This is my first foray into true Tiva-fic. There were some who thought my last story, "The Impractical Heart," verged on Tiva, but I still maintain it was about their friendship, a very complex, resilient friendship. This story is flat-out Tiva.

A couple of things:

This is a "what if" fic, not a "let's make this medically plausible" fic. I did minimal research, so if you are a neurologist or know anything about neurology, I ask your forgiveness preemptively.

It will only be seven chapters long. It is entirely worked out, and I have written five of seven chapters. Technically, it is a WIP, but I have a goal to finish it this week while I'm on vacation.

I do not own any bit of the NCIS machine, empire or properties. Please don't sue me.

I hope you enjoy this frivolous journey into my strange psyche.

Tony DiNozzo danced into the bullpen, dropped his backpack onto the ground in his cubicle, and continued singing. "Oh, I'm being followed by a moon shadow. Moooooon shadow, moon shadow." Tim glanced up from his computer to share a look with Ziva, who simply sat with her head in her hands. "Leaping and hopping on a moon shadow. Moooo-Here's a question for you, McJetPack, how does one leap and hop on a moon shadow?"

"Why the fascination with songs from the seventies, Tony?" Tim asked, fingering through an old file.

"Oh, I guess you could say the Cat has my tongue today," Tony answered, sitting down. He pulled himself into his desk, yanked smooth his suit coat, and laid eyes on Ziva. "Speaking of cats, which one dragged you in this morning, Maude?"

Ziva's hands slid to her neck. Her eyes remained closed. "Yusuf Islam."

"You're dating someone named Yusuf Islam?" Tony asked, to which, in response, Ziva moaned. "I don't follow, moon shadow."

"Yusuf Islam," Ziva said, rubbing her fingers across her forehead. "Cat Stevens changed his name to Yusuf Islam. It is Yusuf Islam."

"I got that," Tony said, stepping from behind his desk, never taking his narrowed focus off Ziva. "You feeling okay?"

She thought she should stare him down and shut him up, but whenever she did, the room tilted and twirled. "I am...fine."

"Yeah, you look it." Tony balanced himself on the edge of her desk, and continued with the questions. "So what is it? Hangover? The flu? Common cold? You're not...pregnant, are you?"

"Whatever it is, Tony, you are making it worse," she said, covering her eyes with her hand.

"Pregnancy-insinuations aside," he said, rising from his perch. He pivoted her chair to face him, and said, "I'm serious. What's wrong?"

Ziva took a deep breath, and when her eyes fluttered open, she gave it her all to pacify him. "It is nothing. I have... Yes, I have a headache."

"A migraine? Do you have a migraine? This looks like a migraine. Not that I get migraines," Tony said, examining her eyes for any signs, not terribly sure if he'd know one from her symptoms. "DiNozzos don't get migraines."

"Only hemorrhoids," Tim reminded him.

"I told you that in private," Tony growled back over his shoulder. "And, by the way, I wonder how I got those, ya pain in the... Dammit, Probie! What's the matter with you?"

"This is not helping," Ziva said, trying to turn her chair, but Tony stopped her. She sucked in her upper lip, shook her head, which turned out to be a bad idea, and said, "It is probably nothing, but...this morning, in the shower, I passed out. I think."

"You passed out?"

"I think."

"You think?"

"One minute, I was shaving my legs, and the next, I woke up in the shower. I...I think I passed out, although I cannot be sure," she said, elbowing his hand off her chair, causing him to almost tumble over. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."

Having heard the disconcerting element of her story, Tim moved from behind his desk and joined Tony. "You think? You don't remember?"

Her eyes flew from Tim's to Tony's, who was now in a squat in front of her. "It is nothing, I'm sure. I simply cannot remember." Tony peered into her wide eyes, his scrutiny discomforting her. What could he be looking for? How bad did she look? she wondered. She didn't want an answer to either question, truthfully, so she began to turn away from him. "This is ridiculous. I have-" But in a flash, Tony's hands were on her face, her scalp, her neck.

"Is it possible that you fell?" he asked, brushing back her hair.

"I...I don't... I am unsure," she said, searching his eyes that were not looking into hers, but scanning her hairline, her neck.

"But your head, it hurts, right?"

"This is foolish."

"Where does it hurt, Ziva?" he asked, palpating her skull, his fingers skittering over the area.

"I am fine," she sighed, but he was relentless.

Tony gathered her hair and combed it behind her left ear. Raising to the level of her temples, peering inside her ear, Tony found a tiny pool of blood. "Tim." McGee leaned over, and Tony made room for him to see the evidence of something more than just passing out.

"Uh, Ziva," Tim said, lowering himself next to Tony, "do me a favor-I'm going to say a list of items, and I want you to repeat them to me."

The insistence and seriousness in his tone and in his countenance frightened her, and she said, "Why?"

"Humor me."

Tony, meanwhile, continued to examine her scalp, until, with a wince from Ziva, he found the tender spot. "Rule number 58, Agent David: Never shower alone. Or, it should be Rule 58," he said, trying to estimate the size of the swelling without causing her added pain. "Got a big ol' goose egg, there, missy."

"Ready?" Tim asked. "Car, orange, dog, month."

Ziva closed her eyes, and Tony stood up, straightening his suit coat, his tie, without ever taking his focus off Ziva. She looked pale, he thought. Pale and shaken.

"Do you need me to repeat them?" Tim asked.

Ziva took in a deep breath, and labored through the list. "Car. Orange. Month. Orange."

Tony glanced at Tim, and then patted Ziva's back, and said, "Why don't you and I take a little trip to the ER?"

"Stop it," she said, swatting his hands away. "I am fine."

"As much as it pains me to say this, Ziva," Tim added, "Tony's right. You need to get that checked out."

Ziva set her jaw, glared at Tony, and asked, "Why?"

Tony said, "I think you have a concussion."

"Since when did you become a physician?"

"That's a good point," he said, chuckling. "And that's why you need to go the ER, where there are doctors who know exactly what a concussion looks like."

"Do I not have a say in this?"

Tony bent over and grabbed Ziva's satchel from next to her desk, then offered his hand to her. "Tell you what-if you don't have a concussion, you can buy me lunch."

"Wait," Ziva said, finding herself being lifted from her chair by both Tim and Tony. And she did stand, because, truth be told, she was too tired to fight him. "What? Where are we going?"

Tony threw her satchel over his shoulder and wrapped his arm across her back. "Tell our contestant where she's going, McGee!"

"Buh, I would say...Georgetown University Hospital would be closest," Tim said, nodding.

"Georgetown it is," Tony said, carefully ushering her out from behind her desk. She reached to open her drawer to retrieve her gun and badge, but Tony stopped her. "I don't think you're gonna need those." When her shoulder drooped, when she seemed to lose her hold on vertical, Tony increased his hold on her. "Ya all right, there, Ziva?"

She pressed a hand to her forehead, and whispered, "Perhaps we should go."

Tony slid his hand into hers and helped her move through the office. "McGee, tell Gibbs-"

"Got it," Tim said, wondering if he should accompany them, at least to the car. "I'll tell him you took Ziva to the ER."

Punching the button on the elevator, Tony called back, "Yeah, that was probably better than what I was going to say."

"Which was what?"

"That the contractions were three minutes apart," Tony offered, just as the elevator doors slid open. "Ready, honey?"

"Tony..." she warned, and yet found greater purchase on his hand.

They talked the whole way. Well, he talked, and she listened. Until she became too tired to listen, then she closed her eyes and rested. Then, Tony became concerned and called out her name, yelled her name, pinched her, tapped her, yelled out her name again, and broke any number of traffic rules to expedite their trip. They finally reached the hospital, squealing tires, and she was half-conscious, hardly responsive at all, and when Tony cried out "We got an injured federal agent here!" the security guard rushed to get a gurney. The doors to the ER bay opened with a great whoosh, and in a moment, Ziva was taken one way and Tony another.

There were questions asked and paperwork to fill out, and all the while, Tony's mind stayed with Ziva, and her bag stayed on his shoulder.

Thirty-five minutes. That's all it took for a nurse to come charging out of triage to find him. She led him by the arm to a family consultation room and tried to talk to him slowly, but there just wasn't time for much explanation. "We need a signature. You are listed as one of her emergency contacts. Will you sign for her?"

He knew he was staring at her, but it was all just so incomprehensible. "What?" His fingers dug more deeply into the leather bag he had propped in his lap, Ziva's bag.

"Mr. DiNozzo, we need to operate now," she said, shoving the clipboard closer to him, practically wrapping his fingers around the pen. "I just need your signature."

One blink, and the world and his brain synchronized again. He scribbled his name on the form, here, here, and here, and she was gone. Tony watched the door swing shut behind her, and wondered if he was supposed to stay in the room or leave. How long was it supposed to take? he wondered. Had she said that? What else had he missed? Tony spooled back the conversation. Part of his brain was on recall duty, the other on suppression of panic duty. He wrapped his arms around Ziva's bag and wondered if there was anything in it she would need.

So when his phone rang, once, twice, Tony didn't immediately hear it. After the third ring, he pressed the button and couldn't remember what came next.

"DiNozzo? You there?" asked Gibbs.

Tony lowered his head, balanced the bag in his lap, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, Boss."

"What's the latest?"

How could he tell him when Tony wasn't sure what had just happened? And as he rubbed his fingers across his tense brow, he realized he was numb.

"Tony?"

His head shot up, his eyes wide. He took a deep breath. He had to get ahold of himself. Tony slung the satchel over his shoulder, and said, "She's in surgery. They took her into surgery."

"What?"

Tony slammed shut his eyes. Think. Think! "Um, something about bleeding in her brain. It's not good, Boss."

"I'm on my way," was the last thing Tony heard, and something inside him said he could end the call.