Work Text:
So you can keep me
Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans
He keeps her photograph locked in a drawer, too afraid to pull it out. There are times when he finds it in his pocket, or somehow appearing next to his bedside, when he remembers---he misses her because she is not here.
Her photograph is her off-guard in the city of Rick and Ilsa, where they will always have that day. Paris is their possession, a memory of a night of mystery. It’s her with her curly hair and her beautiful smirk when she thinks he’s not looking but he always is. She’s beautiful, with her olive skin and her eyes alert and wide and her bouncing hair.
“I think it would look better in black and white.”
He remembers the hot day in October like yesterday, a summer of freedom and decisions and walking toward and away from someone and something and a future.
The pain is overwhelming.
Loving can hurt
Loving can hurt sometimes
But it’s the only thing that I know
He thought surviving a day with a terrorist with a chemistry degree and expertise in torture was hell, he thought watching his partner die and splatter their brain matter onto him was hell, he thought watching his former lover jump into a bomb was hell; but this is nothing compared to any of that.
This feels like torture, this feels like someone’s ripped his soul in half, locked it away, and threw away the key. It’s not rejection. It’s not unrequited love.
She and him---they’re in love; he’s sure something will happen, he’s gained the confidence and he knows he loves her (her smile, her eyes, her heart, her golden star); then her father dies and it spirals into a chaos of misery and guilt.
Her eyes are lost in guilt and love, the only David ever to experience the American dream or to have feelings . Now, she is the only David left.
He can see the bastard in her mind over and over again, and now, because of him, he’s lost not one, but two partners.
Ari Haswari.
Eli David.
Because of Eli, Ari became a soulless monster and threw the humane part of him, the older brother part of him, away. When she shot him in that basement eight years ago, he was a creature whose soul was already paid to the devil in a deal to take down their father. Eight years later, death finally claims him; but it’s the wrong time--he hasn’t gotten the guts to tell her he loves her yet and his daughter’s full of love and forgiveness. When he dies, she falls; and he is there to see it. He knows if he tries to catch her, he’ll be pushed away in fear.
And if you hurt me
Well, that’s okay, baby, only words bleed
He’s in love with her, he’s sure of that. She loves him, maybe; but he’s sure this Casablanca -themed fairytale won’t end like the movie. She’s sent him away after weeks in Israel, just like Ilsa; he’s had to leave and move on with his job, like Rick; and now comes the time where she shows up asking for help.
The moment hasn’t come yet, but the thing about Casablanca is that he does not want to be like Rick. He does not want to be swallowed up into an abyss of depression, alcoholism, arrogance, and hatred. He does not want to be undefined because of fear and blindness. The world is far more important than just them, a world of war and pain and confusion. But doesn’t their history rival that?
He won’t let this separation define him, make him lose himself in the job like that summer. But he won’t move on, either, because it’s obvious that though Ilsa was married to her dead-not-dead husband, though Ilsa sent him away, she was still desperately in love with him, but was loyal to a fault. Only at the last moments does Rick realize this. Therefore, he decides, that when, not if, she comes back, he’ll save some time.
I won’t ever let you go
He decides to have a new tradition: Casablanca on November 12.
“Play it, Sam. For old times’ sake.”
“They’re playing our song, sweetcheeks.”
The drawer’s locked so the Probie(s) don’t look through his stuff, touch the star of David (literally), and see her picture hidden away beneath the golden glint. The drawer’s locked so he won’t have to look at it in fear of losing her. The drawer’s locked so the pain is locked away, like it always is.
But it’s there. And it’s everywhere, and sometimes, it appears on his desk after a long day of paperwork and shooting bad guys or at his bedside after an exhausting day talking about Senior with Gibbs.
When I’m away
I will remember how you kissed me
Her photograph is a reminder, a hope, that she will come back. Her photograph is a plead to wait, to have patience, to love again and forever. Her photograph is for him to see that he loves her, that he’s still in love with her.
When he looks at her photograph, touches her to remember what she felt like in Israel, he finds it easier to utter her name. Four letters of regret and longing. Of missed opportunities and mistakes. Of love and jealousy and hope.
Ziva.
Hearing you whisper through the phone
Wait for me to come home
You can fit me
Inside the necklace you got
When you were sixteen
Next to your heartbeat where I should be
Keep it deep within your soul
She keeps his photograph near her chest, trapped in a locket replacing the star she died along.
It's gold, like her old star, like his heart. It serves as her reminder to remember him. Who she is doing this for.
When she forced him to leave, when the 180 degrees was complete, but not quite moving on; she dug the wooden box back up again in a vain attempt to change her mind. His absence tore at her throat, at her chest; everything hurt and yet she knew that she was right. She had to do this alone.
Loving can hurt
Loving can hurt sometimes
But it’s the only thing that I know
Clutching her list with unsteady fingers, she made a decision.
Do this for him . She scribbled it below the list in the same fashion of the former I Wants on the other side. This time, she knew who this was for.
She found his photograph, a copy of his mother and him, of The Little Prince . He gave it to her the night of Tali's birthday, when he blasted Mio Babbino Caro in the bullpen, with a smirk of pride and love. It was tucked beneath the cupboards of her kitchen, eyes and teeth smiling at her when she saw him, just like when he waved goodbye. It was enough to fall back into him, feel his arms wrapped carefully around her in the city of hope and love, snoring softly in her ear.
She went to a store to buy a forged locket out of gold, to slip his face in the heart.
“C’est joli. Qui, ton mari?” the store owner had asked.
“Euh…” She chuckled. “Oui. Fiancé.”
She touches his baby face, the blond hair shimmering in the polaroid picture. It’s a perfect moment, their last film together.
“That which is essential is invisible to the eye.”
He is perfect, his brilliant smile forever imprinted into her memory; and she cannot forget the moment when he smiled at her for the last time, at least for a very long time. Because now, because of the photograph, she longs to see him again, to touch him, to smell him again. She is convinced that it was not goodbye, because they did not say goodbye.
“Ziva David. Did you just quote a movie?”
His dying words could be, “I’ve watched this film.” His dying smile could be, “Zee-vah, it’s needle in a haystack .” If she forgets him now, she will never see him and his smile; she will never be able to go on without the fact that someone, someone out there will grieve for her when she is gone. Someone , like all the ones she’s killed, like all the blood she’s spilled, will cry for her, like he cried for his mother, who broke his heart. Her tears come down onto his smile as she knows she’s broken it more times than she can count, and that he hasn’t done anything to deserve that. But she’s convinced that when she changes that she will not be a burden to him, that instead of breaking his heart, she will uplift it.
And if you hurt me
Well, that’s okay, baby, only words bleed
“No. I quoted a book… that was made into a movie.”
Conclusion: she has to go on, to fulfill this list, to remember her past but move on from her mistakes. Starting over does not mean forgetting, forgiveness does not mean erase the memory. It means to understand, comprehend, and love again.
I won’t ever let you go.
His photograph, as their eyes (God, they’ve never changed; still a hazel green with both hope, joy, and pain) meet, is a reminder, a hope, a memory, and a future. His photograph is a companion, a healing method. His photograph, near her heart, helps her achieve this.
His name slips through her mouth every night when she holds her heart in the palm of her hand, a name she vowed to forever remember, defend, love. Four letters of regret and longing. Of missed opportunities and mistakes. Of love and jealousy and hope.
Tony.
Holding me closer ‘till our eyes meet
You won’t ever be alone
Wait for me to come home.