Every Day
An NCIS Fan Fic

Summary: Ziva is pestered by Abby about her true feelings for Tony. Oneshot.

Author's Note: I do not own NCIS or any of its characters.

"Do you love him, Ziva?"

The question startles me. I do not look at her, knowing what expression is on her face. Friendly, but expecting, wanting, inquiring. She wears a mask, she does. She just acts so cute, so innocent, so… and then wham! She does her thing and you remember that she is a lot smarter than she looks.

"Huh, do you?"

I dare to look at her, simply because I cannot look away forever. Her face is exactly like I thought, open and so easy to confide in—but I see that little smirk. That little smirk that is so distinctly Abby.

"Love who, Abby?"

"Tony, of course. Not that you couldn't love a lot of other 'hims', but I thought Gibbs sort of was more like your dad, since your actual dad's the bad guy and sort of almost got you killed just to prove a point, and Ducky's like the darling old uncle who tells you bedtime stories even when you're thirty, and Jimmy is, well, Jimmy and he's dating that girl. And McGee's mi—well, I guess you could like McGee, but he's not that much your type—not to say he's not awesome, but he's McGee—"

"Abby, stop."

"Do you love Tony or not?"

"I do not understand why you keep asking me this question. He is my partner. I care about him as my partner."

"That is not the question I asked you."

"The do-you-love-him question?" My arm gestures get more emphatic as the words leave my mouth. "You mean like love-love, gushy, romantic, Valentime's Day, chocolates, kisses, be mine forever love? No, Abby, no."

"Valentine, not Valentime."

"Whatever." Pushy Americans and their English.

"But you get so jealous when he talks about other women. You knew something was going with when he was dating Jeanne, and when he was obsessed with that ZNN Dana girl—you knew!"

I chuckle a little. "I do not get jealous when Tony has other women. If I were, then I would have no time to sleep because all that man does is chase women."

Abby nods, her face serious. "Tony does know a lot of ladies, but still Ziva—you watch him, you know him—c'mon, it's girl talk time. 'Fess up, don't'cha get a little jealous when Tony—"

I interrupt her before she can start this attack again. "—Do you not, Abby, get jealous every time you catch a sniff of McGee even being friends with a girl?"

Abby's face freezes. Ha-ha! Got you now, sneaky little intuitive gothic scientist!

"N—n—no, no! I do not get jealous about Tim. He can have all the female friends he wants. He can have all the girlfriends that he wants too! He—he can even have a harem if he wanted—as long as he treated them each with dignity and respect; I'm not a fan of male superiority and that ancient concept using favor and fear and kowtowing and sex as a way of controlling anyone. Not that I think McGee would treat anyone like that…or have a harem. Polygamy's not exactly legal in D.C."

I let her ramble on, but I know she is lying. Her face whenever McGee even breathes a word about a girlfriend is that of a child losing her favorite doll. Her feelings for McGee are complicated, I know.

"And it's 'whiff', not 'sniff.'"

"That is not important and you know it."

"No, what's important is knowing whether you are in love with Tony or not."

"I care about him as a friend."

"You worry a lot about him, right?"

"Yes," I nod, for it is true. "He is very good at pretending he is okay. But I can tell that sometimes he is not always as okay as he would like you to think."

"Usually you are worried more when it involves a girl. That's total jealousy."

"Again with the jealousy! Abby, it is in matters of the heart that I think Tony is weakest. He is scared of getting hurt." I lower my eyes to gaze at my hands. "And I do not want him to get hurt." I snap my attention back up to the forensics scientist smiling at me. "But that does not mean that I love him! How could I? He mercilessly pushes my buttons, corrects my English, goes through my things, spies on me—!""

"Love works funny, Ziva."

"I do not think it is funny."

"C'mon. You know he just does those things out of love."

"Tony doesn't love me." I roll my eyes, but my voice sounds sadder than I would like it to; I do not care if he loves me or not!

"I don't mean love-love; I mean like friend-love. That's why he does all that stuff."

I huff. "There are too many meanings of that word. It is one word. It should have one meaning."

"What does love mean to you, Ziva?" Abby's face is curious, not so much pushing the answer she wants to hear from me. She wants to know what I truly think about this. I watch her dark eyes take in my face and then I let my gaze wander out the window to the view.

What does love mean to you, Ziva David?

Ahava. Love.

I pause. Love is difficult.

I see my father. I see my mother. I see my brother. I see my sister. I see Amar. I see Michael.

I loved them—and see where those loves are. I barely trust Eli. I do not speak to Rivka. I killed Ari. Tali, Amar, and Michael are dead.

All of these loves are taken in one way or another by war. War for peace, war for power, war for revenge, war for knowledge, war for duty, war for honor.

That was the front for which I fought in Mossad. At NCIS, there is a different type of warfare. There is something less polished about the Americans' war. It is warmer, less cold, more personal. The heart is involved in their war, the way I was taught to keep mine out of it. It is more vulnerable their way, leaving them open to hurt much worse than a bullet. We do not feel guilt—we are not allowed to feel guilt—we are taught to not feel guilt. Yet here, it is understood, it is accepted. To feel remorse of being forced to take a person's life—to be allowed to remember that the person lying crumpled before you had a family, had a life, had a purpose, had a reason like you… It is different. It scares me.

The Americans, at least these Americans, their war is for many of the same things ours is—it is the same war after all. But they put everything: body, mind, soul, heart. I was trained to keep my heart out. They let their war be openly for those they love. It is like they open their shirts and tell their enemy to try to shoot them in the heart. It is not smart, it is not safe. It is better to keep quiet, lest the enemy discover your weakness. Because the heart is the weakest part, is my weakest part. To destroy a heart is truly to kill your enemy.

Does that mean that love is to let your heart be a target?

I have my answer. One I have known all my life, but am now learning all over again in my new American training.

"If I love someone, I would die for them."

Abby does not seem remotely surprised. She looks like she understands, but wants to know more. Her eyes search my face as I stare back at her.

It sounds so cliché to say that to love is to sacrifice oneself for another. But I do not mean jumping in front of someone blindly, taking the bullet to the chest, and dying in the intended's arms. I have seen it in those films of Tony's.

I mean that you have chosen to die for that person or persons. Every day I have thought about what would happen if I were to die that very day. Who would I be saving? What would be brought about by my death? What good would come from my sacrificing my life?

If I knew of a person that I knew the world would be better off with him instead of me, that is a person I love.

Every person is a weapon in this war, every person is an asset. Some are greater than others. Americans like to think that every person is equal. In humanity, we are all the same. But there isn't humanity in war.

But, as Gibbs has taught me, there is love in war. There is passion and feeling and motivation and sacrifice. Love isn't a weapon to be used, something to manipulate. It is what guides us. It may be a twisted love, but it is why we fight and it is why we live and it is why we die.

And that is love.

I try to explain this to Abby, but I find myself stumbling over the words until I just shut my mouth. She continues to gaze at me, her arms holding her precious clipboard. There is beeping behind her as her machines whiz away, trying to find the knife that stabbed a Marine couple as they laid in bed together, but she ignores it, her eyes intent on mine.

I know she wants to ask another question. She is twisting my words to find the right ones. I do not know what she thinks of my brain, but she has not laughed at me.

"Who would you die for, Ziva?"

"It changes," I tell her matter-of-factly, "every day."

"Really?" She seems surprised. "It doesn't stay the same? There's not like a core list of people—no V.I.P.'s on your 'I'd-Save-You-List'?"

"You are on the list most days, Abby."

"Well, that's good enough, I guess," I can tell she is put-out that it's not every day. "Gibbs is on the list, right?"

"It's not a list of people I hope to die for. I do not want to die."

"But you would die for Gibbs, right?"

"Yes, Abby." Exasperation laces my voice. I really should be back in the squad room, doing my job. All I came down here for was to see if Abby had checked the strange substance found on the handle of the knife and now I was being grilled about love. "Are we done? I'd prefer not to die today when Gibbs finds out I haven't put out a BOLO for the car."

"Fine, okay! I haven't found anything. Gibbs'll show up when I do."

I turn on my heel and head towards the stairs, but I hear her voice behind me, with one last question.

"Would you die for Tony?"

I pause, one foot on the step. My lips twitch. Of course she would bring it back to him.

I turn and look at her.

I already know the answer, have already asked myself this question.

"Every day."

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