I am so tired I can barely see. I sit on the orange plastic hospital chair and realize that it feels as if my ass has fused with it over the past hours. There is no real reason why I should not go... not home, but what passes for home right now. But I continue to sit here, unable to move.

Memories flash through my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

We had been walking toward the blue Mustang, and towards destiny, perhaps, when I felt his body tense.

"Gun! Get down!"

The rough concrete sidewalk bit into my knees, as his body protectively covered mine. His gun almost caressed my face as he jumped up. I heard gunshots, both in the distance and deafeningly near. Then silence.

The van turned down an alley, shattered windows throwing glass fragments like shooting stars. I can't imagine having anyone else with me in a situation like this. He never fails to amaze me; he's right there with me, standing and surveying our best options. A door slides open, and a lifeless body is ejected, to lie unmoving on the sidewalk.

The rest of what Tony yelled was lost in the sound of squealing tires and a hail of bullets. I saw Gibbs knock Ducky and Gavriela down. Screams and yells and gunshots filled the cool night air.

And as quickly as it had started, it all stopped.

He pulled me up roughly, and pressed his cell phone into my hands, before running to check on our new guest. He shakes his head, indicating the futility of any life-saving measures, then jogs back to the dance club. He knew I was safe, and, as always, he trusted me to do what needed to be done. I called 911, gave my name and position, and then gave the address of the shooting. The whole time I was talking, I slowly walked back to the group in front of the club.

My knees were shaking with relief and adrenaline when Gibbs suddenly stood up, helping Gavriela to her feet. People were starting to come out of the dance club, and I wonfered why I did not see anyone else from our party standing. Then, as I moved past the last parked car, I could see, and my heart fell. Ducky and McGee are working on Abby, while Tony is kneeling next to Jimmy.

Abby... They put out a call for her blood type almost immediately. So many from NCIS have come in and donated blood. I'm not the same type as Abby, but we've all been down on the table, making a donation.

I don't remember at what point he gave me his coat. I absently pick at a spot on the front of it, until I remember it's most likely Jimmy's blood.

The ambulance arrived within minutes. I lost track of the number of police cars, not to mention FBI and NCIS agents and vehicles. The rest of us stood together and watched the medics and Ducky work on Abby. Abby looked bad. Gibbs looked worse - he'd taken this attack as a personal affront. Jimmy's wound was a slight one - he'd lost blood, but a few stitches would set him to rights again.

I am damming tears - of fear and anger both - and, as I often do, I automatically turn to Tony for comfort. He'd been giving me a hug, when Fornell showed up and asked, "Which one of you killed the bastard?"

Gibbs and I looked over at Tony, who shrugged. "I did, Fornell. But the others in the van got away."

The ding of the elevator in the waiting room recalls my mind back to the present.

"Ziva, why don't you let me have one of the agents take you home? Dornegat's downstairs." Tony's standing in front of me, and I look up at him, too tired to keep the hard-edge of anger from my voice.

"No."

"No?"

There's irritation and aggravation in his voice, too. Tough shit. DiNozzo. Abby is still on the operating table. Her brother, Kyle, just went downstairs for a cup of coffee and a change of scene, and I promised him that I would wait here.

"No," I repeat. I guess he must see something in my face that makes arguing with me pointless. Good. He turns away and I hear him talking quietly to Gavriela and McGee.

Phoenix-like in his rebirth, the awkward self-centered man-child I have worked side-by-side with for the past eight years, who once talked endlessly without saying anything at all, has somehow been magically replaced by this intense, caring adult. His new self, having slowly shed the sadness and hurt that had once pervaded his very being and made him conceal his true nature, now displays for me a new sweetness and devastating gentleness, lying just beneath his strength.

And because he has tolerated, even luxuriated in his role as the focus of my rage, I continue to act as if it has become my right to do so.

Over the past year, the man has been relentless in his subtle chipping away at my defenses, in his attempts to get under my skin, in his ability to burrow into what passes for my heart. Like most men, he thinks it is the grand, sweeping gestures that are the most devastating, when it is the quiet, and the subtle that are the most fatal weapons in his armory against the walls around my heart.

Those weapons of my destruction include his comfort, his support, his understanding, and his kindness - dare I say, his love? - offered to me, over and over again, without any hope of recompense. And each time they have been offered, I have felt my defenses weaken further.

Each time he has managed to breach one of my defenses, I have rebuilt my walls, higher and stronger and angrier, even more determined to keep him on the outside. It is the only way to protect myself. It is, perhaps, the only way to protect him, too. My history shows that every time I have let someone in, they have been taken from me - Tali, Ari, Michael... I do not know if I would survive the loss of *this* man from my life. I justify my actions by telling myself that in protecting him, I protect myself.

And I have thrown all of this protection away, because I let my anger at Gibbs and Bodner and my father and a thousand other things get the best of me.

Now I must find a way to mend things.