I know I hate to read author's notes, so if you bear with me here you will probably never hear from me again.

This story does not involve the characters from the TV show, but the inspiration came from hearing about Ziva's world, so this seemed the best place to post. The characters are completely my own, unless you recognize them or they are otherwise mentioned. This story is purposfully kept ambigious, but hopefully it is still clear. If it is not, I would love to know that, to hopefully clear up problems in the future or answer your questions. These characters are named, but I have yet to decide if or when I will reveal these. I wrote this assuming they are both sixteen or seventeen, which sounds very young, but at this age they wouldn't necessarly have to be in school if they had graduated early, but are too young to be in the army or Mossad, meaning that any fieldwork they had done would be illegal and unauthorized, more like training activities.

On a more personal note, while keeping my identity safe I will say that I am a student, and my ability to write fluctuates with homework and other things. I tend to write when the mood strikes and post almost immediatly, with very little rewriting, meaning that updates will probably be sporadic at best. This also means that, while I greatly appreciate feedback of any kind, content or numbers of reviews will neither prompt me to release chapters faster or hold them back. Almost as soon as I write it, you will read it. This story was originally written in the second person, but I have changed it to fufill the site's guidelines, and I apologize for any mistakes I have missed.

I do not own characters that are familiar to you or any affiliations with NCIS.

Sorry to take up your time with this long note, and happy reading!

"What are you doing here?"

The question is implied, but she's not angry, or surprised. She knew he'd be here, and she started her sentence before she ever turned to look at him. And her eyes are a bright, glistening green, rimmed by red, because she's been crying in a dark corner where nobody would see, nobody would know. But he's always known.

"I thought you could use a friend."

Friend. Friend. They're friends. And nothing more. Because all those nights she spent in his bed back home, where nothing happened but sly glances and awkward silences, those were the kind of nights friends always share.

Her eyes skim him quickly, calculating. They both do this, every time they look at someone. Evaluate threats, plan attacks. Never be taken off guard. Even friends are enemies, in their world. And her eyes widen slightly at his bare chest, at his shirt and jeans discarded on her floor, because she has always liked heat and her room is about ninety degrees and he was sweating on her bed in his clothes. Nobody else would notice the widened eyes, or the slight, sudden intake of breath. Nobody but a professional. Nobody but him. And her eyes dilate, the olive becoming emerald, and this time his breath catches in his throat. And she notices, like he did, but they both pretend they didn't. Except for her slight smirk, neither one of them noticed the obvious signs of attraction. Because friends aren't attracted to one another.

"I'm fine."

But all lies must have a grain of truth in them, and hers is so blatant, an amateur would have known she is lying. But he pretends she's not, he lets it slide. They don't talk about things like this. Except then she does.

"She never loved me."

Her tone isn't sad, or angry. She has accepted this truth long ago, and it comes as a surprise to him, even though it shouldn't. He had known her mother, seen the benign neglect. The missed birthdays, the months on end she spent at his house because her mother was on a business trip that had everything to do with business, but perhaps not the kind that is common anywhere else in the world. Guns instead of briefcases, case files instead of academic papers.

She is still standing by the door, glued there by the force of her words.

"But… I had always thought it was because of my father. Because she had no choice in the matter. Because I am a child of rape. But that's not true, is it?"

Now she's asking, unsure.

"She wasn't raped. She seduced him, whoever he is. Because she wanted a child, but only if it was a boy. And I'm a girl. And that's why she hates me."

She takes a deep breath and moves on, and he can tell that the tears are staying back by sheer will.

"She wanted a boy for Israel. To defend it, to become Mossad and protect it. But I have tried! I have tried to be that boy! I have trained as hard as any boy! I am as good as any boy! Just not good enough for her."

She is shaking now, but her voice stays steady, until she speaks again.

"And now she is gone. And I was never good enough for her."

She leaves the door, turns to look at herself in the mirror as if searching for an answer buried somewhere in her reflection. When she turns back to him, her tears are gone, buried by anger, and an impenetrable wall of strength. And she doesn't cry, because tears are weakness, but her voice cracks and suddenly she sounds small and weak, like a young child.

"Will you stay with me?"

And he doesn't speak, doesn't move, but he's there, and she has her answer.

She turns her back to him, and peels off her pants, but turning around doesn't do much for her modesty. And he knows he shouldn't be looking, but her legs are long and pale, and her shirt doesn't cover her underwear like it's supposed too. Her panties are black and lacy, and somehow that surprises him. She seems like she should be wearing men's boxers, she is always wearing his clothes or buying men's items for herself, but those couldn't be more feminine. And then she is pulling her shirt over her head, and it is impossible to look away. She walks toward him, clad only in her underthings, and he wonders at her purpose, but then she leans down and plucks his shirt off the floor and pulls it over her head. And in one swift movement, her bra is on the floor and he realizes that they are both very close to naked and he is going to share a bed with this creature that he's not supposed to find beautiful, because they're friends. But his shirt barely covers her panties, and he can still see the lace, and the soft curve of her breast is pushing against the cotton, and that article of clothing has never looked so good on anybody.

He immediately halts his train of thought, because she is vulnerable and she has lost too much, and she is his friend. And he watches her swift, graceful movements as she reaches behind her head and quickly braids her dark hair, and he can almost forget about her newly discovered beauty. Because beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder and he's never looked at her this way before. But then she shuts off the lights, and in the darkness he sees her crawl into bed beside him and suddenly he feels her bare leg against his and her skin is soft and warm. She yawns like a kitten and rests her head on his shoulder, bringing her whole torso flush against his, which isn't helping with the friend thing. And her hair smells like jasmine, but his shirt smells of him, and he has a sudden flashing vision of her writhing beneath him, wearing nothing but the Star of David necklace he gave her, and he takes a deep breath and wills his body not to betray him, and apparently she doesn't notice, because a moment later her body relaxes and her breathing evens out. All that lies between them is a thin layer of cotton, and he has never liked that shirt much and now his life is much more difficult because of it.

And he tries to nod off to sleep himself, but her leg is nestled between his and she is clutching him tightly, and the gentle swell of her breast is pressed up against his side and her head rests over his heart, and this is going to be a very long night for him, and maybe she'll never be his friend again.

And suddenly she breaths his name in her sleep, and smiles softly as she burrows her head up under his chin, and when he does fall asleep, he dreams of her and that damn Star of David, the one with sapphires and diamonds, the colors of Israel, that he placed around her neck and told her it wasn't new, it was his grandmothers, and she smiled and said that was better anyway, but in his dream it isn't hidden by her shirt (or his, as the case may be) but rising and falling on her chest as she dozes after they've done more than sleep. And he smiles too, and holds her tighter, because friends are overrated.