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Warnings/Spoilers/Rating: none | Pre-Series | PG
Summary: In Cairo, Ziva and Jenny discuss children.
Jenny fanned herself with a folded newspaper as the sun took to its highest point in the sky, at which point the heat in Cairo became even more unbearable. She felt her cheeks rush red. She looked at the other occupant of the dingy hotel room, Ziva David. The Israeli seemed comfortable in the unforgiving heat. Jenny watched as she held the binoculars to her eyes and studied the Cairo streets.
"Anything interesting?" Jenny asked as she crossed the room, moving closer to Ziva.
"No," Ziva uttered, looking at the rather empty street. Her eyes drifted to the hijab-clad, heavily pregnant woman who was leading two older children while balancing a toddler on her hip. Jenny noticed her too.
"She looks overwhelmed," Jenny muttered.
She had friends who were overwhelmed with one or two children, the woman on the street had double the load, but from what they could see of her face; she looked happy.
"Yes," Ziva replied as the fatherless family moved out of view. "Do you ever think about children?"
Jenny was dumbfounded for a second; she had never expected Ziva to ask such a question, in their months together Jenny had learnt that Ziva kept herself to herself.
Like many people her answer was complicated. She remembered her mother who had died much too early, she had been a loving mother, but all it had said on her gravestone was wife and mother. Jenny wanted hers to say more than that.
She also knew that with her five point plan which included becoming the first female director of NCIS, there would be no room for a child. She had been the forgotten child of a career obsessed parent; she could not inflict that loneliness on her own child. She was naïve enough to believe she could have both. So, she had a choice career or children. A few years ago after a pregnancy scare, she took measures to ensure no child ever came from her womb.
"Not really," Jenny replied, "Have you?"
"You cannot be a Mossad operative and a mother," Ziva reported.
Ziva had. She had liked children. She had liked being a big sister, but she knew when she went into Mossad she was giving up the opportunity, but her country came first. She would protect everyone else's children.
In protecting everybody else's children, a bullet had torn her abdomen. Her womb was still there, she still got her monthly blood, but she would never carry a pregnancy. She did not grieve initially; she took it in her stride. She tried to look on the bright side, she would never carry the offspring of a man she killed, but when she signed the congratulations card of male Mossad officer who had just become a new father, the realisation hit her. It hit her and knocked her flat.
She would never be a mother, biologically anyway. But a Mossad officer would hardly be an ideal adoptive parent.
She had taken life. She did not deserve to give it.