it from his hand. Holding it in a tight grip. Would this little ritual, lift the weight that heaved on her shoulders? Would it help her heal?
"Okay," he said. "Whenever you're ready."
"I feel this duty to him," she said. "Even now, that he is gone, I still feel this duty to him. I do not want to feel so bound. I want to be free of this feeling."
"Maybe, it'll come with time," he said.
Time healed. At least that's the agage they brought into. Hope. They had to hope. Because, the other options, were too bleak.
"I hope so," she whispered. "I just wish. I just wish, I could remember him, as I did as a child. That is what he said, just before he died. He said he wanted me to look at him, like I did as a child."
An anger stewed in Tony's gut as he heard her words. Eli was always asking something of Ziva. Always acting like Ziva was in the wrong.
"And, I wish I could. I wish I could only remember the good times." she continued. "Even when I try to, the bad creeps in, and taints it."
She wanted to remember that time he smiled when she found the afikomen, in her Uncle's house. How big she felt, sitting on his shoulders, her holiday dress already mud stained. His shirt, crumpled as she held onto his shoulders.
She wanted to remember, how excited she would get when she saw his jacket hanging off a chair, after a long time away. How she would hold him tight, even though he smelt different, like gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey. Abba. Abba, I missed you, she would cry.
She wanted to remember the olive groves, and those rare times he laughed. His hearty laugh would fill the room.
You are loyal to me, and only to me. He had shouted at her once. Loyal even in death. The duty that loyalty brought, how it burdened her. It burdened her then. It burdened her now. Would she ever cut herself free?
"Whatever you want to remember," he started. "It's okay."
"I still feel this anger toward him," she continued. "And then, I am angry at myself for being angry at a dead man."
Would she ever find the peace, she so desperately craved?
"He was your Dad," he begun.
She frowned, referring to her father, as a Dad felt so foreign. Dad. Dad. Dad. It made it sound like her father had been one of those men who pushed strollers. Men who tied little shoe laces, during the busy school run. Men who brought ice cream on a hot day, just to make their kids smile. Her father had not been like that. Her father had been distant. Her father had always been away. Her father had left her to die.
"And he was complicated," he continued, "It's okay for this to still be complicated."
Complicated runs in the family, he had said to her once upon a time. Oh, how apt it felt now.
"You sound like my therapist," she declared. "But, she used bigger words."
She had been so apprehensive about therapy. Weakness, this is weakness, Eli's voice had echoed in her head. Still, she went week after week. Some sessions were better than others. The therapist promise Ziva, that progress was being made.
The sea was starting to feel less choppy, maybe she could simply stretch her arms out and float, instead of trying to avoid drowning.
"I bet she did," he whispered, a soft smile over his sandy features. "It's good that you talked to her about this with her. It's good."
You're doin' good kid, Gibbs had whispered to her, when she had seen him at Leyla's Christmas party, just weeks beforehand.
"We can just play today, by ear," he murmured, rubbing her back, fingers running down the bumps of her spine. "Whatever you need."
"First, I need breakfast," Ziva declared, and both of them burst into laughter. Such sweet laughter. They should laugh more, he thought. Soon, they would laugh more.
"I think I can organise that," he said, as he started to get up.
A/N: Thanks for all the love, and reviews. I'll reply to the non-guest ones, very soon.
I don't own a thing.