He wakes up to the agonizing trill of his cell phone in the nearby vicinity. He blindly waves a hand around and somehow manages to grab a hold of it, and he slams it against his ear with a bit too much force.

"Ouch."

"Most people open a telephone conversation with 'hello', you know."

Ziva. "Ziva." Why is Ziva calling at… he scans around for a clock, but the only clock is his cell phone and so he grimaces. It feels too early to be verbally sparring with his ex-coworker-maybe-friend-maybe-more-he-doesn't-eve n-know. "No. It's too early."

"Tony it's eleven in the afternoon."

"Eleven is still the morning, Ziva."

"It is not."

"Either way, I was asleep."

"Having a nice dream?" He can practically hear her eyebrows shoot upwards.

"Um –" He hadn't been dreaming at all, actually, his sleep was restless and his brain is muddled and he still isn't sure how to deal with being unemployed. "What did you want, Ziva?"

"You, actually."

Oh.

Maybe his brain isn't fully awake yet. Or maybe –

Oh.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Abby's party-gathering-thing is tonight."

It is? He has blissfully forgotten about the fact that Ziva volunteered them to jump into the fray of Abby's weird sub-culture of friends.

"Yes," continues Ziva, "I wanted to check whether or not you are actually going?"

Is he going? He isn't sure. He feels terrible, like maybe curling on the sofa and watching Life Movies isn't that bad of an idea. Abby will understand. Maybe.

And Ziva? She sounds like her going to the party is dependent on his going to the party. If he doesn't go, will she? And then it hits him all at once, and he thinks it is probably his brain finally waking up. Abby's party-gig-thing will be his and Ziva's first outing since resignation, their first time out as not-coworkers, and their first music-based-activity since Berlin.

Berlin.

Yeah.

"Sure," he says, "I'll go."

"Great, I'll see you there."

Yes, he thinks, yes.

The gig is loud, as he predicted, and he attempts to arrive late so as to avoid most of the crowds, but apparently the band are running behind and so he manages to turn up right while they are still setting up.

Great.

The club is smallish but nicely decorated (and by that he means there is a minimal amount of tacky gothic decorations) and the band are on a little stage at the back, far away from the bar. About a hundred people are crowded into this tiny space and Tony cannot believe this isn't breaking some fire safety regulations. Every single person is decked out in weird black outfits and look like Abby-minions, only less chipper.

He has little to no hope of locating either of his teammates, so he settles himself at the bar.

They all probably arrived earlier than him. Ziva likes to be the first there, attentive and on time right down to the second. McGee probably turned up with Abby which (knowing Abby) was probably hours before the band even woke up. Palmer is anyone's guess.

Tony orders whiskey and coke. It tastes like bad decisions.

"Hey – you're here."

Tony turns and the look he shoots at McGee is possibly the most loving he has ever given him. "Probie, thank god, I thought I'd have to brave this place alone."

"It's not that bad." McGee actually looks like he's enjoying himself. Tony cannot believe this man. "Have you seen Palmer?" he continues, "He's wearing a Cranberries shirt."

Tony downs the rest of his drink. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"Well –"

The rest of McGee's sentence is drowned in a fit of squeals as Abby launches herself toward them and attempts to hug them both at once. "Tony, you actually came."

"I said I would."

She kisses his cheek and looks so entirely pleased that he thinks it is worth putting himself though the agony of a counterculture gathering. Her hair has bright yellow ribbons woven into the pigtails and he touches them fondly. He is never not impressed by her ability to carry on, to see the joy in any situation. He knows she misses Gibbs more than any of them, in ways he cannot understand, and he hugs her back, tight.

She steps away from him to jab McGee's ribs. McGee squeaks. "Hey Tim, you told him about Jimmy yet?"

"I was."

Tony cannot hold it in any longer. "Either of you know where Ziva is?"

They look at each other and their eyes grow wide and McGee looks intensely disappointed.

"I told you!" Abby crows. She punches poor McGee on the arm, who yelps this time.

"Told him what?"

"I told him you couldn't even leave it five minutes without asking about Ziva. I knew it!" She looks fit to burst with gloating and grins at McGee. "You owe me a drink."

McGee scowls. "Oh, if we're calling in debts, you owe me forty dollars."

"Since when?!"

"Since two-thousand-and-three."

Tony loves them, he really does. "No but really guys, Ziva?"

They are distracted and dangerously close to going into full on not-a-couple-bicker-mode but Abby manages to look at him and jerk her head towards the corner near where the band are tuning up, and sure enough Tony follows her gaze to see Ziva and some dude with spiky hair engaged in conversation.

It hurts, a little, but this is free country and Ziva is not someone he should get jealous about and, really, the guy has spiky hair, he looks ridiculous.

Tony is not jealous. No. Not even slightly.

"Ugh," says Abby, "We need music."

Death metal band or not, Tony agrees with her.

By the time the band are halfway through their first song (which, surprisingly, appears to last at least eight minutes), Tony has one hundred per cent made up his mind. He does not like death metal music. He knew that anyway, but now it is a bona fide fact.

Sacrificial Goat are a decent band, as far as he can tell. They play some catchy tunes and the crowd seems more than pleased by their tracklist. But it's just noise,and then about a second of silence and then more noise.

Tony stands with Palmer at the back of the crowd. The autopsy gremlin only has a limited amount of energy and now that it is getting late he looks like he could fall asleep standing up. He wobbles and knocks into Tony.

"Why not go home?"

Jimmy fixes him with a shaky glare. He's not even that drunk, but he's been agitated all night. "Easier said than done."

"Want me to call you a cab?"

"If that cab will take me to your place, where I can stay tonight?"

Um.

Weird.

"Palmer… what?"

"Nothing."

"You don't want to go home?"

Palmer says nothing, which means 'yes'.

Tony sighs. Out of everyone in the whole world, ever, Palmer is the last person Tony expects to be avoiding home.

"Did you and Breena fight?" Tony doubts that Palmer has ever fought with anyone, but he doesn't know what else to say.

"Not exactly. Not yet, anyway. I kind of want to avoid the fight that may or may not happen."

"Getting pretty cryptic there Palmer."

Palmer is silent for several long minutes in which Tony wishes he had invested in earplugs. The band are playing louder and louder and the crowd scream louder in response. It is his idea of hell, for sure.

"So." Says Jimmy, and Tony waits for it. Palmer has a habit of long drawn out pauses that he must get from Ducky.

"Sooo…?"

"So Breena's pregnant."

Wow.

"Wow."

"I know, right?"

"Congrats, Daddy Palmer." Tony claps his shoulder a couple of times and gives him a one-armed hug. "That's great news!" It's the greatest news Tony has heard for a while and it makes him happier than it normally would.

"It is?"

"Yeah! But, Palmer, what the hell are you doing here? Go home."

"She told me she was pregnant…"

"And what did you say?"

"I said 'I'm late for work' and then I went to the lab and then Abby came in when my shift was over and we came right here and I haven't spoken to Breena at all."

"No. No no no no, this is not allowed to happen, Palmer. You will not screw this up. You will go home right now to your wife and tell her how happy you are about your future offspring. You are happy right?"

"I think I am. I mean, yes, of course. Just nervous."

"Nervous is fine. Happy is good. Going to a stupid gig right now is neither fine nor good. Go home. Now. Got it Palmer?"

Jimmy looks resigned to his fate. "Got it." He passes the remainder of his beer to Tony (which is almost a full bottle because Palmer is a terrible lightweight) and nods once, before making a beeline for the door.

"Good man," says Tony quietly. He's not normally good with kids, less so with babies, totally inexperienced with pregnant hormonal women, but Jimmy and Breena feel like the one good thing his family has going right now and damned if he is going to sit back and let it fall apart.

By midnight Tony is alone and increasingly sick of listening to the band play over and over. Midnight is an acceptable time to leave, right? The guys are nowhere to be seen though, and Tony cannot leave without at least making sure they are okay. He knows his fear is irrational because, firstly they are grown adults, and secondly, they are trained federal agents and have faced worse dangers than an overcrowded club.

He thinks this is how Gibbs must feel during everyday menial situations; watching them cross the street, watching them take down a suspect, watching them skip too many meals. He worries for his team, in a strange way he cannot explain. Tony feels it in his gut and it gets worse the longer he spends with them out of his line of sight.

He takes a deep breath and heads into the fray; if anyone will know where they are then it is Abby. He sees her by the stage, jumping up and down in unison with a bunch of people who are apparently her friends. They all wear dark clothes and big boots and crazy hair, and Tony feels so out of place that he feels an awkwardness he hasn't felt since junior high.

Tony navigates the mosh crowd towards Abby's pigtailed head and, when the song ends, calls out for her. She wheels on the balls of her feet and comes clambering towards him. She holds his hand and grins at him and he thinks she is a little drunk.

"Hey Tony!"

"Hey Abs. Did you see where McGee and Ziva went?"

"I don't know about Ziva. But McGee went out back for some air, but that was about thirty minutes ago."

Tony thinks McGee is a smart, smart man.

He makes his way towards the club's front exit for a breath of fresh air, and emerges into the cool air on the street with a gasp of relief. The air inside is clammy and horribly ripe, and Tony feels his t-shirt sticking to his back.

He pats himself down and finds that he has (somehow) survived the pulsing crowds. He is tired and really, really wants to go home.

He's just considering which cab company to call when someone presses against his side and a cold bottle of beer finds its way into his hand.

"You look exhausted."

He turns to look at her, which really doesn't take that much effort because she is right there against his shoulder. "You look…" he intends to counter with something funny and snappy but the truth is she looks stunning, completely unphased by the chaos of the club. He thinks Ziva is the sort of person who could walk through a warzone and still look gorgeous.

Hell, she's done that.

"I look…?"

He smiles at her. "You look like just the person I want to see."

"You don't like the band?"

"Are you kidding? I hate the band."

"I must admit, they're not to my usual taste."

"That doesn't surprise me at all."

"They're a little… loud."

"I was going to say horrific, but yeah, loud."

She laughs and leans forward to press her face into his arm and he can feel the peals of laughter shaking him. "They do suck major time."

"Big time. Major league. Don't mix your idioms Ziva."

Correcting her has become second nature and so has her response of a glare. He thinks it is a kind of dance that they do, playful without breaking out of habit. He wonders what she would do if he kissed her. Habit is pretty much out the window at this point, case in point: unemployment, and being at one of Abby's crazy parties.

He swigs his beer instead. Probably for the best.