I did NOT expect the outpouring of support I got with the last chapter of "Treading Water," but it was so meaningful and lovely-thank you. Thank you so much for the validation and love and all those things. You are all wonderful. xoxo

...

I said, you don't need my voice girl, you have your own.

-Tori Amos, "Bells For Her."

Ziva was working at the dining room table when Tony got to Gibbs' house. He slid out of his wet overcoat and approached carefully, not wanting her to snap at him like she did the day before.

"Hey," he ventured. "How was your day?"

She closed the laptop with a snap. "It was…ok," she lied tentatively, turning in her chair to face him. She couldn't meet his eyes. "I am glad you are here." She put both arms around his waist and pushed her face against his shirt.

He was stunned but recovered fast and returned the embrace. "I'm glad I'm here, too. What's going on? Why the family circle?"

She pulled away and cut her eyes toward the window. "Sara is very fragile."

"I'm sure McBubbleWrap can make a space suit for her."

He got the smile he'd been looking for. "I do not doubt that is a good idea," she agreed. "We will get her a bulletproof vest and matching windbreaker. She will fit right in with the rest of you."

He grinned. "She does, anyway. She asleep?" A squawk issued from the next room, along with running water. "Guess not."

In the kitchen, Sara was prone on the countertop, hair full of flower-scented lather.

"Buglet!" he cried. "A silver-haired giant is filling your hair with bubbles! I'll hold him back! Get away before you float away!" She giggled and waved. He made a face of defeat. "Never mind," he sighed dramatically when Gibbs shot him a glare. "Guess you'll just have to put up with it."

"M'getting a bath," she told him.

"Good. Get the stink off ya." He picked up a washcloth, wet it with some soapsuds, and wiped her face and arms. "Now you smell like roses."

"Lavender," Gibbs corrected, rinsing the shampoo from Sara's hair. "Abby and McGee here yet?"

"It's only five, Boss. I skipped out early." He looked away, twisting the cloth in his hands.

"Why?"

Of course Gibbs would see through him. "Vance is sending me to Sana'a. We got a situation going on."

"Ahmad case?"

"And more. We'll talk later."

Gibbs lifted Sara off the counter. "Get something to eat while I change her."

"Any meatloaf left?"

"Nope," he called back, already up the steps. "Sara ate it all."

Abby and McGee tumbled in the front door at a quarter after six, apologies already forming on their lips.

"I am so sorry," Abby gushed, pale cheeks colored in remorse. "We have all this evidence pouring in from Yemen via next-day air and I couldn't get ahead of myself with organizing and prioritizing…"

Gibbs put both hands on her shoulders. "It's fine. I'm glad you're here."

"Yemen?" Ziva asked innocently.

Tim nodded, Adam's apple bobbing. "A US Navy E-2 Seaman Apprentice was captured in Al-Hudayah last week. His remains were found in Sana'a yesterday. He'd been shot execution-style."

She blanched. Al-Hudayah had been a Soviet stronghold and they'd armed an Al Qaeda faction. She'd been there, patrolling, protecting Israeli forces on the ground. The heat was oppressive and she'd gotten ill from dehydration before her commanding officer pulled her off the mission. She'd gone home to shaming and shunning. Eli wouldn't let her eat at his table for the entire month she'd needed to recover.

Tony touched her hand. "The Navy thinks they have the perpetrators in custody, but they want McSnoopy and me to have a look at the scene. We fly out tomorrow afternoon."

"You cannot go!" Ziva blurted, astounded and vaguely horrified. "You do not speak the language! You do not know the culture! You are totally unprepared!"

"You speak the language," he replied casually. "You know the culture. And you quit."

She crossed her arms and glowered, looking, once again, like the lethal Mossad ninja she'd been all those years ago. He was turned on by it—she could tell by his reddening face—and it made her glare harder. "We will talk later," she growled under her breath.

"Ok," he agreed mildly.

Gibbs' palm cut across the back of his head. "Talk later at home," he growled, exasperated. "We have business to take care of. Sit—all of you."

They sat. Ziva pushed the computer away.

He began coarsely, businesslike. "Sara was diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta Type One this morning," he said. "Her body doesn't produce enough collagen and it makes her bones very fragile."

Tim's face fell. "I am so sorry, Boss. I can't believe I missed it—all the signs are there. The history of fractures, delayed development, small stature, muscle laxity, loose joints…I should've known."

Gibbs cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "There's no way you could've known. It's a very rare disease—"

"Six or seven people per hundred-thousand," Tim interrupted. "But the signs are so—"

"Not in a kid who has been abused."

McGee shrugged and studied his hands on the tabletop. Gibbs addressed the group again. "Type One is the mildest form of OI, but Sara's bones are still fragile. We need to be careful—not too much rough play, no contact sports, no jumping on trampolines or out of airplanes."He looked at Tim again. "I need supplies. Sara needs a "break box" so we can triage fractures before we take her to the hospital."

McGee nodded anxiously. "I can get them easily from medical supply distributors."

Gibbs pushed a list across the table at him. "Get what you can. I'll ask Duck for the rest." He cleared his throat. "I also ordered a MedicAlert pendant for Sara to wear, but should you be alone with her and she breaks, do not take her to the ER—we need to maintain a relationship with one set of physicians, and they won't treat her without me. Painkillers and immobilizers will be in the break box. Take what she needs if I'm not here and wait."

He surveyed the group; everyone looked stricken, fearful. Tony, as usual, was the first to speak up. "So we're supposed to drug her and listen to her scream if you're not home? Not fair, Boss."

"Fair isn't the point, DiNozzo. It's what we need to do to keep her home and safe."

He stroked his stubbled chin. "How often do you plan to leave her alone with us?"

Gibbs glared at him. "Things happen. You need to be prepared."

"Her diagnosis was mild," Tim interjected. "That indicates an average of three or fewer breaks per year. That doesn't mean there won't be more or less…"

Tony smirked, wishing he wasn't so rattled by the diagnosis. "Gotcha, McWikipedia. Should we carry her on a pillow or something?"

"No!" Abby snapped, green eyes wet. "Bonding time is super important for Sara—she needs lots of hugs and kisses and gentle playtime. I think the point is that she is going to break, no matter how careful we are. We just need to be prepared to deal with it."

Ziva nodded and spoke in urgent staccato. "I agree with Abby. We need to be prepared and proactive."

All heads around the table bobbed in agreement.

"Any questions?" Gibbs asked, eyebrows up.

The heads shook.

"There are pamphlets on the sideboard. Read up." He got up and shambled toward the living room, fatigue evident in the hunch of his broad shoulders."Shout if you need me—game's on."

Tony frowned. "You're not gonna work on the boat?"

"Nope," he replied from the couch.

They shared brief, surprised glances—Gibbs was tired. It dawned on them that most men his age were retired or close to it, bouncing the occasional visiting grandchild on their knees, finding hobbies, taking vacations. Their child-rearing years were over. Gibbs had just signed on to fatherhood again, half in love, half in some strange attempt at redemption. And Sara's life was one of persistent heartbreak—abuse, surgery, diagnosis—all of it heavy. There hadn't been much joy in her brief existence and that, too, had to weigh on him.

No wonder he doesn't want to work on his boat, Tony thought morosely. He might not ever enjoy it with his daughter.

Everyone decided to leave Gibbs and Sara alone; the two of them needed a quiet Daddy-daughter evening. But as they stood, gathered their belongings and donned coats, a small cry came down from the second floor and Gibbs was on his feet and up the stairs in a flash.

Lithe, Tony mused, helping Ziva into her new weather-resistant jacket. No, not lithe. Spry. There was youth still in his step, even more so as he carried his sniffling little girl down the stairs.

"Nightmare?" he asked.

Gibbs kissed Sara's head. "Forgot the pacifier."

Tim found it under a stack of papers. "You might want to get a few extras, Boss."

"I will," he said quietly, nesting it between Sara's lips.

She wiped her face and put her arms out to Abby. "You," she begged.

Abby's wide smile lit up the room. "Lambykins! I was afraid you didn't like me anymore!"

Sara pulled back to study her face, puzzled and remorseful. "Love Abby," she mumbled around the soother. She laid her head down and hummed tunelessly, fighting sleep. Tony snapped a picture with his phone.

"Just for a minute, sweet pea," Gibbs warned. "Then you're going back to bed."

"Want me to read the farmer book?" Abby asked, swaying back and forth.

"Yeah," Sara sighed.

Tim jumped up. "I'll follow you up the stairs," he said quickly. "I wouldn't want you to lose your balance—she's heavy in that cast."

Tony gave Ziva a raised eyebrow and they bid everyone goodnight. Sara peeked over Abby's shoulder. "'Morrow, Zeeba?"

"Tomorrow, shaifeleh. Laila tov."

The rain had relented but the wind was still sharp. Ziva burrowed into her jacket as Tony started the car and cranked the heater. She was quiet as they pulled away from the curb and put distance between the Charger and Gibbs' home.

"I fly out tomorrow morning," he said, knowing she was mulling over his travel plans. "But I shouldn't be gone longer than a week."

She nodded sullenly. Neither of them said a word until they pulled up in front of her building. Tony got out of the car, too, and followed her inside, peeling out of his coat the second he closed the door behind him. It was hot in her condo—the thermostat read nearly eighty degrees.

"Shouldn't you be at home, packing?" she asked, back to him as she straightened up. She'd left a bit of a mess that morning.

"Maybe," he conceded, picking an apple from the bowl on the back of the kitchen counter. "But I wanted to spend some time with you. I'm going to miss you."

Ziva softened. "Me, too." She stopped fussing with the throw pillows and leaned into him, asking wordlessly for a hug. "I am sorry I was not kind to you yesterday. I have been a little edgy lately."

"On edge?" he asked innocently.

"Yes." She toyed with the belt loops on the back of his pants. "My father has called three times in the last two weeks."

Tony stiffened. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"He was calling to shame me for quitting NCIS. He has lost all control of me and he does not like it one bit."

"Well he needs to get the hell over it. Why does he care? You cut ties with him a long time ago. Or him with you…I never could figure that out."

Her breath was warm through his shirt. "He called my coursework nonsense. He implied that I was never going to be successful as anything other than a government agent. And he called Sara a mamzer. Do you know what that means, Tony?"

"A bastard," he replied, secretly proud of himself.

"It is the lowest low," she explained. "She's not just illegitimate, she's untouchable, un-employable, unmarriable. It's a cruel thing to say about anyone, but…a little girl? Inexcusable."

He nodded, sad. No wonder she'd been prone to outbursts; she was under tremendous pressure. Ziva was mired in the internal pressure to perform that was strictly her own, and the external pressure from her father that said what she was doing was wrong. He hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I'm sorry you've been having such a tough time. I wish I didn't have to go."

She pulled away. "That was my father's doing. Initially he asked me to go to Yemen, but Vance would not bring me back in so he asked for you. I am sure of it, Tony."

"He knows about us?"

She sighed. "He knows Gibbs adopted Sara. He knows I spend a lot of time with them. He knows I am thinking about university. He knows everything. He has people everywhere."

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "Should we…be more careful?"

"No," she replied sadly. "It does not matter." She looked at him imploringly. "I would just like to be happy. Why is that too much to ask?"

He sat on the couch and tugged her hand. "Put your PJs on and we'll watch a movie together. Anything you want. Even The Sound of Music."

Ziva lifted her chin. "I want to watch Taxi Driver."

He gawked. Psychological thrillers were not her favorite genre. The language was too obtuse for her, the characters' motivations too opaque. "Seriously? I didn't think you liked that movie."

"I do not. But the idea of going postal appeals to me right now. The DVD is on top of the television. Queue it up while I change my clothes."

"No problem. And good work on that idiom, Zi. Going postal isn't one I'd thought I'd hear from you."

She emerged from the bedroom in her favorite yoga pants and a ratty grey sweater. "I read a lot, Tony."

"True." She reached for the remote and he scooped it away, holding it high over his head. "Promise me before we start this film that it is in no way a metaphor for our lives."

"Neither of us are insomniacs," she said pointedly, brushing her fingers over the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Neither of us are cab drivers."

He studied her face. "Ok. You worry me sometimes, David—you can kill someone with a paperclip."

"A credit card," she countered.

"A tea kettle."

"Satin underthings."

Tony groaned in arousal. "Are we watching this or what?"

"Tell me about the case," she replied urgently. "I want to know why my father is taking you away from me."

"Seaman Apprentice captured on the beach in Al Hadayah, taken to Sana'a, shot in front of an empty supermarket. The place had been looted…everyone's starving."

She shrugged. "They've been promised millions of dollars in famine aid over the last few years and received almost none of it. People are hungry. That level of desperation, Tony…"

"I know that I can't understand it. I know that I'm spoiled."

She raised her chin and elbowed him gently with her cast. "Yes, you are. Can I see the file?"

He reluctantly handed over a slim file containing a two-by-three photograph of the victim, an eight-by-ten of the crime scene, and one of the perpetrator—a low-level insurgent for the Islamic Jihad of Yemen—named Kief Rahman. She passed over his photo to study the victim again.

"What was his name, Tony?"

"David Almsolino. Born in Tacoma. Enlisted right after high school. First time he'd ever left American soil and…"

Ziva studied the single crime-scene photo. "He was shot in front of this wall?"

Her fingers grazed over it. To the left of the bullet holes was a stack of boxes advertising snacks in French and Arabic.

He sneered. "Yeah. They gave him an orange soda first."

She brought the photo close to her face. "Tony, I think this is Sara's boy."

He leaned over her shoulder, breathing softly in the curls behind her right ear. He didn't want to admit that he'd been thinking that since Vance came down with the assignment, but his gut had begun to tumble and didn't stop until Tim had ordered an everything pizza for lunch. Though he was sure the tossing had nothing to do with hunger.

"She said over and over that they shot him. They shot him by the wall. When was he killed?"

"Friday."

She gave him a knowing look, her brown eyes large in her pale face. "The day of Sara's surgery."

They studied the photographs in silence for a moment, until Ziva sat back, laid Rahman's photo down, and tucked her right leg under her."I do not know what it is," she said, soft and resigned. "A sight, a sense, some kind of intelligence—but she saw this, Tony. She saw that sailor's murder." She watched his expression darken into one of mild incredulity, perhaps even skepticism. "And if you do not believe it, then why were you so anxious to check into her past? Why did you have Abby digging into all her foster placements, trying to find some connection to that boy they found in North Philadelphia?"

He stood and began to pace. "I don't know, I just thought she was remembering something, maybe some repressed memory. I wanted to figure it out. I wanted to help her. This, though? Her helping us? It's weird. How would you explain that to Vance or McGee? Oh hey, guys, Sara—little, tiny, sick, traumatized Sara—saw this happen while under general anesthesia so just go with what she says and we'll have this solved in no ti—"

Ziva socked him gently in the stomach, cutting off his rant. "Stop it!" she snapped.

He was incensed, not chastised. "Or you'll what—kick my ass?"

She shoved him away. "I will not, but stop mocking me. And her. I was not implying that you would tell them what she said, I was simply saying that Sara saw this in whatever state of consciousness she was in at the time." She took a breath to calm down. "Honestly, I am shocked that you didn't put it together."

Tony threw himself down on the sofa. "Maybe I didn't want to. It sounds like superstitious nonsense."

"Maybe it is," she conceded. "But we cannot deny the fact that there is a very real thing happening between Sara and the world."

He looked at her. "Is there some kind of Jewish mystical explanation for this? Maybe it's taught in the Kabbalah."

Ziva rolled her eyes, smiling. He'd found an old copy of an English-language Kabbalist text and teased her about magic pilgrimages and the bible code. He'd been merciless about it, and for more than a week. Is this like that Dan Brown book? Are you a crusader for some secret holy war? Can I join you? Can I have a cool hooded robe?

"Truthfully," she started, glancing at him again with those big, dark eyes, "there is a Jewish idea that teaches that people—children—with special needs are closer to understanding divine presence than…normal people. They can, in the words of the rabbis, "know God" in ways that you and I cannot."

"So the more normal you are the less holy?" He made a hissing sound with his mouth. "No wonder I failed catechism."

One of her small, round shoulders came up. She graced him with a tiny smile. "Perhaps."

He smiled a little. "You think Sara is some kind of divine creature, sent to us to be a messenger from whatever omnipotent being may exist on the ceiling?"

"The ceiling?"

He frowned. "I thought that was why the nuns taught us to look up when we prayed."

Ziva laughed softly. "Sara is no angel, Tony. She is a very corporeal little girl with very grave needs."

He slumped into the cushions. "And she's cute."

"And she is cute," she echoed, sitting back so their shoulders touched.

"And you're cute."

She gave him a sneaky, side-eyed smile and batted her lashes. "Perhaps we should save the film for when you return."

He kissed her softly. "You have bedroom eyes."

She kissed back, hard. "Then maybe we ought to be in the bedroom, yes?"

. . . .

Tony buckled his belt and resolved himself to the predicament; Ziva was sleeping in his shirt. While he was loathe to wake her, it was cold outside and his formal overcoat would not be enough. He also knew that she'd be furious if he left for a trip to the other side of the globe and didn't say a proper goodbye.

Hesitantly, with only the barest touches to her shoulder, he dragged her from sleep. Deep sleep; it took him three tries. "Zi?" he whispered. "Hey, ninja? I gotta go."

She blinked up at him without a sigh. "Early," she moaned.

He laughed softly. "Says the woman who regularly wakes at four to run. C'mon Lazy Bones—I need my shirt back."

"No," she retorted sullenly, and snuggled deeper beneath the comforter. "You are going. I get to keep it. There is a sweater in the closet. Wear that."

He didn't stop himself from whining. "But it's green, Zee-vah. I'm wearing blue and grey."

She rolled her eyes and shimmed out of his shirt, handing it over without getting out of bed. She knew the thought of her naked beneath the covers was enough to make him crazy.

It was. He groaned aloud. "Zi, seriously, I have to go. Why are you making this harder for me?"

She still didn't push the blankets down. "Because I want you to stay."

He bent and kissed her full on the mouth. "I can't." He hesitated again. "Do me a favor," he said.

She pulled the comforter down. Her brown eyes were sharp and black in the dim. "What?"

"Go to Gibbs' while I'm gone. I don't want you to be alone."

Ziva nodded and didn't smile. "I might not stay every night, but I will spend days there if it makes you feel better."

"Just until I come back. I love you."

She drew him down with her good arm so his cheek rested on her brow. "Me, too. Be safe."

"Always," he murmured into her hair. "Go back to sleep."

"Be safe," she said again, drowsily.

He double checked the locks on his way out.

. . . .

Gibbs swung open the front door before Leon and Jackie Vance could ring the bell. They each wore a hesitant smile and a heavy coat; he ushered them in before the cold air leeched in.

"Good to see you," he said gruffly, still a little tired. Sara had kept him up all night, cranky and in pain.

Jackie handed him a fresh bag of whole-bean coffee from a small-batch estate in Costa Rica. "Where should I brew this? You look like something the cat dragged in."

She meant no harm and he smiled. "Thanks. Kitchen." He turned to follow her, but Leon waved him down on the couch.

"Let her do it," he said warmly. "She's been dying to take care of someone since we left your adoption party. Where is that baby, anyway?"

"In bed."

"Bad night?"

Gibbs sat heavily on the sofa. "Yup."

Jackie returned, smiling kindly. "I have a few things for Sara. I know her clothing options are limited right now, so I had some of Kayla's old dresses altered. Is she in a size three, normally? Or a four?"

"Two," he replied, smiling a little. "She's small for her age."

"A three is small, Gibbs. Two is just…beyond. I brought fours and fives with the collars closed up. They should fit right over the cast and not gape so much. You don't need cold wind blowing down that baby's neck." She pulled four tennis dresses from a bag, all long-sleeved. Panels had been sewn into the button plackets that would keep them snug around her neck and chest. It was a kind gesture for her to do such a thing; he was touched.

"Thanks, Jackie. Really—Sara will appreciate having more than two outfits."

She smiled. "It was no problem. I also have a grocery delivery service dropping off a small order of fresh fruit and vegetables once a week. I know it's hard to get out when you have a man down. Went though it after Jarod had his appendix out. It ruptured before they could get to it, so he was pretty sick for a while afterwards." Upstairs, Sara cried out shrilly for her father. Jackie gave him a wry smile. "I'd offer to get her…"

He returned the smile. "Gimme a minute to get her changed."

He bound up the stairs and into Sara's room. She was awake and crying softly. The pacifier was nowhere to be found and her bunny was tossed over the lamp.

"What's wrong, sweet pea?" he cooed, picking her up. "Why did your rabbit decide to jump ship?"

She pressed her wet face beneath his chin. "I wanna be up."

He swayed and pressed a kiss to her curls. "Did you need to cry for that? Or could you use your words like a big girl?" She stuffed her thumb in her mouth and stared into space. Gibbs sighed. "Thought so. Let's change you and go downstairs—we have company."

Sara loved a good party; she was immediately interested. "Who?"

"Leon and Jackie. Remember Kayla and Jarod? They gave you the pop-tent for when the weather gets nice?" She nodded, thumb still in her mouth. "Well their mommy and daddy are downstairs. Jackie brought you some new dresses to try on."

He laid her on the floor and changed her diaper quickly, then wrapped the green blanket around her shoulders and toted her down the stairs.

Jackie jumped up from her seat as soon as he hit the bottom riser. "Sara!" she exclaimed gently. "You poor thing! That is one very big cast. How do you feel?"

Sara stared, blank, but held her arms out to her in a silent request to be held. Gibbs was shocked; Sara had recently acquired a case of stranger-danger, but she nestled right into Jackie's arms like she belonged there.

"Little peanut," she cooed, enthralled. "Want to try on some things I brought for you?" Sara hummed and Jackie pulled a purple dress over her head, and threaded her arms through the sleeves like a pro. "There," she said. "Are you more comfortable now?"

She nodded and felt the front of the dress with both hands. It was cotton and had obviously been well loved; the fabric was washed to comfortable, faded softness. "Nice," she murmured, and popped her thumb back in her mouth.

Gibbs grinned. "You look beautiful, sweet pea. Want to stay with Jackie and Leon while I get us some coffees?"

"Wan' milk, Daddy," she mumbled, distracted by her new clothes. She made the sign for please before he left.

He listened to the Vances entertain Sara while he retrieved coffees. Alone, he wondered if he wasn't doing her a disservice by raising her by himself. Did she long for a mother? Had he been naïve in thinking he could provide everything she needed? Could the team be enough family for her?

Yes, he said to himself, if falsely confident. They were more than enough; how many children had so many warm, loving adults in their lives?

He didn't jump when the back door creaked open and Ziva sneaked through, red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. She'd been crying and was valiantly trying to hide it.

"Good morning," she said softly, unable to meet his gaze.

"DiNozzo's gone?" he asked, adding a cup for her. It was the last in the pot so he went about making a second—measuring water, grinding beans—as a means to get her to talk.

"Yes," she replied. "He flew out an hour ago."

He took a sip from his own mug and smiled to himself; Jackie knew how to brew like a Marine.

"Leon is here?" Ziva ventured, putting her bag down at the end of the counter.

"Yup. Jackie brought some stuff for Sar."

"Oh." She shifted uncomfortably, trying to compose herself.

Gibbs wet a clean dishcloth and handed it to her. "Here. Clean yourself up before you go in there."

She nodded numbly and pressed the rag over her eyes. It helped, marginally; the stinging in her sinuses began to subside.

He watched her and loaded a tray with cream, sugar, coffees, and a bowl of roasted almonds, then poured whole milk into a sipper for his daughter. "Better?" he asked when she folded the towel and hung it on a drawer pull.

She still couldn't look at him and he'd have to ask later about why she was so damned ashamed of herself. "Yes," she lied. "Thank you."

Ziva followed him into the living room. "Hello," she greeted. "How are you this morning?" She didn't miss Director Vance's sharp gaze.

"We're fine," he answered for all of them. "DiNozzo got off the ground safely?"

"As far as I know," she replied politely. "I am sure he will get a SitRep as soon as he can."

Jackie shifted Sara in her arms when Gibbs handed her the sip cup. "Ziva? We know about your relationship with him and it's fine. There's no need for formalities; we're all friends here."

She schooled her face carefully, hiding both her embarrassment and relief. Why did she feel the need to be so secretive? Tony didn't. Furthermore, it didn't even matter; she was no longer an agent.

"Thank you," she said quietly. She couldn't look at Jackie, feeding Sara, cradling her like an infant. Jealousy beat its low bass drum in her chest.

Leon spoke carefully, eyeing both her and Gibbs. "I spoke to your father," he said. "I told him that you were welcome back at the agency at any time." She gazed back at him, unafraid. "I also said that you were a smart, sophisticated young woman with tremendous potential. The things you choose to pursue are only your business, not his."

She exhaled, chest collapsing. It took a long moment for her to gather herself and speak. "Thank you," she said again. "Though you did not have to vouch for me or…protect me."

He gave her a steady look. "It was just the facts, Ziva."

Gibbs put his mug down on the coffee table with a hollow thunk. "Am I missing something here? Why the hell is Eli David sticking his nose in everyone's business?"

"He does not like that I quit NCIS," Ziva said bravely. "He thinks I should not pursue other paths."

"Why does he care? You're a grown woman. You can do whatever the hell you want."

"He likes control," she said simply. "He liked knowing I was still fighting for my country. Even the adopted one." Everyone's eyes wandered to Sara when she said adopted. Sara was drifting off to sleep, belly full of milk and cozy in her new dress.

"When I last spoke to him," she continued. "He wanted me to go to Yemen. He wanted me to investigate Seaman Almosolino's death. But when you told him I was not coming out of retirement, he asked you to send Tony instead." She shrugged, coffee gone cold.

Vance nodded once and stood. "We should go," he said gently. "Take care, everyone."

"Come by again," Gibbs said easily.

"We will," Jackie said quickly, and laid Sara in the beanbag chair. "I could hold her all day."

"I'm sure she'd love that," he agreed. "Thanks for everything."

She kissed his cheek. "You're so welcome. We don't live too far away, so be sure to call if you need something. Or just relief—I'm happy to watch her if you need to get out of the house. Kayla would love it, too. She loves little ones."

He smirked. "I'm sure you'll be first on Sara's list. See ya."

He closed the door behind him and turned to regard Ziva carefully. Sara slept on, thumb anchored in her pixie mouth.

"Do me a favor," he said softly, still standing in the foyer.

She looked back blankly. "What?"

"Get over it."

Puzzled, she furrowed her brow. "Get over what, Gibbs?"

"You've been miserable for weeks. Get over it."

She crossed her arms, wincing. The cold made her ache. "I do not know what you mean."

"You're here, Ziver. You're loved. You're safe. Why are you letting small things get to you?"

"Small things?" she begged, incredulous and angry. "My father continually calling to shame and humiliate me? Trying to take me away from all the things I am working so hard for?"

"Tried, Ziva. But didn't." He stepped closer and waited for her to lift her chin and look him in the eye. "He can't hurt you if you don't pick up the phone."

She'd gone quiet, feet planted on the area rug, and they engaged in a brief but powerful staring contest. Only Sara's squeak of discomfort broke them apart.

"Ow," she said quietly.

Gibbs knelt next to the beanbag. "What hurts, sweet pea?"

"Ow," she howled, drawing the word out.

"Tell me what hurts," he demanded gently. "Use your words."

She tossed her head and tried to reach behind her, writhing as best she could in her enormous cast. "Daddy ow! Ow on my back!"

He flipped her like a gingerbread man and tore the dress off to check her over. Sure enough, there were two reddening pressure sores on the wings of her shoulder blades; the cast was rubbing when she moved her arms.

He positioned her over his knee to take the weight off the blisters. "Let's put some soft stuff where it rubs and then we'll do tummy time. That should make the pain go away. Ok, sweet pea?"

She turned her face against his jeans. "Make it stop, Daddy."

"I will, baby girl," he cooed, running his fingers through her tangles. "I need to get the moleskin. Can I pick you up?"

"No," she said tartly. "Ow, Daddy."

"Can Ziva hold you?"

She had to think about that one. "No," she said, still thinking. "Staying here."

Ziva found moleskin, rubbing alcohol, and strong tape in the minute it took her to decide and handed them all to Gibbs.

"Put alcohol on the red spots," she instructed. "It will toughen the skin so they do not come back. Then use the tape to hold the edges of the moleskin down—it does not stick well to fiberglass."

He dabbed at the sores with a damp cotton ball while she skillfully peeled the backing from the adhesive. "Speaking from experience, huh?"

She nodded. "Even with the edges padded, fiberglass scotching tape is very rough. I have gone through five boxes of moleskin in five weeks. And any heat takes it off. I rested my arm against Tony's coffee cup one morning and had to replace what was around my hand with fresh tape immediately. A waste of twenty minutes and ten dollars worth of supplies."

He smirked, but not because of her story; she was safe with DiNozzo. Safe enough to let him spend his mornings with her, drinking coffee and perusing the newspaper. "I don't need to know about your slumber parties," he groused.

She gaped, flushing red. "Gibbs, I…we…"

Sara sighed as he taped down the final edge. "Zeeba," she said softly. "You need sleeping here. Tony is away and…and…you be with us."

Her blushed deepened. "Thank you, Sara'leh. I will take you up on that invitation. But I will have to pick up Yaffa later. She cannot be alone."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I'm sure she'll be fine—"

"No," Ziva interrupted tightly. "She is mine and I refuse to let her go to sleep not knowing when I will return. I will get her before dinner."

"You shouldn't be driving," he complained, but she glared and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop her. He looked back at Sara, who was still draped across his leg, arms dangling. She was drifting off to sleep again, still exhausted from surgery. "Can I put you back in the beanbag?" he asked, worried her neck would get sore.

"No," she said slowly. "Wan'Zeeba."

Ziva moved onto the sofa and stacked a few pillows. "Put her here," she ordered gently. "I will sit with her while I do my work. You can go to your boat."

He lifted Sara onto the couch and smiled when she sighed and threw an arm over Ziva's leg.

"Zeeba?" she asked sleepily, eyes closed.

She wordlessly asked Gibbs to get her laptop and schoolbooks. "Hm?"

"It's ok. Tony will helping the boy."

"Yes," she said succinctly, winding one of Sara's curls around her finger. "Yes. Tony will help the boy."