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“You’re such a pretty girl,” her grandfather said once, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up to his. “Such beautiful eyes. We should not waste such beauty in deadly arts.”
“What waste?” demanded her aunt. “Ziva is so skilled. She’s a fine soldier, a stealthy spy and a deadly assassin. Her beauty is a sign of the strength within, and so much sweet honey to set the trap. This is the true face of Israel.”
She had been proud of her aunt’s words, that day. She had looked in the mirror and fluffed her hair up around her neck like a lion’s mane, staring into her own eyes with as much intensity as she could muster. Then she had pulled out a knife and threatened her reflection. She was the femme fatale. The beauty, brains and brawn that would save Israel and find true peace for her people.
Now, she stared at her reflection, into those shallow eyes, and wondered where that pride had gone.
Her hair no longer danced around her face. With more time in the mornings, she had taken to straightening her hair, so it hung smooth and silky over her shoulders. But who was it for? Who gave a damn if her hair was so perfect? Tony didn’t notice. He didn’t even pretend to notice, these days. She bunched a handful in her fist and drew it up to her chin, raising her shoulder so it framed her face. Somehow, it wasn’t the same.
Now, she wore makeup, darkening her eyes to make them smoky and seductive. But for what? What man noticed a woman’s eyes? What man but her teammates, who were more interested in her ability to kill and think than seduce?
There were inky black lines running down her cheeks, and she quickly bent, scrubbing with water until she could look up and see herself again. No makeup. No artwork. Just Ziva.
“This is a cheesy pickup line, so I’m sorry,” a man at the bar had said, looking at her with complete honesty, “but you have the deepest, most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She sometimes thinks she has Ari’s eyes. Dark, mysterious, the both of them had always been able to draw in their enemies with soft, searching eyes.
Her hand rose with the urge to scratch them out of the mirror.
For so many years, she had been the beautiful and deadly Ziva David: trained Mossad Officer. She could kill a man without pausing her stride. She could take down three fully-armed men and laugh about it later. She could dismantle a bomb. She did whatever was necessary to complete her mission, be it torture, sex or death.
She had looked in the mirror and admired the person she saw. She admired the pale coffee tint to her skin, the depth of her eyes, and mysterious draw of her lips. Her reflection had been so beautiful.
Now… she had not killed in months; had not woken with any real desire to do so for years. She had learned to investigate, interrogate, use tricks and jokes and real conversation to get the information she needed. She arrested people, never shot them, rarely even lied to them. She slept with men only when she wanted to, flirted with those she was attracted to, no longer teased and hinted at sexual fantasies to lure men’s mouths open.
Now she looked in the mirror and truly saw what she had been. She saw the blood dripping from her hands, the sterile anger in her eyes, the self-righteous disgust curling her lips. She saw the cold look she gave the world around her, the distant gaze she fixed on those who meant so much.
She threw a handful of tap water at the glass and walked away.