A/N: Work in progress - will post as I finish

They that can give up essential liberty to obtain

a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.

Benjamin Franklin

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Trust me on this, being cooped up with Ziva David in a safe house is nothing like I'd fantasized it would be.

It hasn't helped that Gibbs has pretty much come and gone as he's pleased. While he's been placed under guard, he's steadfastly insisted that Bodner's assassins weren't going to interfere with *his* life. Unfortunately, when Ziva expressed a similar sentiment, even more forcibly, he completely shot her down. He flat out told her she could do anything that needed to be done at a safe distance from both the Navy Yard and our apartments.

My apartment is off limits to Ziva, because Bodner had already demonstrated that he knows how to find her there. And Gibb's declared it off limits for me, as well, until Bodner's taken care of.

Well, Gibbs is the Team Leader, and apparently Ziva wants to stay at NCIS, so she really can't take out all of her frustrations on him. Gee, guess who that left?

McGee has been conspicuous only in his absence from the safe house, although I'm sure Gibbs has told him which of the NCIS safe houses we're staying in. Tim calls with stuff, and emails and faxes paperwork for her to look at, several times a day. But according to Ziva, he's ignoring her emails unless they are strictly within the parameters set by our fearless leader.

Initially, the Boss told me that I could run everything I needed to right from here, too. What a joke. He's called me into the Navy Yard three times so far this week, and after the second nights' 'welcome home' reception, I'm jumping at every chance he gives me to get the hell away from here. Despite Bodner's tracking Ziva to my apartment before, I don't think I was ever one of his targets – makes for a nice change.

Gibbs has also arranged for McGee to pull every damned MCRT cold case file that needed updating, just to give Ziva something constructive to work on. We've pretty much accepted that Ames had been going primarily for Eli, and secondarily for Ziva, and that Jackie and Leon Vance were just collateral damage; either that, or Roland Ames was just dumber than shit.

I'd been to Vance's house, moments after the shooting, and there was no way Ames couldn't have seen exactly who he'd been shooting at through the huge plate glass windows in the dining room. And why the hell would anyone deliberately shoot Jackie Vance? And if his aim was that erratic, how the hell he missed the Director is beyond my comprehension.

Damn it, I'm really going to miss Mrs. Vance. She was one of the things that kept the Director grounded, and she frequently seemed to help mellow his temper. And as someone who's been on the receiving end of his anger more than a time or two, her interference was greatly appreciated. I figure I owe her enough to help find her murderer, even without a personal stake in the endgame.

I got to help canvas Ziva's neighbors, when one of Bodner's goons was spotted at Dulles on a security tape; Ziva got to stay at the safe house. Yet another bone of contention she's using to build her skeleton of rage against me.

We're pretty much at a dead end for the moment, with what little evidence we have. We still haven't found the car that was used to try and ambush Gibbs. The license plates were stolen, of course, and the owner, a seventy-five year old retired pipe fitter, isn't a suspect. But it's a lead we're still trying to track down, to cover all of our bases.

Ziva never took me up on my offer to let her use my credit card over the Internet to expand her currently limited wardrobe. Instead, she called Abby, who went out and bought her a bunch of stuff. Gibbs insisted that it come out of the MCRT operating budget, and McGee arranged for the stuff to be delivered. I'd really looked forward to looking over Ziva's shoulder while she was shopping, and making a few 'suggestions.' Never happened.

The first day at the safe house, the three of us spent catching up on sleep; I didn't even bother to check out the rest of the two-story house. It's a nice location, on the edge of National marshland, with no neighbor within a mile in any direction. Gibbs didn't even complain, although the second day there he made his first foray out with his bodyguard and I spent my first day alone in the house with a pissed-off Ziva.

After checking emails and reading reports, I finally took refuge in the kitchen and cooked Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. Gibbs showed up at ten o'clock that night, having completely missed the oh-so-stimulating dinner conversation between Ziva, the two FBI guards, and myself. Of course, you really had to be into NASCAR to take part in the conversation. Evidently, another thing Ziva and I share – we both hate the sport. At least I do. I assumed Ziva did, too, since she didn't say a word while Agents Dickerson and Cramer waxed poetic on Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s chances this year.

Real intel started to dribble in on day three of our confinement, and I was immensely grateful that the Boss decided that he needed me down in the Navy Yard that day. Of course, I paid in full for my escape later that night.

I'd guilted Gibbs into coming back with me, determined not to face another Ninja attack on my own. We even made the bodyguards stop and pick up dinner. Of course, it turned out Ziva had cooked, and if it hadn't been for Gibbs, no one would have talked to me at all that night. Hey, he was all for take out, too, so why did I get all the blame?

When the Boss announced this morning that he was going into work, and then he'd be returning to his house in Alexandria, never to return here again, I scrambled to make my own temporary escape plans.

The front door had barely slammed shut behind Gibbs when Ziva was at my bedroom door. I was at the dresser, knotting my tie. The look on her face was inscrutable.

"So, you will find a way to go home, too, I suppose." Her tone was flat, displaying absolutely no emotion.

"That what you want, Ziva?" I donned my vest and began to button it up. I looked at her in the mirror, and watched as she reached for my jacket. She was wearing jeans and a tee shirt, her hair was brushed back off of her face with a headband, still damp from her shower. She even wore a little makeup. If I had time, I could almost conjure up some bizarre 1950s Donna Reed scenario, where she was my loving wife, seeing me off to work. Oh, yeah, not in this or any other lifetime. Not even in my weirdest dreams.

When Ziva David wants something, she attacks the problem just like it's a mission or an investigation. And she's learned a lot over the past few years about acting independently, and when to ask for help. This time, she'd been ordered - flat out ordered - by Gibbs to stay put at the safe house.

"I don't need to spend my time worrying about you, Agent David. You can sit here and dig through cold case files as easily as you can at the office. You've got your phone, a laptop, and a fax machine. Besides, you haven't taken a real vacation in more than a year. Take a few walks, lie on the deck, whatever - but you will not leave the grounds unless either the Navy, CIA, or FBI needs you to. Do I make myself clear, Agent David?"

This had been the real 'Don't Fuck With Me' Gibbs, and she knew it. She also knew there was no way that she could talk McGee into telling her that he needed her help with anything. He apparently doesn't have a death wish. Unlike yours truly.

Ziva had already alienated all three shifts of guards, and the FBI investigators don't play nice with the other kids, and are all pretty much misanthropes. So, again, that left me.

As she held my suit jacket up for me, I held her gaze in the mirror. To give her credit, it wasn't a seductive gaze.

"What I want, Tony, is to get out of here and do something useful. I want to try and figure out why the hell Bodner wants me dead. So, please. Come up with something for me to do – something real. I know I have to go through the cold case files. But, damn it, I have been been stuck here for a week. I don't need to go into NCIS, but... please, help me out here."

She didn't even bother to smooth the jacket over my shoulders. She was making it very clear that she wants my help as a professional and as her partner, and that she doesn't expect to pay for that with sex.

And, Jesus, that little speech must have cost her pride plenty. Unconsciously, I rub the back of my head, already feeling phantom headslaps. Frankly, I think Gibbs is being chauvinistic in his protection of her, but I certainly don't want her hurt, either.

I don't answer her, but move around her, very careful not to touch her. I don't want her thinking that I'd settle for that anyway. Over the last year or so, the idea has finally worked its way into some small corner of my brain that I really would like Ziva David in my bed, and in my life – not out of gratitude, or spite aimed at Gibbs, or out of sheer boredom, but because *she* wants to be there. And that's probably not gonna happen without a whole lot of work on my part. I've decided I'm willing to do it, but not right now. Right now, this is just business.

I find my cell phone and punch in a name. "Hey, McGee, it's me. Ziva and I are going out to check on some... stuff."

McGee isn't at all happy about my idea. "The Boss isn't going to like that."

"Yeah, yeah. Just call and arrange for more PSD. Our guys, not the FBI. We're going down to talk to the FBI at the Hoover. Fornell said he needed to talk to her, anyway."

"What about Gibbs?" McGee whined.

I silently swallow, knowing that I'll be facing the wrath of Gibbs later, and shoot a quick look at Ziva. "I'll handle Gibbs." I close my phone and glare at her. "Okay, you've got fifteen minutes before I walk out that door, Agent David. I'm having one cup of coffee..." The rest of my speech is wasted – she's already closed the door behind her on the way to get changed.

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