This is sort of a companion piece to my terrible story She. This time, it's Ziva reflecting on Tony's role in her life.

I don't know if it is truly in character. I think I see it as more of a wish for where we might have been if not for all the character assassination. It's not supposed to be a comment on whatever's going on with them now.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

My entire adult life has been about building a façade. Hiding myself completely behind painstakingly crafted characters, until I made their skin my own. Hiding my fear at the death my hands could bring behind hard eyes and a handgun. Hiding my own indulgent desires for a different life behind confident words about saving my country. Hiding my hurt at being used as my father's tool behind a commitment to a peaceful existence for the next generation of Israelis.

It was inevitable then, that I would lose myself along the way. That I would forget the things that brought me joy, and deny myself the indulgence of finding them again. I became hard and proud, a fearsome soldier who enjoyed the control I could wield without detection. I built a new character to embody, grew new skin to cover me, of a woman to be feared and admired, a modern-day superhero to desire, a soldier without conscience who had no problem with killing, lying and screwing in the name of Israel. My new joy became a job well done, a traitor captured, a secret discovered.

Then I arrived in Washington, and it all began to change. Slowly, at first. My new colleagues did not like me, and my new partner did not trust me. I was met with open hostility from people who were mourning the passing of a loved friend and colleague, and it did not bother me. Despite appearances, I am not heartless. I let them focus their anger on me to help them deal with their grief, because I did not care enough about them to worry that they disliked me.

But then I started to care, and not just a little.

It took me a few months to realise that open hostility, especially from two men in particular, was actually their way of including me in their circle. And that realisation changed everything. Their unexpected gestures—a slap to the back of the head, a sarcastic remark about my mangling of English idioms—started to eat away at the character I wore. Every smile my partner shot me was like another strike at my barricades. Another tug at the skin I tried to hide myself under.

It was Gibbs I was anxious about in the early days. I worried that the no-nonsense ex-Marine would be first to see past my character and demand that I show myself. But I never anticipated that under his own cloak of a dumbed down, skirt-chasing juvenile, Anthony DiNozzo was the master investigator of the team. I do not know what I did that showed my hand to my new partner, but whatever tiny clue he caught was enough to make him dig deeper. Enough to make him push and pull and question. He worked out how to get under my skin and stay there so that I wouldn't notice until he wanted to make me itch.

His early seduction of my being was so stealth that for a while I did not notice him lurking in the shadows I had created. Without detection, he started to push me to bare myself. To indulge in my deeply buried and trivial desires. He refused to be put off by my intimidation of him (in fact, I am sure he got off on it), and boldly made fun of my weaknesses. Not to destroy me, but to bruise my ego just enough to take me down a few necessary notches. He sank his teeth into overblown pride, and shook me until I felt some humility. While others scurried away when I unleashed my fierce, cutting anger, he met me toe-to-toe and challenged my arrogance. He tugged at my guarded neutrality, and gently picked at my sadness until he received the smile or laugh he was deserved.

When finally I realised how much of me he had managed to unravel, my battered pride and natural distrust made me resent his intrusion and fear his motives. I told myself it was not his place to demand so much from me. I had intended to feed him a character to latch on to, of a woman to grow fond of who would eventually exit his life and leave little more than a fuzzy impression on his memory. I was alarmed that he had so cunningly coaxed me to let my guard down, and that I allowed him to see through my character so completely. I realised that it was I who had latched on to him, and in the process I had given him pieces of my soul that he would be able to against me. In my panic, I told myself that it was no stretch to believe that Tony—a man who was a master at adapting himself to hunt his prey—would employ the same manipulative techniques I had used on others so many times in the past to exploit my weaknesses and bring me down. The soldier in me screamed that this was the only explanation for his examination of my identity.

But my gut told me these thoughts were irrational and born of fear. A successful partnership is often like a marriage, relying on the development of a unique and non-verbal language to communicate. I knew his tells when he was trying to deceive friend or foe—the flexing of his jaw, a too-long stare, his guarded eyes and careful smile. Although I recognised the moments when he would try to put something past me, I had never suspected that his true intentions were malicious.

It dawned on me that if Tony was playing me, then surely everyone else had to be. Gibbs at the least, probably Ducky and Abby. The four of them may have been able to keep up the ruse…but not McGee. Not unless he was an actor to rival Pacino. And not Jenny. She had been my partner once, and I had been almost as far inside her mind as I had gotten into Tony's. She would not play me like this, and she would have no reason to.

What reason would any of them have to set me up?

Perhaps it was a case of simply believing what my heart truly wanted to believe. Perhaps it came from being outside of my father's control and influence for so long. But in the end, I found the courage to reject my paranoid and punishing thoughts, and believe Tony's sincerity. Once I had made the decision, it was shockingly easy to follow through on, and that more than anything drew my attention to what was most likely obvious to everyone else: I had already fallen for him. I wanted to believe him, and I could not bring myself to condemn him with the same thoughts I reserved for my father.

So instead of cloaking myself again, I handed him all my trust, prepared myself for the worst, and I let him strip me down to my bones.

He came at me gently, so as not to startle me back into my old skin. But despite the permission I granted for his approach, I still found it difficult to let go. For the longest time, I believed he had no idea what he was doing to me, or how hard he was making me work for the ultimate gift of his pride. I believed he underestimated how challenging it was for me to share pieces of myself that I'd always pretended didn't exist. But then, I realised it was the exact opposite. He was acutely aware of my discomfort, and it was why he continued to demand more. Not because he enjoyed my suffering (...much), but because he'd seen the human behind the soldier very early in our partnership, and he believed that putting her in control would make me a better investigator. A better person. A happier person.

There were times that his questioning and manipulations rubbed my nerve and resolve raw, and I faltered. I would try to distract him by asking frank questions about his sex life, trusting that I would intimidate him into silence. Occasionally, he would step back, either granting me space or needing it himself, but he never abandoned his ultimate goal of pulling, baiting, seducing more from me. At other times, usually after we had been at odds and I felt compelled to make things right, I was overly eager to meet the challenge he'd thrown down. Instead of waiting for his bait, I offered up a piece of myself freely to show him I was still on his side. That no matter how much we fought, I still trusted him and had his back.

In the end, I turned against the lessons drummed into me since birth about the importance of concealment to give him what he wanted from me. And I did it because I wanted him to think I was special. That I was deserving of his grace and patience and love. For him, I stripped away the layers of skin I had hidden under my whole life. I strove to show him different parts of myself so that eventually, he would see something that he loved. Shedding and baring and exposing and putting all my cards on the table in the hope that anything he found abhorrent or ugly or faulty will be overshadowed by something else he might find beautiful or interesting or special.

That he could evoke such an extreme and honest response in me, and that I would hand him so much power, convinces me that he is my greatest downfall. But he is also my greatest blessing, because he inspires the part of me that makes me the Ziva I am today, uncloaked and in love with my new life that he helped build. He compels me to be better. He forces me to thinks with my heart. To consider my decisions in tandem with their emotional impact. He does not let me lapse back into the skin of the soldier I was when we both know it would be easier than facing up to what I feel. He acknowledges the part my father played in making me the machine, but he does not let me use it as an excuse for my behaviour. He holds me accountable, but he is the first to throw down for me should anyone else try. He would guard my back to the death, champion my every success, and demand that I show him the same courtesy in return.

He is the element that brings out the best of me.

Now, because of his influence and for the first time in my life, I find myself completely exposed and without a character. Although there are grotesque parts of my past that I will never show him, I have given him everything that I am capable of offering. There is nothing left in reserve. I am bare and vulnerable to his attack or acceptance. It goes against everything I was taught, against every impulse and instinct. But there is a deeper, stronger urge inside me now to do everything I can to form this lasting connection with him.

But it is this urge that terrifies me, because I cannot work out if he wants me as I want him. I cannot read his intent now that he has seen the best and the worst of me. Perhaps he has never had any intention of being anything more than a friend and co-worker, and seeing me raw has only confirmed this for him. Perhaps I am setting myself up to be destroyed by his rejection. But I will not regret the changes I have made for him, even if all we will ever be is friends. His mostly gentle, sometimes harsh prodding of my thoughts and soul and fears and happiness and scars has led me to rediscover who I am. I do not consider my desires to be my weaknesses, my loves to be my downfalls or my emotions to be my barriers to success. Although he is my Achilles Heel, I would no longer push him away to protect myself. If I had never let him get under my skin, if I had resisted and hidden and refused, I would have missed out on the most important relationship I will ever know.

I know I will be content with his companionship in whatever form it takes in the future. But I will continue to hope that by rising to his challenge and submitting to his need to know my happiness and scars, I will have proven myself to be enough for him. So that one day, he might choose to give me the rest of his life.

Writing Ziva's dialogue? Walk in the park. Writing her thoughts? So much harder.