The dive bar was quiet for a Thursday. A group of college kids were hogging the pool table, and a group of beat cops were in a booth talking about their day, in a way they never could with their loved ones. The younger members of Team Gibbs' had come out for drink to celebrate a successful end to the case. Kid's had been saved from a hostage situation with a bomb. Tony had not had to order the kill shot on a fifteen year old. Ziva had made a movie reference. There was a lot to celebrate.

Abby had initiated the drinks, but had left first, running off to a concert for a band, which sounded like a Halloween movie. McGee had followed soon after, claiming to have a date, which neither Ziva or Tony believed. The two of them had shot each other identical looks as McGee left.

"You don't have to stay," Tony said, as he finished his beer, with a gulp. "The night is young Officer David. Half the bar wants to buy you a drink."

She scanned the patrons of the bar. The college kids were probably close to her in age, but not in maturity. The cops in the corner were keeping to themselves. The type of men she wanted to buy her a drink, were not in this bar.

"And leave you to drink alone," she whispered. "That's now how it works in your movies."

"Look at you becoming quite the movie buff," he joked. "I seem to be rubbing off on you."

"I am not sure you rubbing on me is a good idea," she declared, as she leaned in close. "Gibbs has rules against that."

"Rubbing off," he repeated. "It means that I am influencing you."

"And that is a good thing?" she said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"Where did you even see Speed?" he asked, switching gears. "It came out in '94, you'd have been like thirteen."

She would have been eleven going on twelve but thought it best not to correct him.

"They do have movie theaters in Israel," she told him. "I think I saw it at somebody's house, maybe. It was a long time ago."

"Speed is a slumber party film in Israel?" he asked. "I suppose you could watch it while braiding each others hair, and talking about a boys."

She raised her eyebrows. She reached behind her head, and untangled her curls from the braid, teasing them with her fingers. They fell down onto her shoulders.

"At those sleepovers, we do more than braid each others hair," she whispered, leaning in closer. He rather liked, how unafraid she was to make innuendos. How she almost always got the expression right when it was something sexual.

"Sure," he whispered. He closed his eyes. "Don't say anything else, I'm gonna let my imagination run wild."

She laughed.

"Another?" she asked, as she lined up the empty beer bottles. Were they on round three or four?

"Okay," he uttered, definitely not ready to call it a night.

Ziva jumped down from the seat. When Abby and McGee had ditched their little party, they had moved from a booth, to high table with equally high stools, which were just ridiculous in a bar. He heard Ziva order the drinks, and listened as the young bartender tried to guess her accent. Her necklace, the usual dead giveaway was hidden under her blouse. The bartender started listening South American countries, as Ziva smiled back, before moving crossing the ocean to European lands. In the end Ziva had revealed herself to be Israeli, before turning around and returning to Tony.

"We sure are knocking these back," Tony uttered, as he took the beer in his hot little hands.

"I am Israeli," Ziva declared, as she situated herself in front of the table, leaning a combat boot on the bar of his stool. "We know how to drink."

She held up her drink, and the two of them clinked beers, muttering cheers in Hebrew and English. Their knees touched.

"Really," he said, as he swilled the beer. "Because most countries claim binge drinking as national sport."

"I know a man who is eighty-two and could drink us both over the table," she told him taking a swill. She held her hand to her her shoulder. "He is only this tall."

"Under the table," he corrected. She scowled at him, with a frown etching into her face. "So that's all it takes."

"All what takes?" she asked, looking at him.

"A couple of drinks, and you'll actually talk about yourself," he told her.

"You have lost me," she muttered.

"You have worked with us for what a year," he said, "And all we really know about you is that you like to cook, and read."

And not to talk about her father, but that was given for almost all of the team.

"It's been eight months," she corrected. "I can assure you my personal life is much more exciting than you make it seem."

"Well you are twenty-three," he muttered. "And you have an exotic accent, if you were by yourself in this bar, you definitely wouldn't be paying for drinks."

"If you are going to lament on my age again, I think I will go," she declared. "I still remember your meltdown on my birthday."

He had paced the squad room holding her driver's license, muttering under his breath, that it had to all be a trick. McGee had brought up her personnel file, without much hacking, and shown her date of birth again. He had sat at his desk, with his head in his hands. How could she only be twenty-three?

"So tell me about your eighty-two year old drinking buddy," he asked, changing tides on the conversation, "Some old Mossad officer who lost an eye in the war of independence."

Ziva laughed, knocking her head back, and her curls bounced. If only he knew, her Schmiel.

"He was a friend of my mother's," Ziva said with a smile. "Every time he has been called up, he has ended up in a non-combat role. He is clumsy with a gun, and quite the peacenik."

"Was," he echoed.

"Yes," Ziva told him, their eyes met. "He and my mother were quite good friends."

The hint of a smile crossed her face, as she thought of Schmeil and her mother. The two of them in his book lined sitting room; debating books, and drinking wine like it was water.

"So you're a member of the dead mothers club too," he asked, as the words echoed in his head.

"Yes," she said with a sigh. "For a while now."

"Sorry," he said with a gulp.

"You and I both know, that saying that does not make any difference," she declared.

"No," he said. "But it's one of those situations where you don't know what to say."

"It is what it is," she replied. "Nothing will change that."

"That kid today," he said. "He got what I always wanted. You know I would have given up so much to have my mom come back. I used to have these dreams where she came and picked me up from boarding school. Where her death had been some sort of elaborate scheme, like in the movies."

"Like the case today," she said softly.

"Did you think like that too?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "But I was older than you were. Tali was still very young, she would list all the things she would give up if it meant our mother would come back."

The list written on pink princess paper. Tali David would give up junk food, all of her toys, and her growing music collection, if her mother would just come home. Ziva had to be the one to explain that nothing would bring their mother home. Ziva had been the one to listen to the sobs, from little Tali's body, because her father was working.

"So, your mother died before," he paused her mouth dry. "Before you lost your sister."

"Yes," Ziva muttered. "It sounds morbid but I am almost glad she died before we lost Tali. Losing Tali would have destroyed her. She would have never recovered."

Ziva took a long sip of the beer. It was nearly done. She debated ordering another. She wanted another one, but the conversation was getting heavy, and the hours were ticking by.

"Seeing as we're being open and honest," he uttered. "Would you have taken the shot?"

"You should not dwell on it," Ziva told him. "You must move forward."

"You and I both know that's not gonna happen," he replied. "Why do you think I'm still drinking, even though Abby and McOneDrinkAndOut are gone?"

"I probably would have," Ziva whispered. "But you made the right call."

"This time," he muttered. "We'd be having a different conversation, if I had."

He'd probably have more empty beer bottles in front of him, if it had gone the other way.

"I have made that call," Ziva said, as she swilled the rest of the beer. "That is something I must live with."

It was something that still haunted her. Something that stole sleep from her.

"When?" he asked.

"A few years ago," she said. "In Ramallah."

In the Ziva David space-time continuum, everything was a few years ago. Her adventures were always in some place he did not remember learning about in geography class.

"How old was the kid?" he asked.

"Fourteen or fifteen," Ziva whispered. "He was part of a HAMAS cell, they often recruit teenagers."

Kids killing kids he thought with a sigh.

"Was it to do with Tali?" he asked, saying her name softly.

He knew of her revenge mission, from that conversation they'd had in from of the Embersera hotel, as the rain poured, all those months ago.

"The boy was an enemy to Israel," Ziva declared coldly, sounding too much like her father for her own liking. "Enemies of Israel must be taken out, we cannot afford to not take action."

"I get it," he replied.

"You do not," Ziva answered, with a frown. "You do not get Israel."

"Fine, I don't," he said. "I knew this guy at college who did one of those Birthright Israel trips, said it was pretty intense. He always talked about going back, and living there for a couple of years. I don't think he ever went."

"I do not like when American's say that they get Israel," Ziva whispered. "They do not. Israel is a complicated place."

"I know that," he uttered.

"I was eight Iraq scud missiles to Tel Aviv," she told him. "We got boxes with gas masks in, we drew pictures on the box. I drew butterflies on mine, and Tali drew flowers on hers."

He swallowed thickly, before taking a sip of his beer. While he'd been playing beer pong, she'd been watching missiles fall from the sky. She'd had such a different life from all of them.

"Israel has only had the peace treaty with Jordan for a decade, I remember when they signed the treaty," Ziva told him, with a serious face. "In Israel we have seen what happens when a teenager has a bomb. The destruction that can cause. So when, a teenager has a bomb, or there is a suspicious package we do not hesitate. You cannot hesitate. If I had been the one to make that call today, we would be having a different conversation."

"Do you miss it?" he asked. "Your G.I Jane days?"

"I like what I am doing here," Ziva declared. "I think I am doing good work here."

"Do you miss Israel?" he asked.

"Sometimes," Ziva admitted. "I miss knowing the culture, but. I like it here. I like it alot. More than I ever thought it would. It has grown on me, I suppose."

"Well look at you Miss America," he interjected.

"It has been a long time, since I have stayed in a place so long," Ziva continued. "I like everything about it here, except the winters."

"Yeah, they're pretty tough," he said with a laugh. "And this years was pretty mild."

She had still gotten out her scarves and gloves before her birthday, and paid far too much for heating.

"They get worse," she cried, her eyebrows reaching her hairline. "Maybe I will have to fly south next winter, like the birds do."

"But we like having you here," he told her, as they pushed their empty beer bottles to the edge of the table.

"We should get out of here," she said with a smile. "It is getting late."

Gibbs would probably call them in at the crack of dawn. It was Spring, Petty Officers were drinking too much and getting murdered. Marines were coming home from Iraq and finding out things had not been quiet on the homefront. Gear would be grabbed. Coffee would be swilled. Cases would go long into the night. Life would go on.

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks for hanging around for the Anthony DiNozzo pity party. I'll make it up to you."

"What are partners for," she said, shrugging herself into her coat, which was getting too heavy for the spring weather. "Though next time, can we chose a nicer bar."

"Deal," he said, as they walked toward the door to hail separate cabs.

A/N:

I don't own anything. If I did, Ziva David would have got a happy ending.

Maybe, the characters are a bit confessional in this, blame it on the booze. It's hard to write these two pre all the character development of the later seasons.

I'm not Israeli, and live very far away from Israel. So the thing about the Scud missiles, and drawing pictures on gas mask boxes was stolen from a book or two. If I got something wrong, I do apologize. Please do correct me.

Also, seeing as Ziva was supposedly born in November 1982 *cough * completely implausible *cough* she would have been eight going on nine when the gulf war happened.

Jordan and Israel signed a peace treaty in the mid-nighties. Remember this fic is set in 2006, so back then the mid-nineties was a decade ago.

I'm not sure if the winter of 2005-2006 was mild, I live in the southern hemisphere, and I was eleven going on twelve back then, but seeing as it took NCIS a few seasons to remember that it is not set in California, therefore has snow and coat weather, I'm going to say it was pretty mild.

Title of the fic from the Norah Jones song 'Sunrise'.