Her nightmare descends from the 'authorised personnel only' double doors in the form of a man. Solemnly he walks towards the crowded, open waiting room. Tentatively she watches and awaits the name his tightened lips will utter. He doesn't seem too hopeful and fear washes over her, turning her blood to ice and chilling her body. It becomes rigid at the sound of his gruff voice calling for the family of one Anthony DiNozzo. The air becomes thin, the ground unsteady under her wobbly legs and words, a burning sun, crack the desert. "I am his wife," she informs him. Forcibly, afraid of the answer she knows all too well will come, she asks "How is my husband?"

Distress must be overshadowing her mask because the doctor's features soften and a tender smile graces his lips, but the worry is a prisoner of an inescapable place. Calmly he utters, "Your husband will be okay, Mrs. DiNozzo, but his lungs were left with some scarring tissue. And because of this will require yearly check-ups to keep track of any recurrences, but I can reassure you that he will be okay."

A faucet has been opened and relief floods her system, washing out the prisoner, but not completely. A burdened list would not receive another name. More souls would not be grieved in the darkest of nights. In the loneliest of nights.

"He will be okay," she sighs out with too much adrenaline leaving with it. Through the packing, the flight and the waiting, she'd been running on the pent up adrenaline, but now it's leaving with the prisoner and her body is succumbing to exhaustion. Not an ideal combination when there were still hours of daylight to make it through.

Though a statement more than a question, the doctor agrees readily regardless. His tender smile grows an inch larger and he leads her forward, while adding, "Now, I've heard you've taken quite the journey to make it Mrs. DiNozzo, so how about I take you to your husband now."

Despite the circumstances that's brought them together a few days too soon, she's giddy with the idea of them in the same time zone once again, almost two years later. Swiftly, she snags her carry on-her pillow for the last two hours- and follows promptly behind the doctor, attempting to match his step. Sleep is weighing down on her quickly.

Words are not exchanged on the trek to her husband's room and as silence surrounds her, she's left to deal with the other emotions that emerge. Unlike before, giddy and relieved, worry and fear join the mix. They come to a halt outside of a room-shades down and closed door, she can only assume it's her husband's- and with a chart in hand the doctor speaks again, "He's still being administered antibiotics to assure the infection has been completely cleared as well as some painkillers. Just beware that he'll be a bit loopy."

Her eyes fixed on the door, she thanks the doctor and her unsteady hand falls to the knob. Her heart beats loudly, the sound resonating in her ears and the flutters in her stomach don't halter. Relief, worry, anticipation, fear, excitement; emotions finding its to create an overwhelming mix. Too many distinct emotions and not a single one she can focus on. Too much in such little time: a call of such caliber, the distance that separated them, a transatlantic flight in the spur of the moment, his expected recovery and their long overdue meet. Too much for any person.

He's safe. He's alive. And he's within reach. Yet her hand stays frozen on the metal knob, it simply won't turn. It's the nurse wanting access into her husband's room that brings her attention to her blockage as she asks if she'll be entering. As well as mentioning something about some painkillers she has to administer.

Yes. No. She's uncertain. Her heart aches to see him, but there's too much flowing in her brain to properly function and speak with him. Instead, she needs quiet and privacy to pull herself together.

"Is there anywhere I could freshen up?" Her hand removed from the doorknob and she steps aside, no longer blocking the entrance.

The nurse steps forward, hands full of supplies, but after a manoeuvre mastered through experience she points in the direction from whence they came. "There's a restroom around the corner," she offers with a warm and genuine smile. "I'll let him know you're here.

"Thank you." She offers in return and makes her way in search of a safe haven- her heart heavy as her husband's room becomes further and further away.

Water covers her face; a cocktail of tears, sweat and water fall into the drain. The boxed emotions, the cocktail, overcome her composed exterior and she stares in the mirror, attempting to intimidate them away. It takes more coaxing because the gravity of the situation of not having seen her husband for almost two years and having been too close to extending that time frame indefinitely was far too overbearing. A year had not been enough time to embrace the life of husband and wife, for that time had been spent with both halves at a distance far too great to overcome.

With a few more minutes staring into her reflections the emotions disappear with the water down the drain, washing away to leave a raw women. A bit more water and a dab of make up hide the agony still left twirling her insides into knots. Determination returned to see her husband, she exits the safe haven and heads toward the room she'd been escorted to just moments ago, but unlike before with closed shades and doors, his room is exposed and displays a crowd-an older gentleman, a much younger one than the first and two lovely ladies.

Honed observation skills, she watches their interaction from afar and stays hidden, out of view. If their greatest treasure didn't hang in the balance, she'd stake her claim at his side. For now she'd watch.

…

A gentle tap on her shoulder drags her out of a dark cloud. Sleep was restless lately, a quick charge to depleted energy, but it wasn't peaceful nor advantageous. Her eyes flutter open to a friendly, yet still unknown face. Mossad training she's on high alert, but the woman's smile doesn't falter.

"They're gone," she offers, but at Ziva's confused expression she continues. "I noticed you hadn't gone in to see your husband while he had visitors."

Yes, his coworkers. They'd made it to his side before she'd mustered up the courage. She'd waited, but sleep had won this battle and she'd succumbed. Now though, his room was vacant and again he was within reach.

She takes a deep breath and glances over her shoulder at the woman offering support. "Go ahead," the nurse encourages. "I know he's very anxious to see you." Oh, she'd been the one to run into her at his door. He knew she was here.

Steps weigh heavy under her as she treks the few feet into her husband's room. Quietly she sets her bag on the chair near the door and stumbles, lacking her usual grace, into the one at his bedside. The same one the pig-tailed woman had occupied. At the thought jealousy bubbles within and she quiets it with the reminder that she's taken the role of his sister, nothing more.

Her hand kisses his and the other runs down his stubbly cheek. "I have missed you ahava." The words break on their way out and tears threaten to follow soon after, attempting to cross an impenetrable barrier.

The disturbance in quiet causes his eyes to flutter and raspy voice, she hears "Zi?" A cough elicits after and like a mantra, she repeats he's okay, he's okay.

"Shalom," she smiles; heart heavy, the smile isn't complete. Her heart flutters, the blood circulating rapidly. How long it's been since she's been at his side.

He struggles to sit upright and she watches with painful eyes. He's not deterred and he pushes with such force that elicits more coughs that cause her spine to shiver. Reassurance is heavily needed.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming," he begs. "You're here?"

Her head shakes despite the headache that's threatening to emerge. "Not dreaming, I'm very real." Her hand tightens around his as proof for him as much as for her. She could very well be dreaming as well. "I'm here."

"You came? But how?" Again he coughs dryly and the physicians words ring through, damage to his lungs. "Not that I'm not h-" cough. "Happy to see you."

A heart-stopping call that would send chills down anyone's spine. Distance was the least of her worries when her husband was on his deathbed or so she'd been made to believe. By the remnants, the nurse hadn't been too far off. "After the call I received, how could I not come." Forgiveness would have never come had she not. Another soul lost for which she'd blame herself.

"Glad you came. Missed you." Nodding, he lays against his pillow.

"As have I, but you couldn't have waited the few days to see me?" Spills from her lips, a joke with a hint of accusation lacing her words. "You didn't have to almost die." Though surely not the cause of his ailment, a safe way in the future she's sure it's to become a joke between the pair. For now it's too raw and she's well aware of the lack of life in his eyes and she realises, he'd come so close to losing his life all together.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

Scared didn't cover it. Frightened, terrified. No word could even begin to describe the cold blood, shrill feeling that the call elicited. No Mossad training had prepared her for this. Facing a gun at point blank didn't elicit this kind of fear, neither did the death of her mother and beloved Tali. Those had brought heavy sorrow, but nothing had paled in comparison. This, altogether, was an entirely new experience.

Tears at seeing him so helpless threaten to spill, but she will not burden him with her worries. He had enough of his own and his only priority was recuperating. "Rest," she orders. Her hand migrates to his chest and rubs in soothing circles, attempting to ease some of the burning sensation she knows he must be feeling. She'd been choked almost to death once and breathing had been uneasy.

"Many questions. But hurts."

Her hand rubs across his cheek at his declaration and her heart aches at his suffering. She can't offer him much, but her presence. And that she does, "Rest yakiri, I will be here when you wake."

He nods, his eyes closing in time with her rubs. "Love you, Zi" he murmurs as he succumbs to sleep.

"Ani ohev otach," she whispers to a quieted room.

...

Sun glistening through the hospital shades tells Tony it's a new day. No clocks on the barren walls, he can only guess at the time, but it's definitely day. He's survived the night under observation, only being woken once for administration of antibiotics as a precaution of susceptibility to a secondary infection from a weakened immune system.

A glance to his right shows a vacant seat. Through muffled brain he vaguely remembers Ziva and the frightened look glossing her eyes. He'd wanted to comfort her, take her in his arms and wash away the worry, but he'd been tired, exhausted from the charade for the team. Now it seems that he'd missed his chance. Had she really come? She'd promised she was real, but he was on strong medication and reality often blurred with fantasy. He looks around the room for any evidence of her presence, but there's nothing. She'd been a dream, too. A very good one, but only a dream.

He falls against his pillow with a sigh, eyes closing in frustration. He'd just wanted that to be real. Desperately wanted to see his wife, but he realises that even if the nurse had managed to contact her, she'd be unable to come. Leaving her homeland undetected, not an easy task, even for Mossad.

Chest no longer under fire, breathing is no longer a task. Sudden urge to contact his wife, his arm stretches and the fight against the plague has left his body sore. Fingers curl around the device and it vibrates against them.

"DiNozzo?" Voice hoarse from overuse, but forming words are no longer a fight. A struggle. Foreign to his body.

A chipper voice rings in his ear. Abby. He sighs the disappointment away. Why couldn't the dream have been real? His lungs may no longer burn, but his heart aches for his cure.

"I'm not sure Abbs." His hand runs down his face in frustration. Regardless of her place as his pseudo sister, he's in no mood to host the team. "How about I call when I'm home?" He'd skip out on entertaining. Only one guest was welcomed and she was thousands of miles away.

Loud footsteps notify him of someone's presence and he groans inwardly. "Don't tell me you're already here."

Silence on the other line. Great. Sometimes he despised her impulsivity. "I told you not to come." His words leave a bit of a bite and he's too frustrated to care. He'll be reprimanded and deal with the consequences later. He's recuperating and dammit, he wants his wife. He's allowed to be grouchy, but he hardly loses it with Abby. She'll forgive him, he hopes.

The footsteps breach the entrance of his room and his breath hitches at the intruder. Abby's reply doesn't process and the apology forming on his lips falls short, instead he offers a different response. "Abby I'll call you back." Quickly, the call is ended and his eyes return to the figure at the door.

Air escapes him. His lungs constrict and the phone slips from his fingers like a squirmy fish. Unruly curls stand before him, a tentative smile on her lips. "Ziva?" He exasperates.

"Morning," she responds. "You look much better."

"I thought I'd dreamt you." His heart picks up, the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms boiling. But he's constricted to the damn bed. "I woke up and you weren't there."

Sheepishly she stares at him. "Nettie wanted to see how you were doing." She offers as a way of apology. She approaches his side, claiming the seat that substituted her bed. Fingers intertwined they're brought to her lips for a kiss.

"'M glad you're real," he chuckles at her twinkling eyes. "You're here," he squeals and it blindsides him. He's that pimply teenager, love struck at the sight of his wife. A side his coworkers are not privileged to.

Gingerly he scoots in the bed, shaping room for her to join. Two magnets of different poles attract and soon her body melts in his. "You're exhausted." Statement, not question. The dark hues colouring her under eyes are her tell that she'd hadn't had much rest. Plus, a transatlantic flight and the worry of him in this damn hospital on accord of his stupidity.

"Slept in a chair, not very comfortable." That may be true, but there's more she's not sharing. She wouldn't share the weakness.

"You're Mossad, you've slept in worse."

"Mhm, but never had to worry about you making it through the night before." There's the truth. He feels her head fall to his chest and his arms tighten around her waist.

"Thank you for coming," he mumbles into her curls because what else could he say? Thank you for caring enough to make a crazy trip across an ocean and disobey your father?

Nodding irritates his chest and a small whisper he hears, "just glad you're okay." Fingers tighten around his hospital gown. His wife. His beautiful, amazing wife. Perfect bliss in the privacy of the hospital room.

The morning nurse, more flirtatious than the one from the night before, returns disrupting the comfortable silence that's cocooned the pair. Ziva's breath is steadying, her eyes shutting and closing. He's not sure that anything could surpass how content he feels. Until his hold tightens and the nurse, a smile glued to her lips, chirps "who's ready to be discharged?"

He's taking his wife home or rather, she's taking him home.

To be continued…

A/N I want to thank everyone for bearing with me as I struggle to get the chapters rewritten and uploaded.