A/N: Guten tag, freunde! Wie gehts es dir? I hope all of you, in your homes across the world, answered "well." :) Some of you got a sneak peek of this chapter, and now here's the whole enchilada. Geniessen!

Chapter 25: Recovery

With the justification of foreboding danger, Tony wanted them to leave Domiz immediately. But the camp, for all that it was deprived of, had been home to both Ziva and Sana for a time. To it, they returned from the Syrian mountains in the wake of tragedy; it was where they bonded over nightmares and water duty, sharing a tent during the cold months and then still afterwards. They'd made friends there who, with equal justification, wished to say ma'a salama.

"Sana, noor khalbi," Janan whimpered, dabbing up the tears free-falling down the creased, sunburnt valleys of her cheeks with a corner of her shawl. She pulled the small child to her breast, encircling her with murmured prayers for protection, strength, and grace.

"I do not know how to thank you for all that you have done for her," Ziva told the jada. "You are the reason she was not…" Her voice did not crack; it severed, dangling unhinged. Had the refugee not alerted her and Gray to the missing family, she didn't want to imagine what might have happened between the angry, armed regime soldiers and a frightened girl mourning her freshly murdered parents.

Janan clucked. "Sha! You listened to a crazy old woman and for that, you were rewarded with a ibnah."

Ziva could not find the words to dispute her. Choosing this camp over every other refugee camp in the region, the near senseless need to fling herself away from every safety and comfort she knew, her search for repentance—could it all have been…fated, putting her in the right place at the exact right moment to meet her daughter? It was something to ponder later, perhaps with her trusted friend and confidant, Schmeil. The farewells were not over yet.

From Janan's trembling hands, Sana was passed to Gray, who didn't throw her high overhead per the norm. Maybe he sensed her ready wings and knew this toss would mean pushing her out of the nest to fly away forever. He kept her grounded—and running.

"I'm gonna get ya'!"

Panting and shrieking, Sana took shelter behind her guardian's legs, peeking around to watch for her chaser.

"I see you," he goaded breathlessly, but when he was close enough to tag her, he caught Ziva's eye instead. "How am I gonna get my exercise not running after this one anymore?"

"There are others. I wish I could do more for—"

"Like what? You can't adopt all 500 of them." His fair eyes shined brightly in the dark. Those were just the ones in Domiz—thousands more were orphaned across the camps and host communities in Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, Egypt. "Just promise not to forget us, 'kay? That goes for you, too, little bird."

Sana shrank further behind Ziva's body, giggles giving away her hiding place.

"That is not possible," she guaranteed for them both. "We will always remember."

From up the path, Tony and Dunham approached, the last of the packs and gear lugged over their shoulders or carried under their arms (except for the one in a sling).

The retiring aid worker smiled faintly, though she wasn't sure which life brought it to her lips. "It is time to go," she announced, scooping Sana from the dirt road onto her hip.

"Where going?" Her skinny frame seized in a familiar paralysis. "I go, too! Zee-vah, I go!"

"Sh-sh-sh," Ziva soothed, starting up a sway without thought. "Of course you are coming, neshomeleh. We are going to my home. How does that sound, hm?"

The tiny fingers fisted into her shirt loosened; Sana craned her neck, pinning Ziva with a wistful gaze. "With you."

It struck Ziva that she no longer begged for her parents as she once had, though the adult orphan was not foolish enough to believe this meant she was 'over them;' one did not simply get over the loss of loved ones like a lost watch. It was likely a case of out of sight, out of mind. Little did the orphan know, her Om and Baba were coming home with them, too.

Ziva kissed her soft, damp cheek. "Na'am, Sana. With me."

Tony wasn't waiting anymore. After depositing the bags, he returned for the most precious cargo of all. "And me three," he chimed, steering the pair towards the long flight ahead.

Domiz was dark as they departed for the last time. Not unlike Lot's wife, Ziva looked back through the truck's rear window, liquid salt filling the pleat of her pursed lips. Enveloped in slumber as snuggly as the shawl around Janan's shoulders, the camp's usual bustle was replaced with quiet and dreams. Even if it was a mirage of the nighttime sky, there was a sense wafting off the sea of tents and serpentine paths, a feeling of what she'd hoped for Domiz, for its residents, and even for her herself since the beginning.

It was peace.

(/)(/)(/)

Six days later

Coming out of the small en suite bathroom, Ziva startled at the cloaked figure looming over the hospital bed. Her hand flew out of habit to the gun that wasn't on her hip, and hadn't been in ages; her mouth opened, ready to release a storm of intimidation. Then she blinked, vision sharpening…

A hard exhale—"Gibbs."

In his midnight overcoat, the special agent stepped back to reveal a mountain of blankets, underneath which Sana slept on, oblivious to the quake of activity around her. Rays from the morning's sunrise weren't yet peeking through the blinds; the only illumination were tiny flashes of red and blue and green from the medical equipment and a "nightlight" over the bed to guide the nurses' hourly rounds. He sank into the recliner near the window, and though she couldn't see it in the dark room, there was a clear smirk in his voice.

"Didn't think spooking you was possible, Ziver, let alone easy."

She was glad he would not be able to spy her hot cheeks, either. "I was not expecting anyone."

"That all? You getting any sleep here?"

Her shoulders started a journey toward her ears but gave up halfway. "I will be fine."

With sleep or without, it had been a trying week. After leaving Domiz under a shroud of stars, they flew and dropped Dunham off in Dubai, flew and transferred and flew again, totaling two days of travel with a disoriented preschooler—an experience neither Ziva nor Tony were prepared for. By their final destination, the adults staggered off the transport while Sana fussed, overtired and refusing to be held, soothed, loved.

Gibbs and Marsha were waiting for them behind the gates, but only the one with parenting experience stepped forward. When Ziva began to explain, he waved her off.

"I got it from here," he said, getting down low and using his rusty Arabic to piece together a greeting that immediately and—Tony would later swear—magically hushed all the little girl's ruckus.

It seemed more a power play than magic to Ziva, like one would see in a pack of wolves. Sana stared at the stoic, retired Marine for a long moment, the fingers of one hand frozen halfway in her mouth. Then he held his arms out, tipped his head as if to beckon her, and without hesitation, she went to him, her body finding a home on his broad chest.

And that was how Sana met Gibbs.

Their next stop had been GWU for Tony's gunshot wound and Sana's overall health, and they hadn't left since. When Ziva vowed not to leave without them, Gibbs became her supplier of fresh clothes and other creature comforts. It really wasn't a surprise that he was there—the hour was where she quibbled.

"Why are you here so early?" she asked quietly, hoping that Sana would rest for another hour at least. Rest and a healthy appetite, the doctors kept saying. That's what we want to see.

Gibbs held out a tall coffee cup to her as he brought an identical one to his mouth for a long swig. "Thought you could use it."

All it took was a sniff of her cups' contents to know it wasn't from the cafeteria downstairs but from the cart on the Yard, and a sip of the nutty, familiar flavor to almost knock her over. Four days into the hospital stay and he was still coming through for her, this time with first-rate coffee and his company of predictably few words.

Giving in to exhaustion's huffing and puffing, Ziva crumpled onto the plush arm of the recliner, bumping his arm with her own. "I did not realize how much I missed this."

"Don't get too cozy, David," he grumbled, but didn't follow through, shouldering her in the dusky calm of Sana's room. They drank their coffees in time to the steady heart monitor, the drip of a double IV, one bag depositing fluids, the other a smoothie of liquid protein, nutrients, and vitamins into her malnourished body.

As the first purple-blue glow emanated out from beneath the blinds and the pediatric ward beyond the room began to wake, Gibbs nudged her. "Any word when we can take her home?"

Somehow, Marsha secured Ziva temporary guardianship of Sana, but there were other obstacles.

"A day or two. The doctors want to monitor her calorie intake, ensure that her digestive system is stable and—"

From the doorway, a needy whine rose. "You guys do realize it's been since," Tony, in his hospital gown and terrycloth robe and slippers, paused to consult his imaginary wrist watch, "…yesterday that someone visited me, right?"

Already snatching the cup out of her hand, Gibbs ordered, "I'll watch your girl. Go."

But…what if Sana woke up and wanted her? What if something went wrong? And with how clingy she'd been…

"This goes on any longer," Tony prophesized, "I'll be heading for a spiral into social withdrawal. Everybody knows I'm the type of person who needs people. A people person, if you will…"

A low growl rumbled in Gibbs' chest as the Senior Field Agent went on…and on. "He's all yours."

Ziva bit her bottom lip. "Yes, he is."

With one last check on Sana, who was still sleeping soundly, and a final nod from Gibbs, she made for the door. "Come," she purred only to her partner, reveling in the dark green flash of his eyes that the invitation elicited. "I will make it all better."

(/)(/)(/)

Since returning to the States, Tony and Ziva had yet to have any authentic privacy amidst the surgery to repair damaged cartilage in his arm and the on-going recuperation that followed, not to mention her unwillingness to part with Sana for any serious length of time. Thus, their walks back to his room were leisurely, taken several times a day, and always brought about the side effect of hand-holding and perhaps a quick, stolen kiss during the elevator ride up to his floor.

Luckily, his roommate was sleeping as they padded to the far side of the room, Ziva drawing back the curtain.

"Alone at last," he stage-whispered, smiling cheekily. "Remind me again what you said about doing whatever it takes to make me feel better…?"

She forced him into bed. "That is not exactly what I said."

As if he hadn't heard her, he suggested, "Back rub? Foot rub? Cuddle with me until I fall asleep?"

Her eyebrows rose, questioning the last option.

"What? You do it for Sana." His smile was becoming a permanent fixture.

A laugh bounced off the back of her throat, a cave echo. "That is different. Besides, you need to rest, or you will never be healthy enough to…'resume your regular activities,' yes?" Her lips plumped around the recitation of his surgeon's words.

"Oh, I'm getting better. Look, I can do this—" With a great swoop of his bandaged arm, Tony hooked her waist, but before he wore himself out completely, she went along with his labored tugs, settling onto the mattress so that their hips touched. His triumphant grin was marred by sharp inhales and winces. Beads of sweat dotted his gently receding hairline.

"Better," she granted, taking his clean-shaven face between her hands, "but you have healing to do yet."

"I got you into my bed, didn't I? I call that a win, Sweet Cheeks."

Her thumbs grazed the upturned corners of his mouth. "I have already won," she murmured, covering his lips with her own for a kiss not quick or stolen, but rather…unexpected in its depth, its patience. It was a kiss that took its time, not swift reassurance through a sandstorm or balm in an aftermath. It was everything they'd hungered for, feared, waited on. It was missing someone very much and loving them even more.

Slender fingers slipped to his throat, grazing his rapid pulse point, and then down to his chest and the pounding organ trapped in the cage of bone beneath the skin. It was almost unfair how much she was pouring into the single embrace (and that he was matching), for there was no chance of the escalation he especially was craving.

"We shouldn't," Tony groaned, dragging his mouth away from temptation. "You know, inappropriate place. Plus I'm maimed, and my arm actually does hurt…"

Not even her amused snort could burst the charged tension. Arms circling his neck, Ziva pressed herself down against him, creating delicious friction as she feigned adjustment. Her body was persuasive enough that her tone could remain light. "In my experience, intimacy has proven an effective numbing agent for pain."

The special agent swallowed hard, a sliver of tongue gliding over his top lip. "As long as you don't go into detail about those experiences and who you had them with, I won't argue with your prescription, Dr. David."

But their experiment was not to be. His hands were under the hem of her shirt, gliding over the warm skin of her back, her lips attached to the skin below his left ear, when her ninja senses gave them seconds to bolt apart before the curtain flew open.

From across the cramped quarters, they blushed at each other while the nurse went through the check of vitals and read-outs. She marked her visit on the board as she praised, "You sure are recovering fast, Mr. DiNozzo. What's your secret?"

Tony shrugged. "Someone gave me these herbs…"

The medical professional chuckled at what she assumed was a joke, but Ziva had to wonder if there wasn't some truth, too.

"Alight then," he said once the nurse was gone, trying to reignite the fire. "How can I convince you to give me a sponge bath?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. She pointed to the crayon drawing propped up beside the vases of flowers from Abby and the Palmers on the side table. It was distinctly a Sana piece. "I have not noticed that there before. When did she give it to you?"

"Technically, she didn't. I kept it." Tony cast his eyes over the two stick figures, one short and the other tall, both with heads of curls. "Ziva, she does think of you as her mom. Zee-va-Om. Said it herself."

"Yes, so you have told me." Again and again since they left Domiz, in fact. But it was Tony telling her, not Sana.

He held out his hand and she slid hers inside the warm, calloused palm. "If it was me, I'd be pretty honored to have Sana think of me that way."

Ziva couldn't resist. "You want her to call you 'mother'?"

"You know what I mean," he said earnestly, tapping her knuckles with his thumb. Then his smile returned, flirty and daring. "So, where are we on that sponge bath?"

(/)(/)(/)

Gibbs was exactly where she'd left him: sitting sentry at the bedside of the sleeping princess from a foreign land. A fairytale this was not, but Ziva was grateful for his grounding presence. When he was there, she could believe they had indeed returned from battle with the cherished prize. Mission completed.

The hourly visit from the nurse a few minutes later brought an unwanted but necessary dose of reality. In the chapters of this story, but they were still in the middle of Recovery.

Had the feeding bags not needed changing and the lines not required flushing, Sana might have slept through the other standard procedures. The nurse was unhooking the lines from the IV at the crease of her elbow when she woke and dove into a panic, flailing and crying and sending all the adults in the room scrambling to assuage her.

That was, of course, the moment Marsha arrived.

"Bad time?" she asked Ziva from the doorway, though her eyes could not part with the sight of the under-fed wisp of a girl successfully fighting off every attempt made by the nurse, who reared back with a huff and punched the call button on the wall.

"I'm getting someone else in here. We're going need to sedate her."

Ziva didn't have the opportunity to protest.

"No you don't," Gibbs countered sternly, dropping into the seat by the window again. "Put her here."

As she was hooked up to the monitor and thrashing, it was a struggle to transfer Sana from the bed to his lap, though Ziva's intonations of comfort eased a modicum of her tearful confusion; the rest of her fright and resistance melted away as she curled to the size of an infant within the circle of Gibbs' protective arms. The solid plane of his chest was her pillow, his hand patting her hip to a prompt metronome beat only he could hear.

"…there, I've gotcha, sweet pea, no tears," he was telling her, his old knees pushing the recliner to rock.

A sputtering, fluttery sigh bubbled past her parted lips, and her face disappeared in the folds of his jacket.

Gibbs glanced up at the nurse. "You can try again. But easy."

The chastised personnel proceeded, and when the same actions that had met Sana's fierce objection moments earlier were now tolerated without complaint, her mood reluctantly softened. "She's doing well."

"You don't say," he gruffed and dipped his mouth to Sana's ear, whispering words that elicited a droop of her dark eyelids and another sigh of content.

"You're lucky to have him," Marsha remarked, genuinely.

After months of being the sole soother of such fits, it would have been natural for Ziva to feel undermined, jealous even, by Gibbs' immediate ease with the child—and the trust Sana returned to him just as quick—but it was instead a relief, and more evidence that they were worthy, this new family that Ziva was building for Sana as much as regaining for herself. Perhaps it had been right, not just logical, to bring the orphan here. It was good and it was safe, here.

Ziva sighed, too, dragging a hand through her hair to reveal features finally relaxed. "Yes, we are."

(/)(/)(/)

At the north end of the hallway was a narrow waiting room. Blocks and dolls and books were stacked neatly into toy boxes at the inside corners. Two wide, floor-to-ceiling windows at the back let in the established morning sun and a panorama view of the intermingled federal and collegiate buildings of Foggy Bottom. The room was empty, so the women commandeered an entire bench seat.

Ziva hadn't seen the adoption case worker since they landed in D.C. Her expert assistance with the paperwork for Sana's asylum status had come as an invaluable gift at the time. Exhausted as she was then, she could not recall if she'd offered proper thanks.

"It was part of my job, Ms. David," Marsha replied in her standard professional manner, retrieving a thick folder out of the briefcase at her high-heeled feet. "As it has been the past week to move ahead with your home study. Let me show you where we're at now."

They covered the residential visit swiftly (Gibbs' house had passed with honors), but slowed for the recommendations. Once they'd gone through the letters from Gibbs, Ducky, Abby, McGee, the Palmers, and surprisingly Bishop and Vance as well, Ziva knew thanks would never be enough to repay their generous, kind words. Their belief in her.

"It's typical to receive glowing praise from friends and family of the prospective adoptive parents. Yours were no exception. They seem to think you're more than capable of this undertaking," Marsha said, shuffling the letters back into the folder.

"It would seem that way." Ziva mulled the arm's length at which she'd kept the team the past few days, despite their many inquires to visit. They'd each worked tirelessly toward Sana's rescue, but Ziva didn't want the first time they met her in the flesh to be while she was in hospital, all bones and anxiety. The former agent vowed to let them in more, and not just where Sana was concerned.

The case worker continued, "However, I do wish you had been completely honest with me from the start."

That perked Ziva's ears. She flattened her hands to her jean-covered thighs, as if bracing for impact—and a fight. "I have been honest, about all of my circumstances, even when those circumstances cast me in a black light."

Marsha scrunched her nose at the botched phrase, shaking it off. "If that's so, then why didn't you mention your inheritance?"

A short exhale deflated the Israeli's defenses, a flash of disbelief rising. "Has anyone told you, Miss Reed, that you would make a very skilled investigator?"

The younger woman laughed. "I might not be solving murders, but I like to think my job helps people, too."

Ziva swayed imperceptibly in the spacious seat, her ears ringing with the not-so-distant memory of her mouth on Tony's skin, confessing her dreams. She nearly missed the adoption attorney's explanation.

"…and without proof of income, I was forced to subpoena for bank and holdings records. A copy of Eli David's last will and testament came with the—"

"But that does not…" Ziva stopped herself, pushing to her feet with all the force of the arguments she could not voice. Out the windows, workday traffic in Washington Circle Park was piling up. Pacing the length of the waiting room diffused enough frustration for her to speak calmly. "I was not hiding it. It is just that…I did not think it relevant as I have not collected any of it yet."

That was the truth. Had her Abba foresaw his own journey of repentance ending tragically, she could not say for sure, but revisions made to his will mere weeks before he traveled to the States left his wealth—currency, diamonds, and real estate, including the house his daughters were born in—to the only child to survive him: Ziva, the last David.

It was no coincidence that Tony had found her in that very home in Be'er Sheva. After resigning from NCIS, she journeyed back to Israel not only to trace her roots, but to explore what was acceded to her, and hers with which to do what she wished. If only she'd known what that was then.

Or now.

Marsha rose up as well, her long bangs flicking to one side of her forehead with the toss of her head. They started back the way they'd come.

"Regardless, with the sum you stand to inherit—not to mention the property value—you could conceivably support Sana for years. The adoption agency regards that as stability."

"You are saying that if I were to accept it, my chances of adopting her would increase?"

"A few factors still need to be ironed out," the case worker cautioned. "Once you've settled in, we'll go through the remaining sections of the home study and submit it as soon as possible. In the meantime, we'll use the death certificates of Sana's parents to force the Syrian government's acknowledgement of her orphan status. From there it should be a fairly routine adoption process—"

"That does not answer my question." Ziva pulled up tall, her inner ballet student stretching from her core, centering. "Will it help?"

"It wouldn't hurt, but in my professional opinion, you're in good standing as is. Better than I first calculated." Marsha flashed an uncharacteristic smile. She'd come a long way from the woman in the NCIS conference room who made no attempt to disguise her displeasure for the impossible case forced into her lap. "Anyone looking to adopt wants a child. You, Ms. David…you already have one. We just need to make it official."

Ziva caught it on an inhale and held it in behind her teeth, pushing it under her tongue to dissolve like a sweet mint: Hope.

They stood in the doorway of Sana's room. Cocooned in Gibbs' arms, the little patient poked her head up at the voices.

"Zee-va?"

With a heart lighter than it had been in months and long strides, the dutiful caregiver came in from the hall. To one knee, she sank in front of the recliner. Sana's big eyes followed the movements.

"Where you go?"

"Errands," Ziva excused, palming her cheek. "I am here now, my Sana."

Her curly head lolled in a nod against Gibbs' torso. "Here," she mimicked, dozing.

Ziva squeezed the team leader's shoulder. "You need to go." She reached out her arms for the bundle in his. "It is my turn."

And when everyone was gone, the blinds drawn shut, the door closed; when the tests and the doctors and the nurses were finished; when they were nestled, alone together, it was easy to imagine them once again the aid worker and the orphan, the roomy hospital bed their cot in a canvas tent, the layers of blankets offering more warmth than ever did the tatters of a broken land. Whatever they were to each other then or now—caregiver and charge, mother and child—their bond had only been strengthened by this journey through tunnels of loss, across continents and an ocean into new, uncharted terrain for them both. It was all to get where they belonged.

"With you?" Sana rooted for reassurance against the crook of Ziva's shoulder, little exhales hot on the skin below the short sleeve. She was drifting again, her body heavy-heavy with the task of healing.

Ziva welcomed the surrender, accepting it in full, and held her still closer, tucking the covers snug around their private world. "With me," she promised into the loopy curls atop her head. "Always."