The subtitle to this chapter should be "A Return to Hermitville." Thanks, all, for the love. Do I give it back in spades? I hope so. Big love.

And the train conductor says,

"Take a break, Driver Eight; Driver Eight, take a break.

We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away."

-REM, "Driver Eight."

Leon Pignatoro had a barrel chest and thick, ropy forearms. Dressed in a grey wool suit and gold cufflinks, he looked at Agent Curtis through narrowed brown eyes. The toothpick in his teeth moved right-to-left.

"I hate Jews."

Curtis narrowed his blue eyes to match. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Damn kikes runnin' a racket from here to Hollywood." He ticked each of his fat fingertips. "New York, Chicago, L.A. They got their greedy Sheeny fingers in every single goddamn thing. Movies, banks, the ponies, whores…you name it, you payin' a kike for it." He snorted and crossed his arms. "My family's been trying to run 'em out of New York for years. Now they're following us into the 'burbs. Buying out our Nonnas' houses and bakeries to put up more of their schools. That's where they start—with the kids. Training them up to take our money and run our country. This is gonna be the United States of Israel before you know it."

Curtis did not roll his eyes. He pushed the photo of Ziva in her NCIS jacket and ballcap across the table. "Mr. Pignatoro, is this your way of confessing to the paid hit on one of our agents?"

Pignatoro studied the picture, a small smile on his lips. "Pretty girl. For a Jewess, anyway. What a shame."

Curtis leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Is that a confession, Mr. Pignatoro?"

He shrugged, arms still crossed. "You got Carvelli and the DeCroo brothers, don't you?"

"Gianni Carvelli and Carlos DeCroo are both in federal detention. Thomas DeCroo passed away, unfortunately. Will you please answer the question?"

Pignatoro shrugged again. "Where's your evidence?"

"Did you pay to have Agent David killed?"

Behind the glass, Leon Vance crossed his arms to match Pignatoro. "He has got to have twenty men working for him. His books came back with a payroll as long as my arm. What's Suffolk PD doing about that?"

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "They're on it, Leon."

Vance scowled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means they're on it. Relax and get a confession." He pressed the button to speak into Curtis' earpiece. "Move on."

Curtis pushed another photo across the table. Eliezer and Zlata Dvorak stared up at Pignatoro, unflustered by typhoid vaccines and hungry, screaming infants. "Do you know these people?"

He smirked. "I know they're the reason I don't run New York."

"And is that the reason you paid Carvelli to kill Agent David?"

Pignatoro's smirk turn into a malicious smile. "Lawyer."

. . . .

Tony strutted into Ziva's room to find her nested in bed with her phone, her tablet computer, her owl, and a jug of cranberry juice the size of his head. She looked at him pathetically, huffed in aggravation, and push the tablet away.

"I am sick," she whimpered. "I have an infection from the catheter. I am bore. Bore-d!"

He kissed her feverish brow. "Claudia told me when I got off the elevator. She said lots of fluids and rest. They'll start an IV of antibiotics if you get any warmer."

She growled. "I do not want."

"Well I don't want you to be sick." He pushed the hospital-issue mug toward her. It was oversized, insulated, and came with a fat bendy straw. "Drink up."

She took a careful sip, wincing when it hit the ulcer in her throat. "Ow."

"Whiny ninja. What are you playing?"

She turned the tablet back on. "It is a game for my memory. Did you play it when…small? It is like the cards and match…" She demonstrated her current level. "It gets hard-er when I win."

Tony matched a tree and a treehouse. "And you win a lot, I'm sure. Are you still going to PT later?"

"I do not know," she complained. "Claudia say…said maybe late. Devorah said I cannot if I have a fever."

"Can't say I blame her—you're dizzy enough without one. How much did you drink so far?" He pried the lid off and peered inside—the contents were half-gone. He handed it back. "Drink."

She took three long swallows, eyes still locked on the screen. "I am busy."

"You're not too busy to drink. More."

Ziva batted at his hand. "It hurts my throat. I do not want."

He wouldn't let her petulance get to him. "Then it's IV fluids. Make your choice."

She swiped the cup from the table and drank, glaring at him. "Ugh," she mewled, setting it down. "I feel so bad."

"I'm sorry," Tony murmured, sweeping her damp hair back into a ponytail—it was freshly washed with her own shampoo. Claudia had discovered the fever at bath time and confirmed a UTI when she'd changed her catheter.

"You did so well yesterday. It must be frustrating to feel crappy today."

She leaned her head back against the pillows. "It is," she moped. Tears formed in her eyes and she grabbed his shirt. "Tony?"

"Hm?" He stroked her hair again, expecting a meltdown.

She pointed to the recliner, eyes magically dry. "I want to sit there and work. Can you help?"

He rang for the nurse. "Of course, baby. Let's ask Claudia, too. I don't want to move you without help. Not yet, anyway. Let me get a little more confident with transfers before I go it alone."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But you do it. Not her."

He nuzzled her neck but pulled away, blushing, when the nurse came in. "She wants to sit in the recliner and work at the table. Help me move her?"

She smiled and winked. "No problem, Romeo. Ziva, we should put your collar on."

She didn't look up from the computer. "No."

"Ok, but it goes on if you start to hurt. Want to swing around for me?"

Ziva pushed with her elbows but couldn't quite slide her legs over the edge. "I just learned," she protested angrily. "I need help still."

Tony gave her hips a gentle shove. "There."

She steadied her bobbing head. "Do not drop me," she said sharply.

"Never," he promised, heart tearing a little, and lifted her easily into the waiting easy chair. He wanted her to trust him with these things; it hurt that she didn't.

She waved a hand. "Back small more, Tony. I need to be up so I can see."

He slid her back and put a pillow behind her head. Claudia checked her pulse and blood pressure.

"Lookin' good. Comfortable?"

She pouted. "Cold."

Tony snapped the quilt and tucked it around her. "Better?"

"Yes." She poked at the air with her index finger, eyes on the tablet in the bed. "I need that. I want to work."

He put it on the table and took her place in the bed, stretching his legs, propping his head on one of her ergonomic cushions so he could comfortably read the news on his phone. He scrolled through the sports section without absorbing any of it.

"Remember to drink your juice," he said absently. "Hey, this air mattress is nice. Should I get one for at home?"

Ziva looked up, eyes murderous. "Do not tease."

He looked at her in disbelief. "What? I'm being serious. If this is comfortable for you then I'll get one for our bed. I want you to sleep well and not worry about bedsores."

She ignored him, not wanting to think about how much of the hospital would follow them home. She pointedly played her game and sipped juice until the straw crackled and she hiccupped from taking in air.

"More, please," she demanded, thrusting the cup in his general direction. She fed the word flurry to a monster and earned another hundred points.

Tony got up, moaning as his knees popped. "How about I run to the store and get a few things I know you like? Maybe some orange-mango juice, a few iced green teas—low sugar, I know—and some soup for your lunch? Sound good?"

She smiled, finally over her little tantrum. "Yes, please. Maybe crackers, too?"

He swept his keys off the table and dropped a kiss on her head. "Be good while I'm gone."

She switched to a different game and puckered for a kiss. "I will. Bye."

She wasn't alone for long. Movement at the door made her heart rate spike; she did not like it when the aides came in without knocking.

"What?" She commanded anxiously.

A woman in a high-tech, rigid-frame wheelchair was at the threshold. She was young—perhaps in her early thirties—and wore jeans and a leather jacket. An expensive leather jacket, if Ziva was right about the cut and stitching. She smiled and took off her blue wool beret.

"Shalom. My name is Adi Shilton. My husband is helping Tony remodel your house." She rolled in easily, swung around the bed, and stopped in front of the table.

Ziva closed the tablet and took in Adi's confident smile and wild, wavy, dark hair. She suddenly felt very small and very plain in her yoga pants. She glanced nervously at the catheter bag hanging in full view. Sorrow and self-pity crept up the back of her throat.

"Hello," she replied timidly.

Adi cocked her head. "Ofek sent me to speak to you. I don't normally do this, but when I heard you were from Tel Aviv I decided it would be ok. How did you get hurt?"

Ziva tried to brush the shyness aside. "Someone hit me."

Her smile thinned and her eyes narrowed in concern. "I'm so sorry. What's your level of injury?"

Ziva frowned. "Hm?"

"Your level of injury is where sensation stops. I'm a T10 complete—that means I have no sensation below the waist."

"Dunno," she confessed. She couldn't remember—C-something? She'd have to ask. Her neck prickled and she rubbed it, brows knitted.

Adi smiled again. "You need to know. Are you complete or incomplete?"

"I can move," Ziva said carefully. "I can push, pull, wiggle toes."

She nodded. "You're still having a lot of pain?"

Ziva nodded slightly. "Yes. I am sick today."

"UTI?"

She nodded again, blushing.

"I get them, too. It's ok. Be careful with the antibiotics; don't let them give you too many. They'll narrow your treatment options if you build up a tolerance. How's your pain?"

"Bad sometimes. It is…hard. I do not know how to say them."

Adi squinted at her. "That is not your accent. Your speech is...different. Clipped. Like you don't trust yourself. What happened?"

Ziva blushed deeper and swallowed back tears of shame. "My head…he hit me and it damage. It is hard to find…to find the right ones. I say wrong a lot. It makes…feel stupid." She let her hands fall into her lap.

Adi put her palms beneath her hips and pushed up, balancing her weight on her hands. She wiggled her shoulders and bit and sat back down. "You're not stupid. How long have you been here?"

"Dunno." She had trouble keeping track of things—days, routines, belongings, information from the doctors. It was a source of embarrassment she hadn't yet shared with Tony. Gibbs knew, but he'd promised her that he didn't think she was dumb or willfully ignorant.

"I mean in the U.S. How long?"

She thought for a long minute but couldn't concoct an answer. "Dunno," she finally mumbled again, humiliated.

Adi pulled herself closer, leaned her arms on the table, and propped her chin on her stacked fists. "I got hurt when I was still in the IDF. Building collapse—suicide bomber in the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall. I wasn't even on duty, just having a coffee with some of my squadron mates."

Ziva nodded mutely. Her own squadron had been sent to Jerusalem to help manage the after-effects. Threats lingered for months. She'd patrolled the city alone, toting an M16, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

"I remember," she said softly. "Your friend died." Nava Appelbaum had been twenty years old, beautiful, and blown to pieces.

"She did," Adi confirmed. "I was very angry. Not so much because I was hurt, but because I'd lost my only real friend. I screamed at Ofek and my parents a lot in those first few weeks. "

Ziva sucked in a hard breath, mouth dry. "I do not. I am afraid that…that they will go."

"Your friends? That's normal. This is a huge change—a huge trauma. Some people can't handle having a friend in a chair."

Ziva's gaze wouldn't leave the tabletop. "There is no one else," she said softly. "My father came but he…left and he said he could not…he would not have me. If Tony goes, my friends...there is no one else." Her eyes were wet. She swiped at them angrily, flinching when her knuckles caught the adhesive on her cheek.

Adi had a sweet face but her hazel eyes were sharp as tacks. "You need a therapist."

"I am on medication."

"You need someone to talk this out with you—a professional. You need someone who can help you develop ways to deal with your feelings. A therapist can do that and help you manage your meds. I see one, still, and it's been fifteen years."

Ziva's head jerked up. She ignored the spur of pain in her hands. "Why? You are fine."

"I am," Adi agreed. "But sometimes I'm not. I was on medication, too, for the first few years. I was too angry. The antidepressanthelped take some of the peaks off my up-and-downs. The therapist helped me with my grief for both my friend and the life I had to leave behind. Don't you miss your independence? Your home, your furniture, your own bed, your work?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I miss my books. I miss my kitchen and cooking. I miss running in the park."

"You can cook and read," Adi warned.

Ziva tucked her fists together in her lap. "I am so…tired. Always. And my hands—in the beginning I could not…I had to learn, and they are…soft. It is hard to point, hard to hold…" She made a sloppy fist in demonstration.

"Your injury is high, then. You might not get all your strength back but there are plenty of adaptive technologies you can learn to use."

"My fork and spoon…straps," she grumbled. "I try to not…but then I spill."

Adi chuckled. "So? I spill stuff all the time. And I fall. And I drop things. And you know what? So does Ofek. He makes messes constantly. I'm not even going to tell you about my two small boys. They can turn the living room into a minefield for me."

Ziva smiled but it turned serious. "You had children after?"

"Yes—conceived naturally. I carried them both to full term, but it had an effect on my mobility towards the end. Though I think it does for every woman."

"I cannot, but not because…from long ago." She took a breath. "I was Mossad. I got captured…the men were…they were cruel. They hurt me and I got very sick." She peeked up between her lashes to find Adi looking at her with soft eyes and an open, concerned expression. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. That is terrible. I hope Tony killed those men for you. But remember that there are many ways to become a mother. You'll find the right one if you decide that's what you want."

Ziva ignored the statement about motherhood. She wasn't ready to think about managing another human when she wasn't even manageable, herself.

"My father killed…them," she replied quietly. The pounding in her head grew louder and she rubbed ineffectively at her eyes. "I am sorry, but I feel so bad."

Adi nodded, patted her hand, and lifted Ziva's new smartphone from the table. "This is yours? I will program my number into it. Call me when you have questions. Or call me when you want to take a walk," she paused and winked. "Or drink a coffee. Call me when your therapist says you're ready to go to wheelchair clinic. I can help you with sizing, maybe teach you a few tricks."

Ziva flushed red and a small smile played at the corners of her mouth—she'd never had a friend that wasn't work-related. "As long as you are not too busy," she faltered.

Adi smirked. "You think I would offer if I was too busy? Take care of yourself and learn as much as you can—it's the only way you can be more independent." She came around the recliner and gave Ziva a small peck on the cheek. "Shalom. Refuah sh'leima."

"Toda," she replied hollowly, a little in awe of how easily she maneuvered around the room and into the hallway.

Adi must've passed Tony in the hall because he came in with a sack full of drinks and a crooked smile on his face. He pointed at Ziva quizzically.

"Did you make a new friend?"

She smiled, feeling oddly relieved and light-hearted. "Yes. She is nice. She is…like me." A strange look passed over her face, but she blinked hard and changed the subject. "You bringing…" She stopped to make a face at her mistake. "For me? I am thirsty."

He poured a bottle of orange juice into her cup and cut it with a half a bottle of water. "Here. I brought soup, too. Hungry?"

"Yes."

He put the container in front of her—leek and potato—and tightened the spoon's strap across her knuckles. She ate happily, stopping only to take a long swallow of juice.

"Very good," she praised.

He nodded from behind a pastrami sandwich. "No crackers," he shrugged. "But I got you some bread. Want to try?" He unwrapped half a baguette with a dense, chewy crust.

"Um," she hemmed. "Maybe take off? I cannot if…it is too hard."

He peeled off the crust and stuffed it in his own mouth. "Try it now, Zi," he prodded, cheeks full.

She took a tentative bite and hummed in satisfaction; he'd smeared it with sweet cream butter and it offset the savory soup perfectly. "So good," she murmured.

"I slaved for hours over a hot stove," he bemoaned. "I went out in the wind and the rain to harvest those leeks. I plucked them so lovingly from the tree that it bent down and wept with joy."

She stared, spoon poised to her mouth. "They grow dirt, Tony."

He smiled. "So you're saying the tree didn't weep?"

She giggled and took another bite.

Claudia knocked on the doorframe. "How are you feeling, Ziva?"

She shrugged—a novel gesture she hadn't been able to make in weeks. "Bad, I guess. Head hurts. And it…burns." She flushed red, casting a nervous glance at Tony.

"Keep drinking," the nurse counseled. "Wash those cells clean. I'll get your vitals real quick."

She checked Ziva's heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, and temperature, then shook her head and sighed.

"Looks like you're getting IV fluids and antibiotics, Ziv—your fever is up over one-oh-two and your urine is still cloudy. Left arm or right?"

Ziva echoed her sigh, pushed her empty bowl away, and held up her left arm. "And I want back in bed," she said to Tony.

He jumped up and took her in his arms. "I got this," he said over his shoulder. Claudia winked and stepped aside so he could shift Ziva back onto the mattress.

"There," he announced, tucking the quilt back around her legs. "Better?"

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, and held out her left arm. She didn't wince when the IV was inserted and taped down.

Claudia hung a bag of tetracycline. "You're not off the hook—keep drinking. Want something else?"

"No. Tony has more for me. Tea, please?" She held out her mug.

He rinsed the jug and filled it with white tea sweetened with peach nectar. "So, tell me about your new BFF."

She hid behind the straw for a minute, collecting her thoughts. "Um, she is nice. She said I should try to remember more what Dr. Monroe says. I can more…"

"Be more independent?"

She nodded. "Yes." She fell silent. "Did you see how…she is fast?"

Tony swallowed the last bite of his overstuffed sandwich. "How did you feel about Adi and her chair?"

Ziva frowned. "She does everything. Mostly. She works and has a home and boys. She is…normal, Tony. I want normal."

There was a strange flutter in Tony's chest—a pressure. A feeling that he couldn't quite describe, but didn't dislike. "Can I be part of that normal?"

She gave him a wry eye-roll. "You are part of not-normal, Tony. Why I would say 'go'?" Her eyes widened again and she grabbed his wrist desperately. "But do not go. Please? I do not want you go. I love you."

He kissed the hand that clenched his arm. "I love you, too. I'm not going anywhere. Believe me, Zee-vah, I don't want to be anywhere else."

She sipped her tea. "You got…trouble on pur-sis."

His brow creased. "Huh?"

She huffed. "You got trouble. Gibbs say you…you made a fit and Vance said you were out."

Tony laughed and nodded. "On purpose?" He thrust his chin in the air. "So what if I did?" He winked conspiratorially.

Ziva punched his shoulder. "You are fool. You get trouble any more and you will here because…no work."

He kissed her temple. "I'm not going to lose my job; we have a mortgage to pay. I'm just taking a little break so I can get you back on your feet. Er…butt."

He shrank in his chair, expected her to rage at him, but she just laughed and punched his arm again. Sobering, she laced their fingers together. "I am ok, Tony. I am…groomy? Gum..? But I am ok. I love you even still."

He clicked his tongue, surprised to find tears gathering in his eyes. "Even if I'm the most infuriating man in the world? Even if I make bad jokes? Even if you're grumpy?"

"Grumpy," she parroted. "Yes. Love you always."

He climbed onto the bed next to her. "I love you, too. Always and more always. C'mere." He drew her close and she rested her head beneath his shoulder, suddenly heavy with fatigue.

"Nice," she murmured, drifting.

He kissed her brow, half-checking the fever. "Yeah. Maybe you should nap for a bit. Is Dev coming to see you?"

"I am sick," she informed him quietly.

"You'll be ok." He threaded an arm beneath her and traced a long line down her side, over the ridge of her hip.

She shoved his hand away. "Ow."

"That hurts?"

"No."

He smirked against her hair. "You are a little wounded tiger today."

He felt her smile against his shirt. "Yes."

"Grumpy ninja."

Ziva harrumphed. "Sh." Sleep was tugging at her, dragging her toward the depths with smooth, even strokes of her hair and cheeks. She took a breath, then another, and slid beneath the dark surface.

. . . .

McGee knocked tentatively on the door of Dr. Monroe's office. She bid him enter without looking up from her paperwork.

"I'm here on behalf of Ziva David," he said formally, hands sweaty. "She and I made a discovery last night that prompts me to speak to you."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "She can wiggle her toes. I'm working on a new evaluation for her right now. I'll do a full exam on rounds tonight. How is she coping with the urinary tract infection?"

He blushed. "Tony says she's ok—feeling lousy, but not terrible. Do you think she's ready for transfer to a full inpatient rehab facility?"

She shook her head. "No, not until she's weaned completely from the NG tube. I'd like to see her gain five pounds and be absence-seizure-free before she goes."

"When was her last neurological event?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Anne registered one late last night—she didn't wake fully, but there were blips on the monitors that suggested a seizure. I'm going to do another EEG to see if she's having them without us noticing."

McGee nodded. "Do you expect her to be here for another week? Two weeks?"

"I don't want to guess," she admitted honestly. "I'm happy with the rehab routine she's in now—she's monitored closely but gets the hours in PT, OT, and speech she needs. Dr. Miller said she's making strong strides in prosody and syntax."

"She's still floundering for words," he said, feeling a little exasperated. "Her recall is really slow and only about sixty percent accurate."

"It was less than forty. Give her time."

He sat in one of the visitor chairs. "I think she needs more that what she's getting."

Dr. Monroe sat back and tented her fingers. "I'm listening."

"I want to see her get into a full gait-training routine with a minimum of thirty minutes on a treadmill every other day—non-weight-bearing, of course. I want to see her in four to six hours of PT a day with OT and Speech on an intense schedule. I also want you to start weaning her off the feeding tube. Slow down the nocturnal feeds and let her eat more at meals. Maybe five meals a day instead of three."

She nodded, thinking over his demands. "We're doing four to six in PT, we're weaning her off the feeds, and why do you want to rotate PT and OT when she's still so dependent for self-care?"

He took a breath. "I know Ziva; she's not an easy person to deal with. She'll rise to the challenge if we take away some of the support."

The doctor frowned, concerned. "Are you happy with her care?"

"Yes, of course, but Ziva told me last night that she wants to walk. I came here to do her bidding."

Surprisingly, Dr. Monroe smiled. "She does, huh? Is that why the push for possible load-bearing therapies?"

Tim nodded, Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes. I like their success rates. I want real values in strength and agility—do you think she can do it?"

"Walk via Lokomat? Sure. Independently? Not now, maybe not ever. She's only capable of standing for twenty or thirty minutes at a time. Walking requires twice the energy for her, but if you think she can do it then who am I to argue? Let's get her on the treadmill tomorrow. You want to be there?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. I want to make sure she feels safe and secure. I want to see where and how much her legs are working."

"Fine." Monroe checked her watch. "I'm going to start rounds early so I can make enough time for Ziva. Walk with me—let's call Devorah and see what she thinks."

Gibbs was lifting Ziva back into the recliner when they walked in. She smiled and waved but didn't let go of his neck. He pried her fingers away, kissed them, and sat in the chair next to hers without letting go of her hands.

"Hi," she chirped, cheeks still pink with fever.

McGee smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. "I told Dr. Monroe what you told me. She and Devorah came up with a plan but you're going to have to be ok with it."

She blinked at him, smile fading. "What plan?"

Dr. Monroe checked Ziva's blood pressure and pulse but didn't let go of her wrist. "We think you would benefit from a gait-training program. What that means is that Devorah and Freddie will put you in a harness, hook it to a big frame, and then strap you to a machine that will help you "walk" on a treadmill. The idea is that the reciprocating gait motion will teach your brain and spinal cord to work together again—hopefully regenerating some of those connections that broke when you were injured. We'll also be able to tell which muscles you can use and how strong you are."

"Ok," she agreed, looking deliberately at McGee. He gave her a hesitant smile.

The doctor touched her shoulder. "Ziva, this program means a lot of straps and buckles on you—it might feel like restraints. Are you going to be ok if we do that?"

Her eyes darkened. "Dunno," she admitted softly. "But we can try."

Gibbs winked at her and she smiled. "When is this going to happen, Doc?"

"Tomorrow. Devorah already penciled her in at the treadmill at ten. Make sure you eat a good breakfast, Ziva. You're going to burn more calories than ever."

She looked at Tony. "What you bring me?"

"Protein" Gibbs supplied. "Eggs, cheese. Toast and juice for carbs and fruit sugar."

Tony nodded, jerking his thumb at his boss. "What he said. How long is this program going to last?"

"It depends—we'd like to see her make gains in core strength and stability. I'd say three days a week for eight weeks, initially, then on an as-needed basis after that."

Ziva stared, listening hard to the conversation around her. "Wait," she blurted. "What is my level? I need to remember."

"C7," McGee supplied. "You sustained a contusion between your last cervical and first thoracic vertebrae, but the swelling went all the way up your neck. You had a pretty bad case of spinal shock—that's why you couldn't move or cough in those first few weeks. Now that it's wearing off you're gaining back movement and strength in your upper body, and even some in your legs."

"C7. C7. C7. C7," she mumbled to herself, committing it to memory. "And this walk will help learn…how to…remember how…" Her brain went blank, her mouth slackened. Words fled.

Gibbs jumped in for her. "This will help," he said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"No doubt," Dr. Monroe assured him. "It's not just good for your injury, it's also good for balance, strength, stability, cardio, joint mobility…I can go on and on. I think your pain levels are stabile enough that you can handle it, Ziva."

She blinked. "What if I am sick?"

"The antibiotics are working. You should be a lot better by tomorrow morning. Your urine isn't even cloudy anymore. Does it still burn in your belly?"

"No," she mumbled, embarrassed.

Tony chucked her gently under the chin. "Don't be embarrassed. Remember what McBrainiac told you way back when? It's not upsetting or hard for us to deal with the catheters and tubes and needles. We don't like them, but we're not ashamed of you for needing them."

She nodded, still flush. "Ok. Yes, it burns. But not as much." She gave Tony a hard look. "Happy now?"

He grinned and nodded. "Adi told you to be your own advocate. This is part of that."

She glowered at him. "How you know she say?"

"How do you think she got here?"

Ziva shut her mouth with a pop. "Oh. Fine."

He smirked and Dr. Monroe motioned to the bed. "Why don't you lie back down, Ziva? I'd like to do a checkup."

Tony transferred her easily. "What about her weight, Doc?"

She felt the lymph nodes in Ziva's throat. "What about it? Other than she needs to gain at least five pounds." She looked in her eyes, ears, nose, and throat, then checked her heart and lungs. "Tell me about the Topamax."

Ziva shrugged. "It is ok. My head is only small noise. And not always—only sometimes. It is good, I think. I can remember more words when it is quiet." She frowned when Dr. Monroe tested the range of motion in her wrists, elbows, and shoulders. "But sometimes, when everyone talk, I do not…listen. It is too much."

"Mm hmm. What's that like?"

"Loud," she snorted. "I do not like loud. It hurts. And bright is bad, too."

"Sensory input giving you a hard time? What about surfaces and textures?"

"Everything soft. Dev made me do clay and it was…ew. I did not like."

Dr. Monroe smiled a little. "It's just a phase, kiddo. I know it sucks, but I don't expect it to last more than a week or two. How do you like your vest?"

Ziva smiled. "It is so good. It is warm and…makes…like…" She stuttered, shook her head, and tightened her grip on the quilt. "It is safe," she ground out, face red from the effort.

The doctor stepped back, eyebrows raised. "Well that's a change. Should we put it back on?"

"Uh huh." She held her arms out. Gibbs threaded them through the holes and secured the Velcro strips. She sighed, content. "Thanks, Abba."

He winked and sat back down.

"How about your legs?" Dr. Monroe prodded her quadriceps and patellar tendons. "How's the pain?"

She furrowed her brow. "Bad at where…um…bends? But all over aches so much. When I am done at the gym it is very bad. They have to be up and I need medicine."

Dr. Monroe smiled. "Thanks for telling me. I'll make sure you get something for the pain before you even get back here. We'll try to minimize the post-PT suffering. Can I check those joints now?"

"Yes," she breathed, a little anxious about more touching below the waist. She steadied herself to keep from panicking.

Gibbs sensed her discomfort and grabbed her flailing right hand. "You're ok, Ziver. Deep breath."

She complied, blowing hard. "Ok."

The doctor rolled her hips, bent her knees, and rotated her ankles and toes. "Hm. You're stiff. I want to put you in night splints to keep your ankles supple and your heels from getting bedsores."

Ziva whimpered. "Not again."

"They're not like last time—these are soft and won't even come up to your knees. Speaking off, can you bend them?"

"No," Tony said for her. "But they're looser than her ankles. I noticed it when I did her range-of-motion exercises this afternoon."

Dr. Monroe winked. "Well we'll just have to work on that. I'll place the order and we'll get her in 'em before bedtime. Tuckered out, Ziva?"

She blinked heavily. "Yes."

"I'll get them on it fast, then. Rachie will stop by in just a minute to show you guys how they work. Take care, ok? And I'll see you tomorrow."

She nearly collided with Abby in the hallway, who apologized profusely and stomped into the room with wide, sorry green eyes.

"I got stuck in the lab," she wailed. "I had so much evidence to work through and then Major Mass Spec came down with a terrible stomach flu. It was so sad! He was just standing there with his lights all dark." She clicked her tongue. "But enough about work. How do you feel? Timmy said you had a nasty UTI. Ick. Sorry, Zivvie. Hug?"

Ziva held out her arms, smiling.

Abby collapsed into them, then kicked off her boots and crawled up on the bed next to her. "You're so warm and cozy. It's freezing outside."

Ziva gasped when Abby's cold hands curled between her own.

"I told you; it's freezing." She slid her legs under the quilt. "Survival mode. We'll share body heat until I'm no longer hypothermic—which shouldn't be long because you're a little oven. Why do you still have a fever?"

"Dunno," Ziva huffed. "I feel bad."

Abby stroked her curls and clicked her tongue. "I know. I'm sorry you're sick. What are you on for it?"

She pointed to the IV bag hanging over their heads. "That."

"Tetracycline," Tim supplied.

Abby frowned at him and pulled Ziva into a tight hug. "I thought they usually prescribed sulfas for UTIs?"

"No cillins, no sulfas," Tony interjected. "She's allergic."

"Yes," Ziva confirmed smartly. "And I am tired."

"No sleeping until Rachie comes back," Gibbs warned over his book. "I know how cranky you are if they wake you. Stay up and then we'll make sure you get to sleep in tomorrow."

"I have to go Devorah," she protested.

"You will," he confirmed. "But you need to sleep, too."

Her eyes rolled and Abby loosened her hair from the elastic tie. "Why are we waiting up for the nurse?"

Tony sat up and ran a hand over his head. There were bags under his eyes and his hair stood on end. "Ziva's getting some new night splints to protect her ankles and heels. Dr. Monroe wants to put them on tonight."

Ziva looked at Abby sideways. "I do not want. I do not like on me."

"I don't want to see bedsores," Abby quipped. "Do you remember how much you cried? They hurt like hell."

Rachie appeared with two green foot splints. "I heard about your little Minerva-brace trauma. I don't want to see that, either. If I would've known that Amy, she would've gotten a piece of my mind on her way out the door. Can I pull the quilt back, Ziva?"

"Yes," she granted gravely.

Abby vaulted off the bed and Ziva flailed, surprised. "Hey—dizzy!"

"Sorry. Do you want me to do this for you?"

Ziva looked at her then back to Rachie. "Um, please?"

"No problem," the nurse agreed. "You know how these go on?"

Abby had Ziva's right foot set and secured before she'd finished the question. "Yep. These are no problem. And uh oh—you have a little sore on the left side. Where's the witch hazel I sent with Ziva from the seventh floor?"

It was produced, dabbed, dried, and the left splint fastened snugly. Abby helped Ziva turn onto her right side and tucked her in with pillows and her owl. Tony, Tim, and Gibbs stood to leave but she hemmed, hesitant. "I think I'll stay for a little while, guys." She stroked Ziva's left arm around the IV. "You know, just to be sure."

Gibbs leaned down and whispered something in Ziva's ear. She smiled but didn't open her eyes. "Go, Abba," she muttered. "You show tonight so he can…" She drifted off, mumbling unintelligibly.

He kissed her brow, then Abby's. "Both of you get to sleep," he ordered gently, and shoved Tony toward the door. "C'mon, DiNozzo. I need to take some measurements at your new place."

"Boss," he whined. "Can't we do that another time? I'm beat and Pitt plays OSU tonight."

"Nope. Get your ass in the car."

McGee gave Abby an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I helped him chose the grey and red for the home theater," he whispered. "I'm sure he'll love it."

"Me, too," she grinned. "And aren't you the secret agent lately—getting Ziva in to a better PT program, helping Gibbs make Tony his own man-cave." She sighed and put both hands over her heart. "What a superhero."

Tim's face went as scarlet as the paint he chose. "Thanks," he stuttered, ducking his head. "But I should probably get over there and make sure Tony knows how to work the surround-sound. See you tomorrow?"

"I'll be in by nine." She curled up next to Ziva and sighed, sleepy. "You sleepin', Zivvie?"

She hummed. "Abby?"

"Hm?"

There was a long silence. "Do not go, ok? Stay for small?"

"Of course."

Another long silence passed. "Abby?"

"Hm?"

"You are normal."

Abby bit her lips to keep from laughing loud enough to wake the entire floor. "Yeah," she finally sighed. "I suppose I am." She kissed Ziva's hot head and listened to the nurses' shoes squeak down the sanitized hallway.

. . . .

Tony slammed the car door hard enough to make the whole thing sway. "I'm exhausted," he complained. "I really needed to go home and watch the football game. Why are you making me do this now?"

Gibbs got out of his own car and lead him up to the front door. "There's no crying in baseball, DiNozzo. Grab that carpenter's rule and a twenty-five foot measuring tape. But wait, I got something to show you first." He loped down the hall to the third bedroom and swung the door open.

The house was dim—only the kitchen lights were on—so Tony didn't quite put the pieces together. "What?"

"Maybe you oughta check this out." He stood by the door, arms crossed.

Tony peeked around the doorframe. "And?" He groped for a lightswitch. "The hell, Boss? There'd better not be snakes or cockroaches or other creepy-crawly things in here. Why does it smell like paint and bourbon?"

Gibbs flicked the bank of switches to his right and smirked as realization dawned on his senior field agent. Tony's jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he ran a hand over his hair again, standing all of it up on end.

"Is this…what…who…the hell, Boss?"

"Not my idea," he grumbled. "Talk to your girlfriend."

He waved his arm in an arc. "This is amazing!"

It was, actually. Tim chose a herringbone pattern of scarlet and grey and hired skilled painters to produce it. A Buckeye decal had been specially-ordered from the university and centered on each wall. The wetbar matched the sidetables, the sectional sofa was black microsuede, and jerseys from the starting lineup of Tony's sophomore year had been autographed and framed. Tony walked in a slow circle, one hand out to brush the furniture.

Tim poked his head in. "The lighting is on dimmers. The TV screen is anti-glare and it has 3-D capabilities. Your DVD library is in that trunk—it opens to become a display case. And the surround sound can be turned off and on in case Ziva isn't interested in listening to you watch The Mummy for the thirty-seventh time."

"I'll have you know that Brendan Frasier is a highly underrated actor. How did you guys do this without me noticing?"

Gibbs cleared his throat. "Ziva. And Ofek was in on it, too. Once I learned he was your contractor I borrowed his guys in the evening to help me blow extra insulation in the walls and put down a thicker carpet pad. I carpeted, by the way. I wanted the sound dampened as much as possible."

Tony looked at the expensive grey berber weave at his feet. "Nice. Where did the weight bench and treadmill come from?"

"I know people," Gibbs deadpanned, and cuffed him on the shoulder. "You like it, huh?"

His eyes grew wet. "Boss, I don't know what to say. I'm pissing and moaning about being tired and you're doing double-duty here and at the Navy Yard? I feel like an ass."

"You are an ass," he confirmed. "But Ziva wanted you to have a space that was only yours. I just helped out a little bit." He slapped Gibbs' shoulder only to be pulled into a rough hug. "You really manned up for her," he praised gruffly. "Keep it up. You make me proud."

Tim smiled at his shoes. "Yeah, I'm with Boss. You've been working really hard lately. There's a premium channel list on the coffee table. Watch your game and relax for the night. Oh, and there's a case of your favorite beer in the mini-fridge. Goodnight."