A/N: ;^)

DISCLAIMER: -insert here-

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December 20th

WELCOME HOME CHARLIE!

Laughter immediately bubbles up from Ziva the moment she lays eyes on their front door and the neon fuchsia words proclaiming the baby's arrival. A large black poster is vying for center stage against a holiday wreath that doesn't stand a chance to Abby's elaborate artwork. And Tony chuckles, addressing Charlie, dozing again in her carrier, "Well, baby doll, you're official."

The bedside clock glows 7:58 in the dark room, the sound of the heating system tempered with quite snoring, a discordant duet wrought from sheer exhaustion and now-calmed excitement.

She sleeps on her back, a position she has been denied for the past several months, wide curls fanning across her pillow, across the mattress. The pungent odor of antiseptic has been replaced with the warm scent of cinnamon and honey that mingles with the clean smell of soap and Tony.

A soft mewling shatters the silence and Ziva is up and alert in less than a heartbeat, pulling back the covers and slipping out of the bed's warm embrace.

Charlie's face is scrunched up, eyes tightly closed, mouth a perfect 'o.' She's broken free of her blanket, arms flailing, tiny fingers fisted. Ziva murmurs softly to her, carefully extracting her from the bassinet, cradling the newborn expertly in her arms. Tony rouses and golden lamplight infiltrates the room as he watches idly through sleep-blurred eyes his partner climb back into bed, their wailing daughter in tow.

"Geez, Charlie," he says, stifling a yawn, captivated with the discontent infant. Ziva continues making quiet noises, wrestling with her shirt as the baby squirms. He notices her juggling act and, grinning apologetically for not cottoning on sooner, sits up straighter, motioning for her to relinquish the baby to him.

He's gentle, holding Charlie as if she were glass, utterly fragile, seemingly breakable, settling her into the crook of one arm while smoothing her blanket across the bed. He places her on her back, unfazed by the crying, skillfully swaddling the newborn, tucking the final corner behind Charlie with a satisfied whisper of, "Tada!" And Ziva smirks beside him, shaking her head.

How did she get so lucky?

He returns Charlie to her mother, slipping back down into the sheets, lying on his side and facing his girls. Ziva leans against the headboard, eyes slipping closed, a sigh escaping her lips as silence is reestablished in the apartment.

"She looks like you," he says after a minute of watching her and the baby. And it's true, Charlie has inherited Ziva's warm complexion, her graceful features, her dark hair. "Except for her smile –she's got the DiNozzo smile."

"And the appetite."

"She's beautiful . . . . You're beautiful." And she is, sitting there in the semidarkness of their bedroom, dark curls a messy halo around her head, tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her face is clean and flushed from sleep and her t-shirt is crumpled, but really, he thinks she's never been prettier. And with Charlie –her baby, his baby- embraced against her chest . . . . "What's so funny?" he wonders when Ziva's low chuckling draws him from his reverie.

Liquid chocolate eyes regard him lazily through half-raised lids. "She fell asleep," she informs him, a small grin teasing her lips.

"Should you poke her or something?" And at Ziva's bemused expression, he clarifies, "I mean, is she done? Like, no longer hungry?"

Ziva offers him a one-shoulder shrug, studying Charlie amusedly. "Evidently. I suppose she will let us know when she is hungry later, yes?"

"I guess so."

"What time is it?"

"Eight twenty-four –we got a good three hour nap in though," he says, eyes closed, half asleep.

She nods, eyes still riveted on Charlie, before she mirrors his previous action of burrowing back down into the covers, tucking Charlie at her side.

He hears Ziva whisper, "I love you," and opens his eyes to find her looking at him.

"Right back at 'cha, sweet-cheeks."

And love abounds.