AN: This was an LJ NCIS Ficathon pinch-hit story for littlesammy. Prompt was "Tony/Ziva, one of them asleep and wandering off into dreamland. Although romance/UST is welcomed, it doesn't have to end in smut - remember these old MacGyver-eps where he fell asleep and dreamed his friends into different settings...? ;)" Regular readers will notice this is a little different that I usually write, but then, so was Moriturum. When the plot bunnies get rabid... ;) Also, normally I write dreams in italics, but since this is dream story, only the first bit of the dream is in italics for readability's sake. Thanks to Kesterpan and Smackalicious for the beta.

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox — they belong to CBS and DPB

Left, Leaving... and Staying Together

Ziva tossed and turned in bed, her movements twisting the blankets around her legs. The streetlights filtered through the blinds, small patches of light on her skin. As the clock struck two, she stilled, burrowing deep beneath the covers.

~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~

Ziva stood there next to Ari's body, singing softly, wondering how she had missed this. How she had missed her big brother's descent into madness. For madness it must be to do what he had done. Papa was difficult, was not the jolly papa she had wished for as a child. He did not come to dance recitals, though he would take her and Ari and Tali into the woods. But he was not this monster her brother described.

She turned away from her brother, lying on the ground, and saw Gibbs walking away.

"I owe you, Ziva." And then he, too, was gone. She looked over and saw his empty desk, the space bare. She went back and forth to the elevator, case after case. And then Gibbs was back, and she began to hope. He had come back. Maybe Papa would come back to her, to the little girl he'd alternately ignored and shaped.

She was running along her morning route, wearing her yellow windbreaker. She could see a man running toward her, orange watch-cap on his head. As they passed, she smiled, and then looked over her shoulder and saw him looking back at her. She wanted to turn and follow, but then he was gone, and she had to keep running. "Goodbye, Roy," she murmured.

She kept running, until she found herself along a desert highway, sun beating down. She could see a diner in the distance, sun shimmering off the metal trim. She could not get there, and soon she saw the official cars coming toward her. Ziva slowed, but they did not. As she watched, they disappeared into the distance, leaving her unable to help Jenny.

She stood there, watching, before closing her eyes, the bright sun mocking Jenny's loss. When she opened them, her father was sitting at his desk across the room. The tea service she had sipped from so many times was on the corner, steam rising from the spout of the teapot. She made herself turn around. Michael's body was lying on the couch, an Israeli flag folded and lying on his chest. Ziva stood, staring.

"Mishpacha." But it was not her father's voice behind her. She turned, and it was Ducky. He was standing by the table, teapot in hand, as the waterlogged bones of Daniel Cryer lay on the steel table.

"He was not." She found herself repeating the words, the ones that placed her back on the Damocles as Cryer collapsed, bleeding out. She looked up, saw Malachi, blood-soaked rag around his shoulder. He was there, and then he was standing on the Somali docks, telling her she could not complete her mission.

Ziva turned from him, for once the one to leave. Not the one being left behind. She would not survive, but she would then see those who had left her behind. Roy, and Michael. Ari, though she did not know what she would say to him, or if she wanted to see him again.

She closed her eyes, but when she opened them, Tony was sitting across from her, his lips chapped and cracked, his face bruised and dirty.

"You should not have come." They had not come for her when they left. Not Ari or Roy or Michael. Not her father or Jenny or Cryer. Only Gibbs had ever returned. And now... Now Tony was sitting there, grinning as though they were not in a Somali prison camp, bound and tortured. McGee was on the floor, his quiet voice so like he sounded when Gibbs made him stay up all night cracking a computer.

"Couldn't live without you, I guess." And then they were back in the Navy Yard, and she was sitting at her desk, her journeyman agent's badge on her belt. She was alive, and an American. And it was because of Tony. He had not walked away, even when she pushed. She had let herself doubt, and still he came. She remembered that day.

"You have had my back. You have always... had my back." She had not known a better way to say it. In all these months, she still had not found a way to say it. And as he walked in this morning, carrying a tray of drinks, she did not know how to tell him what she felt for him.

"A cup of Earl Gray for the lovely Probette." He set it down, then went back to humming as he delivered the other two cups.

"That is 'New York.'"

"'New York, New York' — classic Old Blue Eyes." Tony grinned and dropped the tray in the trash by McGee's desk as he walked over. "Unless you're traveling there, and then it's just plain New York."

Ziva took a chance. "And if I was traveling there, would you be interested in coming with me?"

"You putting in for a transfer?" Tony stilled and looked at her.

"No, no. I was thinking of a weekend vacation, a chance to relax. To have fun." She smiled. "Would you come with me?"

He grinned, the big one. "When do we leave?"

~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~

Ziva blinked and realized her alarm was making all the noise. She turned it off and forced herself to get up. The pieces of her dream — or nightmare, perhaps — swirled in her head. Only the ending was pleasant as she and Tony finally took those steps toward the future. And that was all in her mind. Only the nightmare was real.

She skipped her run, needing to get into work and ground herself in reality. Running would just allow the ghosts free rein in her mind.

Ziva walked into the bullpen, which was empty. She placed her gear on the floor and sat down, glad she had a moment to find her balance before the others arrived. She was just logging into her computer when humming caught her head. No, her ear. She looked up to see Tony walking into the bullpen, drink tray in hand.

"A cup of Earl Gray for the lovely Probette." He set it down, then went back to humming as he delivered the other two cups.

"That is 'New York.'" Ziva could hear herself saying the words without even meaning to.

"'New York, New York' — classic Old Blue Eyes. Unless you're traveling there, and then it's just plain New York."

Ziva hesitated only a minute before she replied.