The response to this story has been so lovely-almost overwhelming. I am always so surprised when I create something that finds a place in the world where it is appreciated.

Thank you all so, so much.

Disclaim: pffft.

. . . .

Tony trades his Armani and Hugo Boss suits for lightweight cotton trousers and short sleeves, Italian leather lace-ups for soft driving moccasins. He tries on sunglasses, a trilby, a fedora with a wide brim.

Ziva gives him an appreciative look in the mirror. "Dashing."

He buys it all.

The clerk smiles and rings him out. "Welcome home."

He turns to her once they're out the door. "They say that to everyone, right?"

She touches the brim of her sun hat and smiles.

Rothschild Boulevard is quiet in the afternoon. Some shops have rolled down their gates. Restaurants have closed between lunch and dinner. Tony's eyes droop.

He is still jetlagged.

Ziva loops her arm through his. "Do you need a siesta?"

He thinks about lying. They could have a coffee at one of the zillion little cafes and he could drink in her skin and the afternoon light.

Instead he sighs. "Yeah."

She tugs him home.

Home.

Her—

-their

-apartment is cool, clean. She shoos him up the stairs. "Go rest, Tony. I will do a little work while you sleep, and then we will take dinner to Schmiel."

They eat with him every evening. Rather, he watches them eat. Schmiel has no appetite, no energy. His nurse has begun measures to keep him comfortable.

But each evening he tells a story about Ziva.

Ziva was a stubborn toddler.

Ziva was an excellent student.

Ziva was a ballerina, a champion swimmer, a black belt by age thirteen.

Ziva is about to have a book published.

And, blushing, she retorts, It is an academic publication. It will certainly not make me any money.

Schmiel's face glows with pride when he talks about her. Tony grins and grins.

But there is always a story beneath the stories:

Ziva can be stubborn.

Ziva can be angry.

Ziva doubts anyone loves her.

Ziva fought and fought to survive.

And everyone was surprised when she did.

Tony stands on the bottom step for a minute, watching her move across the floor to the office, open the shades, open her laptop. He watches the curve of her back, the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sighs.

Ziva is grieving.

He goes to her. "I'm sorry."

She gives him a small, wry smile. "Me, too." She sits, puts her hands on her knees. "But I am going to continue his work. I feel it is my responsibility. And I want to." She gives him a side-eye. "You know, there is an ulpan—an intensive Hebrew language course—at the university the same night I teach Schmiel's poetry seminar. We could carpool."

"You sure you want to be seen with Training Wheels DiNozzo? What will your colleagues think?"

"They want to meet you."

She has told them about him.

His face is warm. "Oh, yeah?"

"They asked if there had been anyone…important back in the States. I said yes. That should hardly come as a surprise, Mon Petit Pois." Her smile fades, disappears. "I am sure you will meet them when they pay their shiva calls."

He places his palm between her shoulder blades. "Is there anything I can do?"

She swallows. The bones of her spine shift beneath his hand. He counts them, counts the slow breaths she takes. "Help me plan a Shabbat meal for them after the shiva week."

"Absolutely," he agrees.

She is a little religious now. A little. She says a few psalms every morning, on the terrace, when the sun is rising and he is drinking coffee and she is beautiful, beautiful. She reads the weekly Torah portion on Thursday evenings. She tucks her phone in a drawer and lights Shabbat candles.

She has no expectations that he will do the same.

But he put his phone away on Friday night before dinner and after they shared Calvo's Invisible Cities, each reading a chapter aloud until it was finished. They ate challah cold salads for lunch on Saturday and napped together that afternoon, limbs intertwined, her breath soft on his skin.

A peace fills his heart like he had never known.

Tony is suddenly so tired he could fall over.

"I gotta—" he says.

She jerks, stares. "Can you make it upstairs?"

The whole apartment spins crazily. He wobbles to the sofa and collapses.

And then the cushions dip and there is a warm hand on his arm. "Tony?"

He peels one eye open. Everything is blurry except Ziva's pale, worried, sad face.

"The nurse called," she says quietly. "Schmiel wants to see us."

He splashes cold water on his face at the kitchen sink and they are off.

She drives fast, squinting as the waning sun sets Tel Aviv's skyscrapers aflame.

Schmiel is tiny in the bed. Grey. Shriveled. But his eyes are clear and bright and he holds a hand out to them.

Ziva takes it. "I love you," she says.

He smiles, unable to speak.

She is stoic, her voice clear and calm. "It is ok, Schmiel. You can go."

His breathing slows.

Tony steps closer to the bed. His throat closes. Tears build behind his eyes. He tries to smile. "I'll keep my promises."

Schmiel winks. His mouth falls open. His breathing is slower yet. Slower.

Slower.

And then it stops.

Somewhere a clock ticks. Ziva is still holding his hand. She puts her other one over both of them.

She is trying to keep him warm.

The nurse comes in. "Baruch Dayan HaEmet," she whispers. "The Burial Society is on their way."

Ziva puts Schmiel's hand back on the bed. She pulls up a chair. "I will sit with him until they arrive." She turns to him. "May I have a moment, please?"

Tony nods. "Do you need—"

"No," she whispers.

She sings softly, in Hebrew. It is a tune he has heard only once before.

He steps out. The nurse is making notes on a chart. There is a platter of bread and cheeses on the kitchen counter. "Help yourself," she says, motioning, but he declines.

Schmiel's apartment is garden-level. There are potted tomato plants and geraniums on the terrace. He left instructions for Ziva to sell it, but keep his valuables and Holocaust reparation monies. His books will go to the university.

Maybe Tony will plant some flowers for her.

A knock; a young man in a skullcap asks: "Shmuel ben Tzipporah?"

The nurse points at the bedroom.

Ziva comes out, face tear-streaked, hair a wild mane. "Baruch Dayan HaEmet. Thank you," she says to the nurse. And to Tony: "We can go."

The air has cooled. Cars are sweeping down the boulevard. Children are running between the buildings.

"Can I help you make phone calls?" he asks once they're in the car. "I'm sure your colleagues will want to know."

Ziva puts her hand over her mouth and weeps.

Tony tries, fails, to comfort her. "I'm sorry," he keeps saying.

Maybe he will live without Gibbs' rules, too.

"Me, too," she finally says. "Everyone is teaching their night classes. I will email instead. I am sure they will come to the burial."

They will put Schmiel in the ground tomorrow.

Ziva drives south along the shore. Tony watches the last of the light bleed from the sky.

Goodnight, Schmiel.

Goodnight, my friend.

He looks at Ziva in the glow of passing streetlights. She is stony and straight-backed.

"You don't have to fake it for me," he says.

Her lip trembles, but she keeps it together. "I am relieved that he is no longer suffering. The nurse said his pain was terrible in the last few days."

And still he'd hosted them.

Tony puts his hand over hers. "He loved you. He was proud of you."

She is crying again. "I know. I loved him, too. I always will."

Schmiel gave her a home. Work.

Safety.

They check the mail before heading up to her—

-their

apartment.

There is a card addressed to Tony.

Inside: Welcome home. Love, Schmiel.

Maybe they don't say that to everyone.

He tucks the note in his back pocket.

Ziva looks up from pawing through bills and junk mail. "What's that?"

He gives her a smile. "A little welcome note."

That night he registers for the Hebrew language intensive.

The printer spits out the confirmation, a campus map, a parking pass, a list of books. Ziva picks it up and smiles at him. Her eyes are golden in the lamplight.

"Schmiel would be proud of you."

This is his life.

He kisses her.

They snack on salad and leftover chicken while standing at the kitchen counter and the phone rings. Tony answers.

Because it is their apartment.

Gibbs. "How is she?"

"You heard."

"Email came in a minute ago."

Tony swallows one last chunk of tomato. "She's relieved he's not suffering anymore."

"You doing ok?"

"Yeah."

It's late afternoon in DC. Gibbs is at work. Tony can hear the bullpen humming in the background. "You gonna come back to sell off your stuff?"

He doesn't want to. "I'll have a broker do it."

Ziva watches him and toys with her fork.

"You always got a desk here, DiNozzo. Might make you ride it for a while—"

Translation: If you hurt her I will murder you and get away with it.

"But it'll be here."

Tony sighs, smiles. "Thanks, Boss."

"Don't be a stranger."

Another promise to keep. "I won't."

"Tell Ziver I'm thinkin' of her."

"On it."

Gibbs hangs up and goes back to work. Grab your gear.

Tony returns the phone to the base and looks around.

This is his life.

"I thought he should know," Ziva says. She runs water, rinses their plates, puts them in the dishwasher.

"I'm glad you told him. Said he was thinking of you."

She wipes her hands on a towel. "You make him proud, too, Tony."

Maybe this is what Gibbs wanted for him all along.

"Yeah," he fumbled.

She brews chamomile tea, looks to the terrace. It is where they spend most evenings. "Shall we?"

He opens the door for her and the take their customary seats.

There is honey in the tea and a plate of austere vanilla cookies on a plate.

The tide is coming in. The revelers are headed out. Voices and soft music drift up from the café on the corner.

"I think I'll plant some flowers out here," he says.

"I would love that," she agrees.

"Maybe some tomatoes."

"And herbs."

The breeze cools his skin, cools his tea, which he drinks with his ankle tented on his knee. "Know any good brokers?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "For?"

"My condo."

"You do not want to keep it?"

This is his life.

"Nah."

She is quiet for a minute. "I know someone. I will call her after the burial."

Tomorrow they will put Schmiel in the ground.

"Someone is with him," Ziva says. "One of his former students, I am sure. They will say tehillim." She looks at him, eyes shining with tears, and shrugs. "We do not leave our dead alone."

He takes her hand. It is cool and slim in his. "I am worried about the living."

Her mouth pulls down, but she shakes her head. "I am…"

Don't lie to me.

She takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. "I am glad I am not doing this alone."

He has kept his promises.

She squeezes his hand so hard it hurts. Tears course down her cheeks and catch the lamplight that spills out from inside. "Thank-."

"Don't," he interrupts. There is heat in his belly and mouth. "This is where I want to be."

"I have asked a lot of you. So did Schmiel."

"I could have said no."

"Your life in DC…"

Is no life compared to this.

"It's time for a change," he says firmly. He has run his course at NCIS. In law enforcement.

In Washington.

In the States.

Tomorrow they will drive to the Mount of Olives and lay Schmiel to rest.

And Monday he will carpool with Ziva to Tel Aviv University and take his first Hebrew class.

He will wear his new hat, his new loafers, his new sunglasses.

Ziva will wear a soft cotton dress to teach her poetry seminar. She will read aloud to her class, the book held between her slim fingers, her chin raised. She will ask questions. She will field responses, grade papers, sit in Schmiel's office—her office—and grade papers.

Tony and Ziva in future tense.

Ziva gets up, collects their empty tea cups. "Come, Tony."

He follows her in, up the stairs, to the desk in the tiny room. Inside the bottom drawer are books. A stack. All of them new, the spines unbroken.

Hebrew for Beginners.

The First Hebrew Primer.

Introductory Course in Modern Hebrew.

A chart of the Hebrew alphabet.

A chart of verb forms, root words, vowels.

She gives him a pencil, a notepad, and a shy look. "Shall we start now?"

He has never been so excited to learn anything.

The stretch out on the floor, on their bellies. Ziva starts my naming all the Hebrew letters. She shows him how to write each one, has him practice.

Aleph-aleph-aleph-aleph.

Bet-bet-bet-bet.

Vet-vet-vet-vet.

She teaches him the first vowels: patach, kamatz. Vowels are called nikudot.

She has him combine letters and vowels and say them aloud.

She makes flashcards.

She teaches him a song, sweet and jazzy, as though for children.

Aleph-bet-vet /gimel-daled-hay.

Tony's head grows heavy. Ziva lays hers on his shoulder. "Your instructor is weary."

It is nearly two in the morning.

A limousine is scheduled to pick them up before seven.

They undress and scramble into bed.

"Why do you have all those books?" he asks. Her head is on his shoulder again, her legs tangled with his. He can still hear the sea.

She is quiet, her breath quick on his skin. Crying.

"I was in the campus bookstore one morning and…it was like I could not help myself, Tony, but…so I hid them in the desk. It felt like a secret—that hope that you would come."

"And here I'd tried to drag you on that plane with me."

"I would have called after the burial. Schmiel would have wanted it. I would have wanted it."

Do not let her do this alone.

He draws her closer yet. "I was afraid it was you. In the hospital, I mean. I was—"

"Sorry I was not clear."

"My greatest fear, Zee-vah—"

He has stopped time for her. Circled the globe. Twice.

He would do it a hundred times if he had to.

She sighs, shudders. "Mine, too."

He cries, too. His tears fall on her hair. His fingers trace a single thin scar on her back.

From now they will bear it all together.

Tony eventually drifts off to sleep and wakes to the door buzzer. The limo is there. Ziva snorts. "We overslept!"

He jumps into his suit. She slides into a modest black dress. They race out to the waiting Towncar and are off, taking the 443 freeway South-Southeast.

Tony watches the scenery roll by.

Israel is beautiful.

Jerusalem is as old as Tel Aviv is new. Tired sandstone buildings, potholed streets, cobblestone. The corner of the Mount of Olives cemetery where Schmiel is to be buried is on a squat hillside surrounded by commercial properties. Traffic. Delivery trucks.

The coffin is a plain pine box draped with an Israeli flag and a prayer shawl. It is lowered into the only open stone tomb. A crowd has gathered. They are mostly young—students and former-students, colleagues, his only niece. Tony may have known her name.

A group of men gather at the foot of the grave, face the east, and chant in a monotone:

Yitgadal v'yitgadash sh'mei rabbah.

The prayer for the dead. The final sanctification of Schmiel's life.

Ziva clutches his arm, her fingers digging into the soft flesh above and below his elbow. He puts his hand over hers.

At lo levad.

She gives him a squeeze: I know.

The men finish: V'al kol Yisrael, v'imru amein.

The crowd files down the narrow footpath to the street.

The limo driver has waited.

Tony and Ziva return to Tel Aviv before noon.

Ziva stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, her shoes in her hand, eyes wandering. "That is it."

Schmiel has died and been buried.

"Yeah," Tony says quietly. He is a little afraid she will break.

She looks at him. Her dark eyes are calm. "This is how he wanted it."

Do not let her do this alone.

"Yeah," he says again.

Her eyes sweep the room again. "I will change," she announces. "And then I will start the syllabus for the poetry seminar." She blinks. "Would you like to have burgers or chicken for dinner?"

This is his life.

And it is marching forward.

"Guess I should do some studying," he says. He is too hot in his suit. He needs those chinos and t-shirt. "And uh…should we buy a grill for the terrace? A burger isn't a burger unless it's grilled."

She stops on the stairs and side-eyes him. "Can I trust you not to burn the building down?"

"I only set Gibbs' siding on fire that one time."

She turns around in front of him—a silent request to unzip. "Three units were called out."

"I put it out with the garden hose!"

"After it took you five minutes to figure out how to turn it on."

"The water was shut off from inside!"

Tony thinks of the team and a strange sadness bubbles up inside him.

He owes them a proper goodbye.

Ziva emerges from the walk-in wearing a loose cotton sundress. "We can always visit," she says. She always sees through him. "They will always be our friends."

Our family.

He throws on his new pants and shirt, picks up his books.

He can call. He can email. McGee and Abby can Skype.

He goes downstairs. Ziva is making lunch—salad, as usual, and some cheesy-bread-thing.

Tony's stomach growls.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. "It is almost ready."

They eat on the terrace, books, laptop between them. Ziva hums under her breath, paging through a folder. The blue folder, he realizes. The one Schmiel had on the airplane.

"He left everything to me," she says. "I told him not to."

"His only granddaughter."

"He has a niece," she argues between bites.

The cheesy thing is to die for. Tony has seconds. "But only one Ziva."

Side-eye: "And what makes me so special?"

He takes a big bite, chews, swallows. "You expect me to list everything?"

She burst into giggles.

Honest-to-God giggles.

This is his life.

"Potential," he says. "You have…you are potential."

She is the desert. She is the sea.

She is his heart. His life.

Tony clears the table. Ziva takes out her books and laptop. He gets out his books and notes.

They smile at each other across the table.

He takes her hand. "At lo levad," he tells her, careful to let the L dance across his palate. Pronunciation practice starts now.

She giggles again, eyes bright, hair wild in the sea breeze. "Ani yodei'a," she replies.

I know.

Fin.