A/N:I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain.

OK, here's Ch. 4 – and this one is a bit obvious but necessary.

I haven't forgotten the beginning, I promise – in case you're wondering? There is a clue in Ch. 1 as to where the 'past' catches up with the 'present'. If you want to stick with the tale, it will get there – I'm a slow spinner of stories, sorry! And, with a bit of luck, it should all make sense in the end….

"A Dream has power to poison sleep."

Percy Bysshe Shelley

February 2010

Somehow they had enraged the travel gods. The departure of the flight over was delayed by several hours. The 'plane was full – there was absolutely no chance of stretching out on an empty seat. Moreover, the jammed, seething mass of noisy humanity meant even standing up to move around was a complicated, tiresome ordeal. A passenger's child wailed intermittently. Tony would swear the intervals were deliberately timed to coincide with his dozing. Ziva-on-a-mission wasn't the most fun traveling companion; her tendency for brisk efficiency and practicality slipping into overdrive. And the Cabin Crew was comprised of gay men and hatchet-faced women - not exactly the sexy come-hither stuff of urban legends. Traffic into the centre of Paris was a snarl of congestion. The journey seemed to have lasted forever. However, these were unavoidable trials and Tony was savoring the prospect of arriving at their hotel, settling into rooms and relaxing.

Unfortunately, that's where the real trouble began. The check-in process turned into a marathon. At least half a dozen other guests were dealt with whilst Ziva negotiated, cajoled and vehemently railed against the shared room. The innocent desk clerk endured the storm with Zen-like depths of forbearance; politely repeating his apologies and inability to assist them. He and Tony discreetly exchanged looks in a confederacy of commiseration. The clerk pitying Tony for, what in his mind, was the unenviable sentence of temporary imprisonment with a living, breathing Harpy. Tony returning the favor each time Ziva renewed her onslaught.

The final straw came when she insisted management call every single suitable hotel in the city; in search of alternative accommodation. It was at that point Tony intervened to curtail her fruitless campaign. One room would be preferable to spending the evening in the lobby. Or if she continued unchecked, ejection by the Gendarmerie which would, undoubtedly lead to a night in jail. Tony didn't know how French law enforcement operated. He did know Ziva's current disposition was likely to earn them a charge of resisting – with excessive force and intent to cause harm – arrest.

"Hey Ninja, enough." He ended the tirade. "It's not their mistake. Let it go."

Tony took charge and completed the necessary formalities – with Ziva sullenly by his side. He received another telepathic wave of appreciation by propelling her away from the counter. The gaggle of hotel staff which had slowly accrued as spectators to the protracted dispute, watched them leave with a collective sense of disappointment.

"une folle connasse" The relieved clerk commented to his companions – sufficiently loud for Ziva to overhear. She spun round and started back in the direction of the desk. Tony caught her elbow.

"Zee-vah, Stop it." There was an exasperated firmness to his instruction. "Now." Prompted less by altruism on behalf of the clerk and more by the dispiriting idea he wouldn't get to unwind any time soon. Definitely wouldn't if he didn't prevent another encounter.

She came to a halt, a mutinous expression on her face. "He called me a crazy bitch."

"Well, right now, I'm inclined to agree with him." The surprise of his blunt assessment provided just the right amount of shock. Tony cocked his head. "I really don't wanna be an accessory to homicide-by-credit-card, Zee-vah?"

The relaxed, playful plea canceled the implicit criticism contained within his previous statement. She surrendered; though not before leaning around Tony's body and spitting out one final, contemptuous retort: "Et tu avaler la fumée." It was at a volume audible to everyone in the entire lobby area.

On the way up, an uncomfortable, brooding silence developed. Tony cast a quizzical, curious glance at her.

"What'd you say to him, anyway?" He asked, trying to break the odd mood.

Ziva shrugged carelessly. "I told him he swallowed."

"I think you mean sucks" He absent-mindedly made the correction – not really thinking about her phraseology.

"No, Tony, I mean swallow." She began to translate her point with detached detail. "It is an expression, yes? As in swallowing sem…" Ziva could be unnervingly clinical when it came to discussing sex.

"Got it." As the nature of the insult registered, he cut her off and hoped the porter didn't speak English.

Tony's slightly stunned look made Ziva smile - for the first time since discovering the reservation mishap. The strange shadow of strain which had become etched on her features lifted briefly. The porter remained impassive. Except for the tiny movement of his lips which revealed Tony's hope was unfounded. The weird, worried eddy swirling around the elevator was acute; its presence driving an invisible wedge between them.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, that's just fucking great." He shook his head, muttering incredulously. "After your neurotic Ninja number, if they weren't already gonna spit, or worse, in our coffee, it's a given now."

"Meet the Rainiers: Part Deux." Tony tipped the, now openly, smirking porter. He dumped their bags on the floor, tossing the key-cards onto the table and flung himself full length onto the bed. His relief at, finally, arriving in the room was short-lived.

"Which side do you want?" He asked; sitting up to rotate and massage a shoulder which ached as though it had been locked in clamps since D.C.

"Neither, thank you." Ziva's curt reply indicated her anger had transposed into muted annoyance.

Tony frowned. "Um, unless you're gonna do a Mary Poppins with that bag of yours, there's only one bed?"

She was moving around the room in a constant, though not necessarily warranted, bustle of activity.

"I will take the couch." It was neutrally stated – suspiciously so – and Tony's attention became more focused.

"Why?" Recognition of the potential for further strife failed to keep the slight jeer out of his voice.

"Because there is only one bed." Ziva coolly mimicked his smart alec tone. "I am going to shower and change."

She collected clothes and the required toiletries. Disappearing before Tony could extend the debate. He watched her leave – trying to gauge what lay behind her behavior. Ziva's almost alchemistic temperament meant she had an infinite capacity for variations on mood. This wasn't new. And, sometimes, her rational thought process would suffer a melt-down. Clearly she was tired and clearly the booking error hadn't helped. Nevertheless, the strength of Ziva's reaction downstairs and the stubborn insistence for sleeping on the couch was unreasonable - even for her – over such trivialities.

Ziva took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. Aware an argument was brewing; if she fought the battle, she would lose the war. Her aim was to avoid the confrontation without activating Tony's relentless curiosity. The long, hot shower had soothed her a little; washing away travel-weariness and grime. Granting Ziva the breathing space she needed to find composure - the composure which had been in danger of disintegration. Their partnership was on a more even footing. It could, after a fashion, be characterized as having returned to normal – Ziva was unwilling to jeopardize that superficial advance; or acknowledge the deeper demons which still threatened.

"What time would you like to eat?" The inquiry was friendly, natural.

"On which continent?" She ignored the joke. And Tony wasn't fooled by her demeanor; it took more than a shower to alter Ziva's viewpoint. "After I've cleaned up."

Ziva contacted house-keeping and requested extra linens. Their delivery collided with Tony's re-appearance in the room.

"You're serious?" He demanded in disbelief.

She nodded.

"Zee-vah, this is stupid." He appealed to commonsense, grinning good-naturedly. "I mean, we've pretended we were married, remember?"

"That was our cover. It was work." There was a peculiar determination in her manner.

"This is work. We're here on an assignment." He raised an eyebrow, with complete lack of comprehension. "So what's the difference?"

"We are here to collect and escort a witness, Tony. That is the difference." Ziva sighed, mentally designing an escape from the conversation. "It would be a violation of protocol."

"Since when've you ever worried about protocol?" The prim, utterly specious nature of her explanation amused Tony. He laughed. "Christ, she's not gonna know if we slept together."

There was momentary pause at his unlucky choice of words. And Ziva took that opportunity to change the subject.

"We should eat." Walking away from him, gathering her coat and waiting by the door. Tony followed her. Now becoming pissed off; she wouldn't back down. Which meant his immediate future held a night on the couch.

Initially, Tony attempted to tease Ziva into acquiescence. He was met with unflinching rebuttal; in turn, this provoked irritation on his part. They dined in stilted, staccato sentences; retreating into guarded territories. Tony accepted they were, of course, both jet-lagged. Nevertheless, Ziva's stance on the matter was puzzling. Not only was she refusing to share the bed; she was refusing to permit him to take the couch. Tony was baffled by her attitude; especially since she hadn't resorted to aggression as a defense mechanism. There was an unquantifiable aspect to the rift. And, try as he might to access her thinking, Ziva maintained unyielding distance from his efforts to engage on the topic. The excursion ended in chilly, unhappy tension.

Once back in the room, the beleaguered aloofness continued. Only it was infused with a marked, inexplicable increase in pressure. The atmosphere bore all the hallmarks of an apparitional quarrel. Ziva arranged herself on the couch reading – internally counting the minutes until her private victory was secured. As Tony headed for the bed, he made one last offer.

"You're sure?" Studying her for some clue, some justification for the unexpected withdrawal.

She refused to look at him – apparently concentrating on her book. "Tony, it is unlikely I would have changed my mind since you last inquired." The air of condescension in her manner tipped Tony over the edge.

"OK, sorry I asked." He snapped. "You know, Zee-vah, you've behaved like a fucking child since we got here." Tony's supply of patience was as exhausted as he was.

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. He was merely aware of the gradual contest between unconscious and conscious states. At first, Tony persuaded his brain that the sound was part of a dream. Eventually, since the sound didn't abate, he forced himself to relinquish the comfort of sleep. Rolling over, confusedly remembering where he was, before reaching for the light. Then he recognized there was no need; the room was illuminated. Tony sat up, drowsily scanning for the source of the noise. The grogginess was shed with lightning fast speed as the adrenaline of alarm hit.

She was having a nightmare. Ziva was in the throes of a rigid, restrained torment; a slight paroxysm of shuddering occasionally seizing her body. Her breathing was fast and she was making a choked, whimpering cry. Within seconds, Tony had catapulted out of the bed and was across the room. He stood, suddenly unsure of what he should do; hesitant to wake her but reluctant to leave her in such evident distress. Tears were seeping from Ziva's eyes and her skin glistened with sweat. Tony suppressed sickening horror. The stifled sobs were the manifestation of someone dreaming they were trying not to scream in pain - because that's exactly what she would have done. The realization spurred him into action; leaning over and gently touching her shoulder.

"Hey Zee-vah?" Tony half expected a reflexive strike and, involuntarily, prepared to duck. "Zee-vah, sweetheart? Wake up." He cautiously repeated the move – a little more confidently.

The tremors ceased and her eyelids fluttered open and then slid closed again. Tony sat next to her - noticing Ziva had remained upright. He wondered if she had intended to maintain that pose all night. Perhaps operating out of the hope she mightn't fall too soundly asleep; anxiously seeking to avert the revelation. The weight and motion of his body on the couch caused her to stir. Her eyes opened and stayed that way – though her vague reactions were those of the newly awakened. After a few moments she looked at him and he saw the haunting flicker of embarrassment. Her mind had caught up.

"What time is it?" A trace of trembling tinged her voice. The question was ridiculous; confirming Tony's conclusion. If Ziva hadn't expected this - if it was an unusual occurrence - the most material question would be; why the hell was he sitting beside her in the middle of the night? Something, Tony conceded, which would be incredibly creepy under normal circumstances.

"No idea." Lightly brushing a strand of hair from her face, "You were dreaming."

Tony decided to avoid a direct reference – despite the fact dream was the least appropriate word to describe what he had witnessed. This, obviously, was the reason for her earlier extreme, freaky conduct. He wished he hadn't called her neurotic – and that he could talk to her. Yet, Tony knew the battlements would be in place; more unassailable than ever. If he pushed in opposition to her emotional seclusion, it would only exacerbate the situation. Addressing it was – had to be - entirely Ziva's choice.

In the bathroom, Ziva splashed water on her face and changed the PJs which were damp from perspiration. She studied her reflection in the mirror. In the past six months, the after-effects of her ordeal had lessened significantly. The difficult nights now rare events; triggered, mostly, by stress. Ziva had succeeded in subjugating the feelings and fear. She resumed the semblance of a standard existence. No-one would – should – ever know of her experiences and struggles. Except Ziva's carefully constructed illusion had cracked tonight – in front of Tony. A sense of defeat washed over her; it seemed as if the past and Fate were in collusion against further improvement.

Ziva moved to sit down again, Tony stood and stopped her.

"Don't." He held her gaze. "C'mon, Zee-vah? His voice was softly sympathetic in making the invitation.

As Tony reached across to kill the light, Ziva's eyes darted in the direction of his arm and she stiffened. The penny dropped in one, heart-breaking, instant. She was afraid of the dark. His Ninja - who wasn't scared of anything – was afraid of the dark. He took her hand and the crushing force of Ziva's grip, when blackness enveloped the room, made him wince. At the bed, he casually ensured the lamp was on, before trying to extract his other hand.

"If I read, the light will not disturb you?" She was sitting up; a little awkward and uncertain.

"No." He yawned. "I could tell you some of the places I've slept in…." Making the proposed tales sound particularly unsavory to set himself up as an easy mark.

"Ugh, I would rather you did not." Ziva interrupted, responding to the game. Tony smiled into his pillow. Despite the brittleness to the bravado, she was adjusting and beginning to settle. He was in that pleasant zone between sleeping and waking when Ziva threw off the blankets.

"Now what?" The exasperation was genuine; at this rate, no-one would manage any rest.

"My gun." She had to be armed.

"You can have mine." Tony actively fostered the impression of a dilettante. In reality, he was scrupulously competent and professional. They were on a mission; his weapon was on the nightstand. As he handed Ziva the gun, he grinned. "'Though, I'm warning you, Zee-vah, make any moves on my virtue and I'm gonna take it back."

It was hideously early when he woke up the next morning. Tony lay for a few minutes before abandoning the pursuit of more sleep. He got up and glanced over at Ziva. She was curled in a ball – however she was sleeping easily and peacefully. He noted, with satisfaction, her book on the table and the absence of light. She had gone – not fallen – to sleep. Both hands were visible; neither holding the Sig. – it was under her pillow. The security derived from her finger-on-the-trigger mindset had been supplied, instead, by his closeness. Although neither Tony, nor Ziva, were fully cognizant of that connection.

After a hushed 'phone call to the Concierge, Tony headed for the hotel gym. Before he left, he switched on light. Sunrise in Paris would not occur for another couple of hours. If she roused whilst he was away, she would not waken, alone, to darkness.

A huge thank you to everyone who has posted a review – it is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you've given up…