A/N: Well, one hundred thousand thank yous to everyone who has reviewed (not just What Is Missing, but everything) You are all wonderful and beautiful and superly appreciated. I have been trying (being the keyword here) to figure out how to reply to reviews and I think I've nearly mastered it, but if you review and do not receive a response, well, clearly the kinks are still being worked out. . . . Anyway, I have exams next week and this sucks majorly. However, this means I get out of school before noon so I should have to time to write! (AND study :^)) So, without further ado (which is such a cool word) . . . .
DISCLAIMER: I own a cat, a toothbrush, and this laptop. That is all.
Also, I do not speak Hebrew. At all. I used Google and I hope it is right -feel free to correct any glaring errors. I sincerly hope this isn't totally OOC.
What Is Missing
"Mr. DiNozzo, your order is ready."
The sound of two chairs scrapping back softly echoed out of the far corner. "I got it, Ziva," Tony said, flashing a quick grin, before disappearing to retrieve their coffees. Ziva sighed, sinking back into her chair, gazing indifferently out the window in front of her. It was a grey January in D.C., the snow taking a short hiatus, though the ice remaining firmly frozen where it had been since November. She tapped her fingers absently against the tabletop.
"Excuse me?" an uncertain voice sounded from behind her. She turned around, meeting the imploring gaze of a woman close to her own age, the stranger's lips turned up in a warm yet cautious smile.
Ziva cocked her head slightly to the left, acknowledging her with a, "Yes?"
"Ziva David?"
Ziva blinked, regarding stranger with the scrutiny of a highly trained federal agent. She was a few inches taller than Ziva herself, bright chocolate eyes set in a round olive toned face framed by a silky black bob. She was dressed plainly, a brown woolen coat and jeans, a bright red scarf draped casually over her shoulders –no concealed weapons Ziva surmised. She scanned through her mental catalog of faces, delving far back in time in an attempt to place the face. And then recognition dawned and she found herself asking in disbelief, "Sonel?"
The other woman radiated joy and Ziva found herself standing, wrapped tightly in a hug, returning it just as fiercely, the sudden tears stinging her eyes surprising her. "Mah shlom'chen?" Sonel whispered, her own voice watery. Ziva smiled, "I am good, I am good. Oh, Sonel, it is so good to see you!"
Sonel loosened her grip, holding Ziva back at arms' length, inspecting her critically. "You are too thin, Ziva David," she scolded teasingly.
Ziva kept her composure, her smile still genuinely in place, explaining vaguely, "I was ill a while ago . . . . Never mind me, how are you? How are Mikel and Simcha? What are you doing here?"
Sonel laughed, the sound triggering the memories of years past, and Ziva found herself lost in nostalgia momentarily. "I am wonderful. Mikel is loving his new job and Simcha is adjusting to a new school –he is nine now, can you believe it?"
"Not nine! That is too old! What happened to the sweet little baby?"
"I have been asking myself the same question!"
Realizing that they were still standing, Ziva motioned to the vacant chair across from her and she and Sonel sat down quickly, unwilling to waste precious time together.
Sonel leaned forward, conspiratorial, "Where have you been? Last I heard from you was ten years ago?"
Ziva bit her lip, but ultimately decided to forgo elusion and divulge as much as she felt she was allowed –which, coincidently, was very little. "I transferred from the IDF over to Mossad and, well, you know how that goes." In truth, she was aware Sonel knew little in regards to both agencies, however Sorel's uncle had been Mossad, so the general idea was there. "And now I am here."
Sonel grinned, shaking her head, "You were always the fighter, Ziva. Are you working now?"
"No –yes, but no. I am on duty, but I am no longer an officer. . . ." she was regretting sharing the Mossad aspect that had been her life for a decade. But Sonel was still attuned to her friend, taking Ziva's discomfort as a cue to not question her past occupation further. "I am a NCIS agent now," Ziva concluded, enforcing this fact with a nod.
"N-C-I-S?"
"Naval Criminal Investigative Service. . . . Now: What about you? What have I missed?"
Sonel grinned mischievously, letting Ziva squirm under the curiosity of withheld information for a few beats, continuing her story, "Before we moved to San Francisco, I had another son, Abraham. He's five now. And then Shira is twenty-one months-"
"Oh, Sonel! Three? Three children? And a little girl, you got your little girl –You better have pictures!" Ziva exclaimed after a delighted gasp. Sonel was laughing now, digging in her purse, withdrawing her wallet, one of the designer pieces Jenny had once been fond of. Flipping open the leather fold and sliding out several small pictures which she passed over reverently. Ziva eagerly gazed down at the photos fanned out poker style in her hands.
The dark-haired little boy was crouching on one knee, holding a black and white soccer ball against his side. The grass beneath him was green and his jersey was an azure blue and his smile was white and radiant. The last time she had laid eyes on the child was when she held him, a three week old infant, in her arms under the intense glare of an Israeli sun. Simcha had grown to be a lovely young man, a perfect blend of his mother and father. . . .
The next photograph was of another boy, barely out of his toddling years, a giddy smile plastered across his face. The sun glinted of the edge of the camera lens, making a bright starburst in the corner. However, the shiny childlike awe was clearly surrounding Abraham as he held the small, silver fish out proudly, the moment preserved forever.
The last picture was of a chubby baby girl, ebony curls piled high on her head, secured neatly with a red ribbon. She was clutching a white stuffed dog, leaning up against a pillow, a pale yellow blanket wrapped around her little body. Her dark eyes were happy and her mouth was a perfect 'o' in the fit of giggles the photographer had caught her in. She was the spinning image of Sonel.
"Oh, Sonel, they are beautiful!"
"Who are beautiful, Zee-vah?" Tony asked curiously, returning with a tray of coffees. Ziva turned to look at her companion, almost having forgotten he was there with her, and rose from her seat, Sonel mirroring her action, as she gestured to the woman that had materialized while Tony had been away.
"Tony, this is Sonel Yosef, an old friend from Tel Aviv. Sonel, this is Tony DiNozzo, my partner at NCIS." Tony extended his hand, flashing Sonel his patent grin, which Sonel reciprocated.
"Neim me'od," he said intelligibly, his pronunciation flawless, eliciting appreciatively raised eyebrows from Sonel and a reproachful "behave" from Ziva. Tony's grin broadened as he said, "I'll leave you ladies to catch up –I have them making Gibbs' another coffee because they put cream in it and you know how Gibbs is about his coffee."
Sonel, though, happened to glance down at her watch, her face slipping slightly into an almost pout. "Ziva, I have to go run my carpool. . . .Listen," she said, rummaging again in her bag, procuring a pen and edge of scrap paper, "here is my number. You call that, okay? And then you come to my house and I make you dinner. You can see Mikel and Simcha, and meet Abraham and Shira?"
Ziva smiled, nodding in agreement. "I would like that. I would like that a lot."
"So, how long had it been?"
Ziva blew the steam curling off her latte, cooling the hot liquid and taking a tentative sip. "How long since what?"
Tony fixed her with a look of disbelief before sighing exasperatedly, "Since you'd seen Sonel!"
"Oh! . . . Ten years, I think. . . . She was my best friend when my family lived in Ramat Aviv. We would play dolls in her family's garden –only Sonel could coax me into Barbies," and suddenly Ziva was speaking without censor, sharing a piece of her mysterious past with an extremely surprised Tony. "Sonel was never rough, never loud. We were night and light, the tomboy and the princess. She wanted a big family, a husband and children and white picket fence, yes?"
Tony nodded and she continued, "I am glad she got that chance. You know, to marry the love of her life and be happy. . . . She deserved it so much." But there was something in her voice, not envy, more of an admiration, and a longing that lurked beneath that.
"Zee," he said, peering at her over the edge of his cup, "you deserve that too, you know." He'll never understand what made him say those words, only that at that moment it seemed so very dire for her to comprehend that. For her to realize that she had that potential too.
But Ziva was shaking her head, a sad smile toying at her lips. "I am afraid I can never have that, Tony."
"Hey now," he admonished lightly, silently horrified at her mind set.
"I have come to terms with it." As if that justified anything. He had quickly drawn several parallels between the two long lost friends: Sonel had a house, a husband that loved her with happy, laughing children that were her very own. She had place in a world that was simple and filled with life. . . . And Ziva had what? An empty apartment and scars from men that had lied to her and abused her and filled her ears with false promises then left her die, all alone. Her life was marked by trials and misfortunes, she saw death everyday . . . . She was a sojourner, a nomad, alienated and exiled, homeless and without a family. . . . But that wasn't entirely true, he amended, nearly slapping himself for his stupidity. Ziva did have a home –her home was here, with him and their team. NCIS was her family, he was her family. And she was his. And yes, they had moments when things went misunderstood and people got mad as feelings got hurt, but they always rose above whatever came between them. Ziva David had been a foreigner, an outcast and now she was wanted and loved, appreciated and safe. She could have whatever she wanted, nothing was out of reach for this strong, determined woman.
All that she needed now was to comprehend.
And at that very moment, Tony resolved to do just that. "Hey, Ziva?"
She looked over to him, lowering her latte. "Yes?"
"Ani ohevet otcha."
Mah shlom'chen
Neim Me'od : It's a pleasure to meet you.
Ani ohevet otcha. : I love you.