A/N: Okay, guys. Here's another chapter. This one was kind of hard to write – I would welcome feedback of any kind.

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Ziva sighed with pure, unalloyed relief. Relief that was so intense and wonderful – and that lasted for about two seconds.

"Hey, wow, Ziva. This really your place? It's nice. Although – it would look more welcoming if you added flowers. You know, some of those bushes that flower every year and all you have to do is water and trim them? Yeah, and they should be yellow. Yellow flowers. What'd'ya think?"

Tony's voice shattered her relief. Instead of getting angry – she did not have enough energy for anger – she sighed despondently.

Tony grinned, waiting for some kind of response.

Ziva chose to ignore him. She climbed out of the car and strode towards her home – her sanctuary. Briefly she considered locking him out. Tony did not belong in her sanctuary. But it was no good – Tony would just bang on her door until she let him in. Banging would upset her headache more than Tony's talking.

Besides, she always regretted (afterwards, of course) any whimsical decision-making when she felt this crappy. So she left the front door open behind her. She was vaguely aware of him following her, vaguely aware that he was still talking. She did not care.

Her head throbbed and her muscles ached. She was exhausted and hungry. Shutting out Tony's endless monologue, Ziva hung up her jacket in the coat closet and set her purse on the baker's rack. As if on auto-pilot she walked past the familiar entranceway and into her living room . Immediately, she collapsed into her favorite arm chair.

Ziva closed her eyes and tilted her head back into the soft cushion, still ignoring Tony to the best of her ability. Just a few moments, and then I will apologize and make him dinner, she told herself.

She concentrated on her breathing and slowly, everything else faded away.

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Tony stared at Ziva, dumbfounded. She was asleep! She had marched up the driveway, straight into her house, stopping only to put her coat and purse away. Blatantly ignoring him, she relaxed into a plush brown armchair and – and promptly fell asleep.

Okay, so he knew she was tired and cranky, but this – this surprised him. He looked longingly at her couch. It matched the chair Ziva was currently snoring away in and looked every bit as comfortable. But he couldn't risk it.

He hated making 'logical' decisions, but right now it was hard not to. If he curled up on Ziva's couch, fell asleep, and then woke her with one of his nightmares, she would not only be pissed (and probably just barely restrain her killer instincts) but she'd want to know why he screamed in his sleep. And Tony knew he would, tonight.

Usually, when he felt this way, he'd go sit in Gibbs' basement and drink bourbon until he knew he'd sleep soundly, or until Gibbs ordered him to sleep regardless. Sometimes he'd talk and sometimes he wouldn't. Gibbs never told him to leave, nor did he comment about it the next day.

He sighed, okay, sleep is out. What now? His stomach rumbled loudly. Dinner it was.

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Ziva's kitchen was very nice. It had plenty of cabinet space, and decent sized pantry, and accessible appliances. The counter tops were uncluttered, with only a toaster and blender tucked away in one corner. All in all, it was very much like her desk – orderly and efficient.

Scrounging about, Tony had been able to find a pot, a pan, some noodles, and all the ingredients for Chef Marco's famous alfredo sauce. There was even chicken in the freezer. Tony quickly set about preparing the meal as he'd been taught. Marco had been his father's chef for almost four years, and, as a child, Tony had spent a lot of time in the kitchen with him.

Both his parents preferred French cuisine, which Marco cooked with great finesse, but he'd taught Tony a few Italian classics. Which is a really good thing, actually, Tony reflected, because I'm cooking for Ziva here. I've got to keep up my reputation.

Tony bustled about the kitchen as quietly as he was able, not wanting to wake Ziva until the food was done. Hopefully, waking to the wonderful smell of his Chicken Alfredo would put her in a better mood.

Still, she might kill him for going through virtually all the drawers and cabinets in her kitchen. Tony froze when this thought occurred to him. Well, it was too late to turn back now. Maybe if he added desert, she'd be more willing to overlook his invasion of her privacy? He began wracking his memory for an easy cake recipe.

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Ziva woke slowly. That, in itself, was unusual. Normally, she came awake all at once, knowing exactly what had awakened her. Gradually she became aware that she was sitting up. Looking around she determined she was in her home – her living room, actually, and in her favorite chair.

A soft clang and a startled curse jerked her attention to the kitchen. Someone was in her house!

Now fully alert, she stalked carefully towards the kitchen, the knife she always kept strapped to her ankle held out before her. Cautiously, she peered around the door frame until she was able to see the sole occupant of the room. A man was hunched over the sink, his back to her.

That back – something was familiar about this man, even from the back. She strained her slightly sleep-addled memory before she came up with a name.

"Tony"

She had expected him to be startled – there was no way he could have heard her approach over the sound of running water. If he was surprised, however, she could not detect it.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty!", he said cheerfully, half turning to face her. He kept his hand under the water. "You hungry?"

Something was different, something felt different to Ziva. Somehow Tony seemed slightly… subdued?

Subdued was a word Ziva had never previously connected with Tony, nor had she ever expected too. It was like the man had only two switches: hyper and off. And she had never seen Tony in "off" mode.

"Ziva, are you okay?" He seemed concerned. Puzzled, she realized that she hadn't answered his question.

"Yes, I am fine. And I am hungry. What have you cooked?' Ziva responded carefully.

Tony grinned again and turned off the water. The Mossad agent in her noticed how careful he was being with his right hand. He must have burned it, she surmised.

"Ah, glad you asked. We've got a DiNozzo Italian specialty! Chicken Alfredo Fettuccini, sautéed spinach with diced tomatoes, garlic toast, and desert in the oven."

Even the words were wrong. There were no jokes and no movie references. There were no annoying repetitive motions and absolutely no mess in her kitchen. Tony was studiously cheerful, and Ziva had no idea what that meant.

"I did not know you cooked, Tony" She expected – well, she hoped – that he would respond with some kind of crack about how his cooking was very favorably regarded by a great many 'hot chicks'. Classic DiNozzo.

"Not often. Don't really have the time, you know? Besides, it's not really a hobby for me. I like to cook sometimes, though. Hey, could you hand me that potholder?"

This was not the Tony she knew. Something was wrong. A cold knot formed in her stomach, whether at the thought of something being wrong, or something being wrong with Tony, she was not sure. He may be annoying, but he was also a competent field agent, and she trusted him with her life. She would not wish anything bad to happen to him.

She handed him the potholder.

"Thanks!"

The feeling in the pit of her stomach grew. Tony was being polite for no apparent reason. Something was very, very wrong. She thought quickly - should she call Abby, or Gibbs? Maybe Ducky? If Tony had gone crazy, Ducky would be the most able to recognize it. He would not, however, be the best person to handle a crazy-Tony. McGee wouldn't know what to do at all. That left Abby or Gibbs.

Making her decision, Ziva politely excused herself and went back into the living room to place her call.

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A/N: What do you guys think? Who does she call? Please review.