Author's Note: The title belongs to Pearl Jam, though this is not a songfic, as those are not my thing. All standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 1: Evasion.

Her eyes open, and she is instantly aware. It's always been that way for her, these seamless transitions into reality...as if she had never been asleep at all, as if she had never been dreaming. This morning's reality consists of her partner's bed, of sheets more expensive than she would've expected, of her partner's arm thrown possessively over her bare hip.

This morning's reality consists of a mistake, and the self-loathing that has been her constant companion for far too many years gathers one more piece of evidence. Now, she must make a decision. This morning's reality paralyzes her, because she has never been one to choose correctly. The glowing red numbers on the night stand flip over, and she knows that she is running out of time, that if she waits too long, the choice will cease to be hers alone.

It is tempting- the idea that she could simply close her eyes and pretend she did not wake up first. And while she is pretending, she can go ahead and believe that the possessiveness of her partner's arm has less to do with the instinctive response of a sleeping man to a naked woman in his bed, and more to do with her specifically. She can pretend that it means that he wants her to stay, that choosing correctly, in this case, means choosing not to move. She can snuggle back into him, and if he wants her to leave, let him be the one to say so.

But Ziva David will not do any of that. She has learned to shoot first, to never let anyone outdraw her, and this morning will be no exception. Besides, she promised herself that she would stop wearing pink-colored glasses when it comes to the men in her life, as it always seems to end in bloodshed. She risks a glance over her shoulder at her peacefully sleeping partner, and she allows that the odds of this one resulting in death are slim...but that there will be loss all the same.

The self-loathing hits her again with a blow that steals her breath, because she truly cannot afford another loss, and because she truly does not know how to minimize this one. To go, or to stay? The key to the correct answer lies in the feelings of the sleeping man beside her, but she did not bother to ask about those last night, and she fears the answer, even after all this time. Especially after all this time.

Better to go, than to be asked to leave by one of the only people she holds dear. She draws her breath and rolls out of the grip he has on her hip. He does not move, and she snatches on her clothes. Three minutes. She is out the door three minutes before his alarm goes off.

oOo

He feels her go. Through the fog that always accompanies his transition into wakefulness, he realizes that she is going to walk away. Because he is not fully awake, not fully himself, he is tempted to tighten his hold on her hip, to press his fingers into the hollow beneath the bone, to keep her beside him. With his eyes still closed, he almost says exactly what he wants to say. Stay.

Enough reality seeps in to his jumbled mind to force him to keep his grip loose and his mouth shut. He can smell the uncharacteristically girly herbal shampoo she uses lingering on the pillow beside him as she quietly gathers her clothes. He has seen this film before, and he almost laughs, because in another life, this would've been a dream come true- the woman doing the leaving, not needing a goodbye.

He gets that this is karma, inevitable and no less than he deserves, but he's still a little bit asleep, so he indulges in the illusion that maybe she's not leaving him here with nothing but the smell of her shampoo. She slips out of his bedroom, but maybe she's going to make breakfast, or get coffee. Maybe they aren't the them they've always been. Maybe they've grown, finally. Maybe they'll talk about this like two people who aren't all wrong for each other. Maybe this is a different kind of movie.

He would like that. He's tired of the ones he's already seen.

His partner is quiet, but Tony is attuned to her, and he hears her as she closes the front door on her way out. And now he's more awake than asleep, so he knows she won't be returning with coffee and a danish. He knows she won't be returning.

He wonders what he, what they, were thinking, and he hates that they've devolved into such a tired cliche. He hates that literally everyone could've seen this coming. He hates himself. He hates her, or at least he wishes that he did.

He is too old for this. Another cliche, and he hates that too.

He stretches, eyes tightly shut, refusing to give in to the impending morning. Ziva made her choice. Or...

He is a detective, after all, trained to view a situation from all possible angles...and it is still possible that they have grown...it is possible that there are, in fact, other angles. Yes, he could say Ziva made her choice. But he could also say Ziva made her move. Which would mean that he had yet to make his.

The shrill of the alarm echoes through his room, and he finally opens his eyes.

TBC