"Morning McGee, Morning Tony," Gibbs stopped short and took a step back to see Ziva. "What are you doing here? I remember giving you specific orders to take the day off."

"I told her so Boss," cut in Tony from his desk.

"Shut up, Dinozzo."

"I'b fide Gibbs. I really wadt to see this case through," Ziva looked up at her boss through a shrewdly projected veil of composure. Her voice was all but gone and her cheeks betrayed a fever with a hint of a blush.

"I don't give a damn what you want, David," said Gibbs simply. "You need to go home. You need to go to bed." He lowered his voice and leaned in towards her. "I need you to get well." He stood back up. "Now get out of here."

In a huff, Ziva grabbed her knapsack and left.

A knock on the door brought Ziva out of her trance. She pulled the headphones from her ears and, in a flurry, tried to clean the mess of used tissues from the kitchen table.

"Cubbing," she called hoarsely to the front door.

When she pulled it open there was no other than Tony DiNozzo leaning against her doorframe.

"Ah," she said when she saw him. "Did you brig be the case files?"

"I did not," he replied moving past her into the small apartment. "Jesus Ziva, have you never taken a sick day before?"

She furrowed her brows and followed his gaze the the pile of papers and CDs scattered across her kitchen table.

"I have purchased language CDs. I think it is time I picked up Hindi. Did you know it is spoken by over…" her breath hitched and she turned away from Tony just in time to sneeze strongly into her elbow. "Hetchew!"

"Gesundheit."

"Danke," replied Ziva with a smile. "I thik Germad will be dext. I do dot expect Hindi to take very long at all…"

She was cut off by the look of dismay on Tony's face.

"What's wrong?" she sniffled.

"You are," his voice was full of contempt and disbelif. "You're doing it all wrong. I mean look at you. Your hair's pulled up tight, you're wearing combat boots… you need to change. Now, go change into something comfortable."

Ziva started to protest that what she was wearing was fine but Tony cut her off with a commanding, "Sweatpants… I want to see sweatpants!" and she darted to her bedroom with a scowl.

When she had disappeared Tony began to survey the apartment. He remembered his own convalescence with y. Pestis and had packed accordingly. In his bag was a collection of his all-time favorite movies, perfect for anyone's sick day. Additionally he had gifts from everyone. There were magazines, DVDs, and home remedies galore.

He fanned out his spread on the coffee table when he heard Ziva's hacking cough from the back room. After quickly surveying the kitchen he found a kettle and began to prepare a tea that Ducky swore would cure any sore throat. Moments later he heard shuffling behind him and turned to see Ziva standing with a vacant look in her eyes.

"You okay?" he asked suspiciously.

"I have to sdeeze," she frowned. "But it is stuck."

She tilted her head back another centimeter and closed her eyes with a deep breath. After an eternity she opened her eyes again and growled.

"I thought that was it. This is drivig be crazy."

"Try looking into the light," Tony suggested.

Ziva did and, a moment later her breath began to hitch. Again she froze until the sneeze left once more and she stomped her foot in frustration.

If an angry Ziva weren't usually equated with a violent Ziva, Tony would have laughed.

"Oh wait," he said with a thought, and began to dig in his bag.

"It is dot as though I have a choice," Ziva said sniffling and rubbing her nose.

"Here," Tony produced a jar of what appeared to be ranch salad dressing. "Abby makes this balm that'll clear up your sinuses in a second."

He unscrewed the lid and held it under Ziva's nose. The air filled with the spicy smell of lavendar, and peppermint.

"Ooh," Ziva inhaled sharply and Tony thrust a clean tissue at her just in time for her to sneeze violently into it twice. "Hehchew!! HEH cheww!"

She smiled in contentment.

"Bless you Ziva," Tony smiled fondly.

"Thack you."

He held up a DVD with a black and white image on the cover.

"Now this, Ziva," he began in an instructive tone, "is Humphrey Bogart. He is an American icon. This is Casablanca, sure to cure whatever ails you."

Ziva narrowed her eyes but did not speak and so Tony continued, moving into the living room.

"This is a couch. This is where sick people spend their time."

"And this," she said with a derisive sniff, "is stupid. I am perfectly able to work. Did you really not bring the case file?"

"I really didn't," Tony grinned. "Come on Ziva, didn't you ever take sick days with Mossad?"

"I was a trained assassin. I was not allowed to get sick. Weakness is not tolerated by Mossad."

Tony eyed her keenly as the staring contest commenced. Ziva, usually the more willful of the two, quickly lost as a shiver ran through her body. In one swift motion, Tony had snatched an afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it snugly around Ziva's shoulders. He let his smile fade as he rested a hand against the back of her neck and looked warmly into her eyes.

"Well then," he said kindly, "it's a good thing you came to America."