Dear Ziva,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I know that "well" is a relative term for us. We've seen too much, fought too hard, and lost too many. But somehow, we keep going. Maybe it's the stubbornness that runs in our veins, or perhaps it's the unwavering belief that justice is worth the sacrifices we make.
The case we just closed was brutal. The kind that leaves scars on your soul, even when the physical wounds heal. I watched you, Ziva—your determination, your unwavering commitment to justice. You never flinched, even when the darkness threatened to swallow us whole. And in those moments, I realized how lucky I am to have you by my side.
We've danced this dance for years—banter, tension, danger—but it's more than that, isn't it? We're bound by something deeper, something unspoken. Maybe it's the shared weight of our pasts, the ghosts that haunt us. Or maybe it's the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching—the vulnerability hidden behind those fierce eyes.
After the case, I found myself sitting alone in my apartment, nursing a glass of bourbon. The silence was deafening, and I couldn't shake the images—the blood, the pain, the faces of the victims. But then I remembered you. You, who've faced demons far worse than any criminal. You, who've carried the weight of your Mossad past and the loss of your family. You, who've fought tooth and nail to protect the innocent.
So, I picked up a pen and wrote this letter. Because sometimes words are all we have. And I want you to know that you're not alone in this. We're a team, Ziva—a dysfunctional, stubborn, brilliant team. And even when the world feels like it's crumbling, we'll find a way to stand tall.
Tali is growing up fast. She has your fire, your determination. She's also got my knack for movie references, which I'm sure you secretly love. She's our anchor, our reason to keep fighting. I promise to be there for her, just as I know you will be.
Paris is beautiful, but it's not the same without you. The streets echo with memories—the laughter, the late-night stakeouts, the stolen kisses. I miss you, Ziva. More than I can put into words. But I understand why you had to go, why you needed to find your own path. Just promise me one thing: come back. Come back to us, to Tali, to this messy, unpredictable life we've chosen.
And when you do, I'll be waiting. With open arms, a movie marathon, and a heart that still beats a little faster when you walk into a room.
Stay safe, Ziva. Keep fighting. And know that you're never alone.
Yours always,
Tony
P.S. If you find yourself in need of a good laugh, remember the time we accidentally set off the sprinklers in that hotel room in Paris. Classic.
Dear Ziva,
I find myself sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put into words what we've just been through. The case—the one that left us all raw, questioning our purpose, and wondering if justice is ever truly served. I know you understand. You always do.
When Bishop revealed your existence to me, I was angry. Angry that my friends hadn't trusted me with the secret. Angry that you'd been out there, fighting your battles alone. But then I remembered Rule 10—never get personally involved in a case. And I realized that sometimes, the rules don't apply. Not when it comes to family.
You were like a sister to me, Ziva. We've shared too many late nights, too many close calls, for me to turn my back on you now. So, I put aside my anger and focused on what mattered—the truth. The closure that had eluded us for far too long.
Bishop read the letter—the one dictated by the kidnapping victim's mother before she succumbed to cancer. Her words echoed in that sterile hospital room, reaching the ears of the man who'd caused so much pain. But he was nonchalant, as if someone else had beaten us to it. Someone who promised to "haunt his dreams."
