A/N: This still follows the same timeline as the last chapter, obviously, but it takes place immediately after the 6x02 episode Agent Afloat. Just thought I'd leave that little nugget of information here, though I suppose it's not do-or-die. Enjoy.

Ziva swirled the last remaining remnants of her drink around in her glass, subconsciously hoping to hear the clink of the ice hitting the sides. She was on her third mojito of the night, but that was hardly cause for concern.

She frowned slightly upon gazing into the contents of her glass, not really taking in what she was seeing. The condensation on the edges felt cold on the inside of her hand, which was loosely gripping the glass. The cooling sensation spread briefly throughout the rest of her arm, but it didn't do much to quell the mild overheating of her whole body. As much as she liked this particular bar – the old team favorite – it was always hot.

(And she'd had enough of the heat, over there.)

She shrugged to herself, figuring it was probably a trick to get people to buy more drinks. She didn't particularly know. Nor care. Right now she was absentmindedly yet determinedly staring down the ice cubes still moving around in the bottom of her glass.

The person across from her, however, did not seem to be interested in the lack of air conditioning, or the ice in his drink. But he was long past his third cocktail – not that they were competing – and at the current moment he seemed a little lost in his thoughts.

She didn't mind. She didn't want to talk all that much. Though it was nice, being casual like this. Four months was a long time.

He finished his rather long sip and placed his glass back on the table with the steadily growing collection of empties. The movement brought her attention to his face.

His expression was strangely broody, a uniquely piercing look of his that she had almost forgotten. She half-frowned, not knowing what he was thinking.

(Rare, but she'd been out of practice longer than she cared to admit.)

After a few more preoccupied seconds, Tony pushed his glass away from himself and flashed a small smile.

"I almost went crazy on that stupid ship. It was borderline insanity. Trust me, I think you got the better end of the deal," he assured, reaching for the glass he had pushed away all of about three seconds ago.

She did not want to fight him on that, and she was no stranger to isolation, so she simply nodded. She hadn't been expecting him to veer towards reopening old wounds so early in the night. Ideally she wanted something to talk about that would steer them away from any mutually painful topic, but she found she had nothing of value to say. Maybe it was the heat, or the sedative effect of the alcohol.

Probably both. Whatever.

She tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue, if he wanted. Maybe she was reading too much into this.

But, surprisingly (he had been telling them stories all night), he did not continue his rant about his days as an agent afloat. Instead Tony shifted his position so that his elbow was now bent and resting on the table, with his head resting in his upturned palm.

He stared at her with that playful, I'm about to bother you look, the one that signified a mood most people would rather not deal with. She doubted whether he used it much while cooped up on a ship full of uptight sailors.

He did, however, allow her the courtesy of letting her take a sip of her drink before speaking.

"So my little ninja," he started, eyeing her still. "What's new in the homeland?"

She smiled a bit at his strange endearment, silent musings interrupted as the words of his question actually clicked in her brain.

Israel.

She had only recently returned to Washington, so it was natural that he would ask. She considered telling him about the only thing worth talking about, but thought better of it. Leaving, getting used to a different life, then being thrown back was not a seamless transition. It was not so easy to lower her personal defenses.

She straightened her neck again and looked away for the shortest of seconds before looking him in the eye.

"Nothing of interest," she said slowly, trying to sound casual yet certain. It was a fairly flimsy attempt at hiding something, and he noticed right away. Even after the sixth (ish?) overpriced highball.

"I may have been floating around the ocean for months, but I know that look. And that look…tells me that you are lying."

"Am I?" she replied quickly, eyebrows rising in challenge.

He ignored her attempt at misdirection, getting the unmistakable feeling – to her distaste – that he was onto something.

"So what is it this time? Did Mossad's greatest weapon crash her car? Break a leg? Break a nail?"

"You can guess all night, if you like."

"I would like, yes. It must be important if you're baiting me like that."

She rolled her eyes, hand still wrapped around her glass.

"Have the icicles in your heart finally melted away? Or – maybe you fell out of love. That would make a good sequel for McGoo's book. Do not repeat that," he warned suddenly, feigning fear of his favorite Probie's reaction.

"If I did either of those things, which I did not, it would be none of your business," she replied, her delivery slightly fiercer than intended.

"Of course not," he said, studying her, eyes narrowed slightly but lacking any hostility.

She took another sip of from her drink, which was getting closer to the bottom of the glass as time passed. When she came up with no reply, he continued, humor fading.

"Is it that personal, then?"

"Yes."

"Your father?"

Her jaw clenched, measured glance meeting his.

"Why so curious, Tony?"

"You didn't answer the question."

"No," she agreed, releasing some of her tension in a deep breath.

"It is dear old dad, isn't it? Go on. Tell me all your fascinating family secrets."

"I have nothing to share."

(She never liked the word secrets.)

He wasn't fooled. He had known her too long, too well, even if they had been away for a while.

"Come on. What's got you so tied up in knots? What did he do?"

Ziva was quiet for a moment, simply absorbing the atmosphere around them. She knew no one was listening, or would even want to, but she would be fighting her instincts if she told him. But had they not both dealt with enough deception in their lives? Were they not meant to trust each other with these things?

(Is this not what she wanted? To be here, with them, with him?)

"He lied."

Her words were soft, neutral. Waiting.

Tony's mind flashed to a previous and equally serious exchange that they'd had about lying not too long ago, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"About?"

She considered this for a moment, wondering just how she could convey this to him.

"Do you remember one of the first conversations we had?"

"Uh, yeah, the phone sex thing," he replied, grinning stupidly at the memory.

She snorted, having completely forgotten. Of course he would remember that.

"Not that. Later, at the hotel."

"Oh. Right. When I followed you to that pool. You took my piece of pizza, which you still owe me for."

His jokes and halfhearted manner were so unlike anything at the straight-laced Mossad, that she almost snapped at him out of habit. Almost forgot who she was talking to.

"Do you remember what I told you? Or is food all you think about?"

"You mentioned your sister," he replied, dropping some of his light demeanor.

"Yes."

"O…kay, so what does this have to do with your father?"

"He lied to me."

"About what, Tali?"

"She is not dead. She never was."

Tony fought the urge to point out that she didn't need to say that, since by saying that someone is not dead implies that they never were. And then it hit him.

Her sister wasn't dead? Shouldn't that be great news? The expression on her face didn't resemble anything close to happiness. Why was she staring at her glass as if it, too, had just died?

"And your father pretended to kill one of his daughters in a fake explosion…why?"

"It wasn't fake. Just good timing."

"Timing for what?"

"My father needed to hide her. He led everyone to believe she was dead, including me."

Ziva fell silent for a moment, not really looking at her partner.

"Hmm," Tony started, contemplating the suddenness and cruelty of that while fiddling with lemon peel on his drink. "I think I'm missing something here."

"It is not easy to explain, Tony," she replied with the same hint of irritation in her voice he had grown used to hearing before his days at sea.

"I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"As a high ranking official in Mossad, my father had many enemies. One got personal and threatened to harm his family if he did not cooperate. He staged her death to stop them from going after her."

"But wouldn't they just come after you, or Haswari? That plan seems a little…half-assed," he remarked, confused.

It was strange, foreign, to hear Ari's name come out of his mouth, and it almost stopped her.

"I guess he was not that worried."

"No wonder your brother hated him," he muttered under his breath, staring intensely at the table without realizing it. She didn't rise to that, apparently unbothered.

"She was always the favorite," she explained, brushing him off with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"How did you find this out?" asked Tony, swallowing down some of his drink and turning his seriousness back to her.

"It was obvious. She was never scolded for anything," she replied, a reminiscent, half-indignant smile involuntarily appearing on her face. Obviously unaware that she had misinterpreted his question.

He laughed lightly. It wasn't often that they discussed her childhood, and he considered pressing further, but now that he was started on this one thing…

"I meant about Tali. How did you find out she was still alive?"

The smile disappeared.

"He told me."

"He just…randomly dropped that bomb on you?"

(Choice of words purely coincidental, of course.)

"Yes."

That was fishy, yes. Almost as fishy as her apparent understanding of that particular phrase (she was scary that way), despite her continual struggle with idioms.

Tony found it hard to believe that her father would just randomly reveal to his only child that, in fact, she wasn't really an only child anymore and that he had been lying for eight years. From what he'd picked up about the guy, he didn't seem like the type of man to forego an ulterior motive.

But this was now his seventh (ish?) drink, so he let that one slide.

"So, why the long face? It must have been unreal to see her again."

She shook her head, frowning.

"I was not allowed to see or communicate with her."

He was tempted to spit take for theatrics, but – again – not really the best time to annoy her.

"Seriously? Not even once? Why not?"

Ziva shifted in her seat a little, trying to keep her uneasiness at bay.

"Even after all these years, she is safer away from my family. My father does not want to take any chances. And aside from that, her whereabouts are classified. I am not sure where she is."

"Classified? What, is she Mossad?"

If only. (Or maybe not.)

"CIA. We are not supposed to know, but she found a way to communicate it to my father. As of two years ago, she was living in Egypt."

CIA? Talk about a family business. It was hard to process, even for him. And he'd never met her.

"So you may never see her?"

She frowned, sadness lingering where she did not want it.

"Never is a long time," she replied sagely, pushing the thought out of her mind.

A silence fell, both partners reaching for the certainty of their drinks.

(Not as much as I used to, he had said, but she had trouble believing it now.)

"So what are you gonna do?" he queried, turning his gaze back to her.

"What would you have me do?"

Tony shrugged, swishing around the liquid in his glass.

"Well – nothing dangerous – but, how would you know if she…" he trailed off, struggling to formulate the less than desirable thought emerging from the back of his mind.

"I have a contact. Her colleague, and an old friend. I check in periodically to make sure she is alive."

"There's the super spy answer I've been waiting for," he smirked, proud that he earned at least a small chuckle from that. "I'll tell you what. This next one's on me."

"You do not need t—"

But he interrupted, holding up a hand to stop her midsentence.

"Say no more, Ziva. I'm senior field agent again and this decision is final."

It was hard to argue with him there, with that weird glint in his eyes. And she did appreciate the way he was acting, truly. He hadn't pestered her – mostly – with incessant questions, and he didn't offer false assurances, or any other worthless comfort.

What was one more drink between partners?

As he got up from the table to get them both another round, she let him go without comment. He'd be back.

Four months was a long time.

Thanks for reading, drop me a line, then be on your way! (I may end up saying this at the end every time, just to be annoying. I'm likeable like that.)