Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING OF NCIS, OBVIOUSLY.

Based on the prompt: "Hey, I'm with you, okay? Always." For Jae, by request

The van was rolling to a stop when the front passenger side tire bumped the curb, jostling her head from his shoulder and bringing her mind clearly to alertness. She couldn't remember falling asleep, but the makeshift hospital was at least a half hour ride from CATAM. The flight from Norfolk to Bogota included a stop to unload cargo at Lackland, and what was once a common mode of transportation for the former Kidon-operative is now serving to highlight the twinge in her lower spine and heavy exhaustion pushing on her shoulders. This is the last place she had envisioned spending her 35th birthday. But when an urgent call comes through MTAC from a covert MI-5 operative requesting her immediate presence, there is simply no option.

"You ready?" His voice is rough from travel and lack of sleep, but it sounds of home and safety and is exactly what she needs to steel her resolve.

With a deep breath in, she nods once. Turning to reach for the door handle, she feels him slide across the seat toward her. They hadn't talked about this – whether he would accompany her inside or wait in the van. But his jaw is fixed in that whatever argument you think you're going to make right now, just shut it down way he has and her brow furrows in resignation. She throws the door open with a lurch and is immediately assaulted by the wet, Colombian heat.

"Agent David, if you please?" the hospital's director, a foreign aid worker with a heavy French accent ushers her toward the door. Following the woman, she stops just shy of the threshold, the acrid smell of disease and dying assaulting her senses.

"Hey, I'm with you, okay?" His breath is close to her ear, as he whispers softly, just for her. "Always."

They're lead through a large room littered with cots and patients in various states of sickness. As advised, both raise their masks, avert their eyes, and stay focused on the closed door that's come in to view. A large "X" is painted across the center, black tagged for the dead.

She turns to him then, a hand pressed to his chest as a silent conversation passes.

I must go alone.

No, let me stay with you.

I need you to wait here.

Please, Ziva.

Allow me this, Tony. I owe her this.

"Ok." He rubs a hand across her upper arm, squeezing her bicep.

She's shown to a table near the farthest wall, stepping past a line of fabric wrapped bodies awaiting burial. When the director pulls back the sheet, her eyes divert quickly. Stilling herself, she turns her gaze back to the face of her friend, ashen and hardly recognizable.

"Monique Lisson," she chokes, clearing her throat before finishing. "She was on a humanitarian mission with a UN peacekeeping task force. She is a British citizen, and Agent DiNozzo and I are here on assignment to see to the safe return of her body. We will arrange transport to CATAM within the hour."

When the call had come through MTAC the day prior, asking for confirmation of death and posthumous extraction, Ziva had not allowed herself even a moment of grief. Despite the insistence of her logical mind, she had allowed hope to take hold of her heart that maybe - just maybe - the intel was wrong.

"We have confirmation," was her only reply as she exited the room. He nodded once, continuing to play his role. There was danger of an international incident if anyone were to gain wind of an interagency mission so deep cover not even Gibbs was granted access to the nature of the target or targets. Tony and Ziva had flown in blind, knowing their plan was for recovery alive or dead.

The ride back to the base was silent. Tony conversed with the Corporal assigned to their team to transport the body from the hospital, and they were wheels up and headed for Cranwell not two hours later.

As she stared at the casket, a deep sadness gripped her. Several years had passed since their last meeting, and she had to blink away hard the image of a matching wooden box. One meant for her.

Turning to her right as best she could while strapped in the freighter's harness, she buried her face against his neck. Crying softly, she allowed herself to grieve for her beautiful friend and to offer her guilt for choosing life.