A/N: WE MADE IT TO 100 REVIEWS! Sorry, I count that as a celebratory thing. Have I told you all how absolutely lovely you are? No? Yes? Well, you are, absolutely lovely . . . . This story was supposed to be about ten chapters and since we're currently at 8 and not even half way through the pregnancy, it is obviously going to be quite a bit more -you're up for that, right? I've been asked when All We Are will be updated/finished and I think that perhaps this may be my first hiatus (temporary, of course) on a story, but I'm afraid that's what it is. AWA is offically on hiatus. There. I said it, it's official (and you never know, it might motivate me to finish it!) Regardless, here is your daily dose of Tiva a la Kit. Enjoy! Much love, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: *disclaims*

Nesting

Week 18 and a half, July

She is enjoying her view immensely as she leans in the doorway, one hand unconsciously on her swollen stomach, the other gripping the doorjamb. He's up on the ladder, a tray of paint balanced precariously on the topmost rung and she is relieved when she notices he did remember to put a sheet on the floor to protect the carpet. The worn OSU shirt he has on is peppered in the same color that covers the majority of the walls, a soft green hue that is more melon-y than minty, and the faded jeans that are riding low on his hips have several splotches on the butt where he's apparently brushed off his hands.

"I love it, Tony," she says, wincing as he startles and very nearly falls off his perch on the ladder. "Sorry."

He regains his balance, turning around so he's lounging casually against the stepladder, patent smile firmly in place. "You're fine. I didn't know you were there." She has to be carrying five, ten extra pounds and is still able to creep silently throughout the apartment, like a, well, like a ninja. He looks around the room theatrically, green eyes taking in the pastel green paint, the fruits of his labor. "I got to admit," he confesses, "I thought you were crazy when you said you wanted green. But, it does look really nice." And it does, it's cool and inviting and soothing and perfect.

"Green symbolizes life. It is a healthy color," she explains, her own gaze traveling appreciatively around the space. "I still think I could have at least done the baseboards."

He rolls his eyes at this, climbing down gingerly. "You didn't need to be breathing in the fumes-" he himself has a faint headache- "Besides, we wouldn't want you falling over again, would we?" And he's grinning because he found it slightly funny, the little debacle from this morning, in which Ziva lost her balance and very nearly toppled over. Her center of gravity has shifted and he now finds himself watching her movements like a hawk, ready to catch her if she capsizes again.

She glares halfheartedly, "I think I alarmed McGee."

"Scared the hell out of him," Tony amends, still grinning. He's standing next to her now, brushing an unruly curl behind her ear.

"You have paint on your face," she informs him, reaching up to rub the paint smear from his cheek.

"Way to change the subject." But she ignores him.

"There," she says triumphant, her palm still cupping his face.

"Thank you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips and he can feel her grin against his mouth.


His hair is dripping down his bare back but his shower has left him borderline heatstroke so he doesn't mind. And it's a small wonder he was able to get all that paint off.

He wanders aimlessly into the kitchen in search of lemonade because Ziva had made a pitcher earlier when the D.C area hit a record breaking heatwave and he began to wonder if Gore wasn't as crazy as previously perceived. . . .

He passes the nursery, still reeking of paint, and is at the mouth of the little hallway that leads into the living room when he hears it. It's a soft melody in a high octave with an intricate harmony hovering seamlessly beneath. He's never heard it before, and though he certainly isn't a classical buff, he highly suspects that this is improv.

Ziva sits before the secondhand upright, facing away from him, long dark hair curling loosely to the middle of her back. Her head bob slightly in time to the tempo and her fingers dance gracefully across the ivory keys, ringing chords and a quick cascade of a major scale. And it isn't remarkably loud, but it isn't so soft that he has to strain to hear it.

And he wants so badly to join her there on the piano bench, to immerse himself in her sounds and her herself, but he doesn't. Because something is very personal about this concert that she isn't aware she's giving. He almost feels like he's intruding just standing there and listening, so he decides to forgo the lemonade and retreat back into the bedroom, permit her to have her moment, but before he can so much as move, her voice calls out over the serenade, "You can come in, Tony." And he blinks in surprise, but goes and takes up a place beside her anyways, wondering still how she does that.

"It's beautiful . . . . What is it?" And it is a question still.

She smiles, nimble fingers maneuvering effortlessly to find a low chord, and a side look is sent his way before her eyelids slip closed. "It is . . . . for her," she says wistfully, picking out a slower tempo in another key. "Dr. Rush said that she can hear me now, my heartbeat, my voice. I like to think she can hear this too."

"Do you think she can hear me?"

Another content smile, eyes still closed. "Of course."

Her eyes flutter open in time to see him grin impishly and slide of the bench, carefully lowering himself to his knees, supporting his weight by bracing his elbows on the wooden seat. And leaning over, his face comes to hover near the little knoll that is his daughter inside his partner. Ziva has long since allowed the music to fade, her foot still pressing on the damper pedal, the last notes whispering into oblivion in favor of watching him amusedly.

"What are you doing, ahuvi?"

"Shh," he mumbles, utterly focused on his current test. "Hey, baby girl. I dunno if you can hear me, but your mom thinks you can, so I guess we'll see . . . . It's your dad . . . . Um, let me see, ooh! I painted your room today. Only had to go to work till lunch and then I got to come home and paint. Paint, paint, paint. It's a very nice color, Honeydew, or at least that's what the swatch says. Honeydew. . . . ."


A/N2: I love Tony. I honestly could see him doing this. But that is not why I am including a second author's note. This additional rambling is in regards to the previous chapter. Some of you were confused and that is entirely my fault. I didn't realize I uploaded the wrong/rough-draft version of Neshema Sheli -that is why the ending seemed like there was more to it. So if you read the original that was posted, my apologies. And if you have no inkling of idea as to what I could possibly be talking about, don't worry about it. It wasn't that big a deal and you didn't miss anything (other than possible confusion). All issues have been resolved. Moving onward, Kit! (And mucho much love! Again!)