Not much to say here. But here's some of the stuff you might want to know for this fic: Teemo is Ziva and Tony's son. He's twelve. Oh, and they're married. Let's go Tiva! Enjoy my little muffins :)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS nor its respectable characters.

Here we go, Tony thought with a roll of his eyes as the elevator doors opened and let him and Ziva off at their floor. He gripped the strap of his backpack with one hand and was leading the small of her back towards the desks with the other.

"All I am saying is that I don't think it is fair that we just leave him at home every day while we go off and work." Ziva was saying as she was being pushed kindly towards her desk. She dropped her own bag on the floor and went instantly to Tony's desk. The ex-Mossad leaned onto the table, her arms straight and elbows pointed out, a stern look set over her brow. "I wonder how lonely he gets without us there…" the mother's voice trailed off.

Tony dropped down into his chair and pulled his legs onto the desk, the tips of his sneakers barely touching her forearm. "He's got the Larsons next door, and he said that Patrick's coming over in the afternoon. Teemo's not lonely!"

McGee, who had been watching the couple over his desktop with a certain curiosity raised his eyebrows and commented, "Even so, he must be pretty lonely, Tony."

The senior field agent paused to look over at the tech-geek. He raised an eyebrow and shot back lazily, "What do you know, Timmy? You're not even dating."

The other man purpled, and set his sights back on his computer screen.

Ziva just smiled in that mysterious way of hers, and sauntered back to her own corner. "Be nice, Tony. Maybe there's just no one to compare to Lindsa—"

"Please don't bring that up." McGee pleaded, instantly looking up at the name of his last "girl"-friend. A year ago, the youngest man of the NCIS crew went on a date ("One date! Just one!" The junior field agent would always remind them) with a transgender that went by the name of Lindsay. At least now Tony wasn't the only one who tongued a man.

Just on cue, Gibbs showed up, ever-present coffee cup in his hand, bee-lined to his desk to grab his gun and badge. "Murder in the park off Moffat. Let's move." Before their leader had even finished talking the rest of his team had pulled on their backpacks and pocketed their own badges. Within seconds, their cubicles had been abandoned, leaving only spinning chairs in their wake.

…

Everyone had changed into their NCIS crime apparel by the time they had reached the park. It was a male, late 40s, face down in the small pool of liquid (not blood Ducky confirmed) on the side of the trail. There were three bullet holes in his chest and multiple bruises across his face, and a rash around his wrists and ankles. "Sergeant Bill Haddar," McGee announced with the help of the victim's fingerprints.

"Dinozzo, Ziva. Check the surrounding area, see if you can find anything connecting to the murder." Gibbs instructed, not bothering to look and see if his team was following. They usually were.

But not this time.

As Gibbs bent down to get a closer look at the body, someone's cell phone rang. Annoyed, the man looked up from his new case and turned back to Ziva, who was fishing in her pockets for her phone. "Sorry, Gibbs," she apologized, not looking up from her search. She let the camera dangle from her neck as the phone continued to ring. Finally, when the Mossad agent found the source of the ringing, she glanced over the screen and paused. Her face was screwed into a confused expression, and she stood there, staring at the screen for one. Two rings. Three—

"Are you gonna answer it?" Gibbs asked, a little peeved at the continuous interruption.

This seemed to break Ziva from the trance. She accepted the call and held the phone to her ear. Instantly her tone changed. "Hi, Teemo. What's wrong?"

Instantly Tony, who had gone off in search of evidence, straightened and went over to the woman on the phone. Teemo? he mouthed at his wife.

She glanced up and nodded. "What dear? I'm sorry, I—Teemo. Slow down."

"Mom? There's someone at the door. I—I don't know who it is. I didn't answer, but he's just standing there, banging on the door. He's yelling something in some language. I don't know what to do. I just—"

"Don't go anywhere. Lock all the doors. We'll be there soon." Ziva paused. "Love you too." She hung up and looked over at Tony, something dark seeping into her pupils. "We have to go. Now."

His heart grew cold. "So I heard." The senior field agent looked over at Gibbs, who was waiting for an answer.

Before anyone could tell him what was going on, he just raised his eyebrows. "What're you looking at me for? Go save your kid."

Instantly the two agents took off down the trail, towards the parking lot where they had left the car.

...

True to their 12-year-old's word, Tony and Ziva arrived at their suburb house to find an unfamiliar black car in their driveway and a man in a gray suit at the door. Ziva put the car in park (Tony would later say that the only reason he let her in the driver's seat was because her reckless driving got them to the house faster) and went for her gun. Her husband reached out and put a firm hand on her wrist. She looked up, dark eyes flashing, holding her gaze with Tony, as if having an argument in silence. Finally, he groaned and released his hand.

Ziva, careful to keep the gun in front of her, dropped her NCIS cap on the floor and got out of the car. The faint sound of the freeway masking her soft footsteps, Ziva stepped closer towards the aging man at her door. Finally, when she was close enough to have a perfect shot at his head, she glanced over at Tony for the OK. He gave it to her with a grim look and a faint nod.

The woman turned back to the man on her porch and yelled, her voice clear, "Get away from the door and put your hands up. NOW."

Not bothering to question her instructions, the man turned to face her, his hands in the air. His suitcase fell with a thud onto the porch and stayed on its side. But unlike any other man Ziva had pointed her gun at, this one was smiling. She squinted at him in the bright sunlight; yes, he was definitely smiling. But why was he—oh. Oh shit.

She lowered her barrel, yet another confused look etched upon her face. "Dad?"

...

"Teemo?" Tony called into his house. There was a rustling in the kitchen, and his 12-year-old son poked his head up over the pantry door. There was a half-eaten doughnut shoved into his mouth. Teemo grinned, obviously a little ruffled from the 'door-banger' and pushed his mother's hair from his eyes. It was puffy, curly. His eyes so like Tony's blinked, and he swallowed the doughnut.

"Did you get him?" His voice was still high. Tony remembered when Teemo was born, his pitched scream echoing through the hospital. His son's voice hadn't changed a bit. He grinned and walked over to the pantry.

"Yep. We got him. Teemo, meet grandpa," Tony strained the last part a little, but nonetheless he gestured to Ziva's dad walking through the door. Teemo's grandfather smiled and waved.

"Hello, grandchild of mine."

Ziva walked past her father, fuming incessantly, and went straight for her son. She wrapped him up in her arms and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Seriously mom?" Teemo muffled into her chest. Finally, she broke away, glad that no one had gotten to her son. He was one of the reasons she stayed in the US—the other would be Tony. But at the moment, she just content with no one—not even her father—getting to her baby. Sure, Eli was family, but that doesn't mean he was safe for her child. And that was just what Ziva wanted for him—safety. Something she couldn't exactly guarantee, what with both her and Tony's jobs and such.

But despite the pseudo-threat, Teemo was still there. He was still alive. Ziva grinned at her son, then at Tony. They seemed to nod at each other, agreeing without speaking. It was something that had fallen into place between them over the years of being partners, and then the last thirteen years being partners.

She turned back to her father and managed a smile of hospitality. He was looking around the quaint living room with pursed lips. "Well," he started. "This is…"

"Eli," Ziva cut in warningly.

"…nice." He finished, and looked over at his daughter. "I'm staying for a few days to get acquainted with the grandchild I have never seen." This made Ziva look away, embarrassed.

Tony was the first to break the silence. "Well this is good! This means that we don't have to worry about Teemo being lonely. Right, Ziva? Ziva?" he turned to look at his wife.

"Yes," she managed. "Now Teemo won't be lonely." But she wasn't worrying about Teemo's loneliness—she was worried what her father might do to Teemo while he was staying. She didn't want to come home to find gunshots in the ceiling, or walk in on an impromptu lesson in self-defense. She sighed. Ziva just didn't want her son to suffer a loveless, bloodthirsty childhood—the one she had to grow up in. But then again, that was easier than kicking her father out of the house and telling him to never come back.

That would stir up some serious shit.

Your thoughts on Teemo and his family? Anything. Anything at all.

Love you guys! ~~AgentAva