Wow. I love you all. Xo, Mecha.
You're not gonna lose this one.
You don't have to cut and run.
You can learn to love and what's more—
That is how you survived the war.
-The Weepies, "How You Survived the War."
The team scattered by lunchtime; Abby went to the lab, Tim and Tony to the bullpen, and Ziva was quietly working in the guest room, tapping away on a NCIS-issued laptop. Sara negotiated an area-rug parcel purchase with a purple rooster. No, you may not have the end table for your pea-patch. Away marched the rooster; in walked a killer whale and a walrus wearing green sunglasses.
She jumped when the doorbell sounded. "Daddy?"
He closed his own laptop and brushed her curls from her face. "Remember what I said, sweet pea? She can't take you away."
Sara nodded uncertainly, chewing her lower lip.
Susan smiled at her from the foyer. "Hi, Sara. How are you today?"
Sara blinked; the skirt-lady was talking to her like they were old friends and it made her a little uncomfortable. Or a lot uncomfortable. She itched under her brace. The long scar yelled at her.
"Fine," she answered blandly, casting a fisheye at Gibbs. "Thank you." She sniffed and returned to her play.
Susan raised her eyebrows appreciatively. "Her speech is so nice and clear. I take it therapy is going well?"
Gibbs led her into the dining room. "It is."
She nodded. "Because of Sara's delays, CFSA will allot you a stipend for her therapeutic care after the adoption is completed. It might not cover everything but it will certainly help."
Gibbs shrugged and pulled out his readers; he would find a way to pay for what she needed if the district funds didn't materialize. "You have stuff for me to sign?"
She nodded again. "Yes. I have some forms for you to fill out now and some that will need to be completed by her doctors."
He shrugged. "We've only seen Levine twice since she's been out of the hospital. Goldman and the PT and OT at the rehab center are responsible for her care now."
Susan shook her head. "You need to have a pediatrician for her—one she'll see regularly. I have a list of recommended doctors if you'd like it."
He held out his left hand for the list and signed a form with his right, then shoved the papers across the table at her.
"Thank you, Agent Gibbs. May I see Sara's bedroom or play area?"
He stood and dropped his glasses on the sideboard. "One of my other kids is working upstairs. Please don't disturb her."
Sara's room had been straightened and swept—the toys in the toybox, her pyjamas in the hamper, her books lined up on the low shelves. Ziva, he thought, smiling.
"Very nice," Susan praised. "She's really settling in with you. Do you have any concerns about the process or her progress?"
"I'll bring them up with her doctor," he said firmly, ending their meeting. He led her back to the front door. "And the forms will be on your desk within forty-eight hours."
"Thank you, Agent Gibbs." She leaned around the corner and poked her head into the living room. "Bye, Sara. I'll see you in a few weeks ok? Have a fun day."
Sara blinked. "Thank you," she said again. "Goodbye." Her tone was stiff, overformal, and her eyes were blank.
Gibbs closed the door and took her in his arms. "You ok, sweet pea? I told you she couldn't take you away."
"M'ok," she sighed, and brushed a hand over her eyes.
"How about some lunch?"
She shrugged. "C'n I just have juice?"
He picked her up and she curled against him, grabbing possessively at his collar.
"No, baby girl, you need to eat every meal. Even if it's just a few bites."
He got her some chicken and a few bites of leftover steamed carrots, but she only picked at her food and laid her head on the table.
"I need a nap," she declared tearfully. "I want my bed and my bunny."
He hauled her out of her chair and up the stairs. "Let's give Ziva a kiss goodnight."
Kisses and kindness were exchanged. Ziva nuzzled Sara's neck and whispered something sweet and secret in her ear. Sara smiled and poked at Ziva's shoulder with a nubby finger.
"You need to being better, Zeeba," she said gravely. "Tony needs you."
Ziva chuckled. "I think she is tired of sharing her Daddy." She cupped her right elbow with her left hand.
He lifted her back into his arms and she immediately began to drowse on his shoulder. "Let me put her down and we'll talk."
He retuned in minutes. "The social worker handed me a bunch of forms and gave me an ass-tap for good luck."
She gaped. "Can't you sue her for that? You litigious Americans love the legal system."
Gibbs shook his head. "It's a football thing, David. Means she's got my six."
Ziva nodded, blinked, yawned. Gibbs smirked knowingly.
She straightened, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. "No," she announced. "I am not sleeping any more. I need to work."
He nodded. "Ok," he agreed mildly, scratching his head. "Do what you need to do. I'll be in the basement."
She slid off the bed. "Do you need my help?"
He looked her over in wry disbelief; dressed in yoga pants and one of Tony's old rec-league t-shirts, she looked like she was ready to camp on the couch, not haul lumber in his workshop. But her expression was open, direct, and meant she wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Fine, but you have to put shoes and socks on. I don't need you with a busted foot, too, David."
She grabbed her sneakers and traipsed after him down two flights of stairs to where the boat was keel-up on its sawhorses.
He handed her a sanding block. "With the grain," he instructed, and pointed at the prowl. They worked silently for ten minutes and then he abruptly jerked her hand from the hull.
"Thought you were seeing a headshrinker. You haven't left the house except for that doctor's appointment."
She studied the floor. "Tony is very busy now as head of MCRT and I am not cleared to drive."
"You didn't ask me." He let go of her hand and pointed to her untied shoelaces.
She twisted her left hand in a dismissive gesture. "You are busy with Sara," she replied evenly.
He crouched and tied her right shoe. "So I can't take her for a twenty-minute car ride? Think she wouldn't want to get a treat while you were in session?"
Her eyes narrowed. "She is your first priority."
He dropped her left foot and she jolted, hissing.
He gave her an indiscernible glare. "That's shouldn't have hurt," he barked. "You're ten days post-op, Ziver. When are you going to start taking care of yourself?"
She blushed. "I am fine."
"Bull," he spat. "If you were fine you wouldn't be sleeping the day away, skipping your meds, refusing to eat. If you were fine you'd be doing paperwork at home, waiting for DiNozzo to show up with pizza and bad movies, not cowering in my basement."
She flinched when he tossed his planer on the workbench and it clattered against his row of hanging screwdrivers.
"I am not hiding," she said softly.
"Yeah you are, David, and I want to know why."
She shifted her feet, cupped her elbow, and scowled at him, furious and dark-eyed.
"Why are you angry?" He demanded.
She drew herself up. "Because I am afraid you will all disappear!" She burst. "I am afraid that if I leave I will come back to no one—you will all be gone and I'll be al—" She broke off, overwhelmed, embarrassed. Her good hand went over her eyes.
He drew her close. "Ziver, why didn't you say so?"
"I did not know how," she ground out.
He rubbed circles on her back and arms, stroked her curls away from her face. "You can stay as long as you need to," he said softly. "But you need to take care of yourself. I want you to talk to Ducky and your doctors."
"I will," she sniffed.
"Yeah, you will," he ordered gently, telling her silently that he'd be in on the discussions or Tony would report back to him. She stiffened, prepared to protest, but he tightened his grip. "It's not because I don't trust you, Ziver, it's because I want to be kept in the loop. I would do it with anyone else."
"No you would not," she complained, and pulled away. "No special treatment, Gibbs," she refused. "It isn't fair."
"What's not fair is losing an agent to something avoidable, like depression or PTSD or a broken arm," he countered. "This isn't an option; you bring DiNozzo or me to your appointments or I take you in for a seventy-two hour hold so they can get you on treatment plan."
She sucked in a breath, livid. "You would never!"
He shook her lightly be the shoulders. She flinched again but he didn't let go.
"Do you know what you're about to throw away? Think about how hard you've worked, all the things you've given up. Do you really want to lose your badge? Your gun? Your rank? Could you let…whatever this is take that away from you?"
"Let go of me," she squeaked, closing her eyes. "Please. Please let go of me." She'd gone white and cold. "Please let go of me."
He let go and she stumbled back a few steps, breathing hard, wide-eyed and vacant.
"Look at me," he said softly.
She raised her hand to her brow. "No," she whispered.
He kept his tone light and even. "Ziver, I need you to look at me. I'm worried you're having a flashback."
"No," she whispered again, swaying on her feet.
He directed her to the steps by her unbroken arm, where she said with a sigh and hung her head. She didn't look up for a long time.
"This is why I think you need to see the doctor," he said softly. "I take care of Sara—why wouldn't I do the same for you?"
She wouldn't look at him.
"Let's go upstairs," he suggested, "and we'll make some phone calls together." He gathered her hands. "I'll sit with you, but you have to do it—DiNozzo is your proxy and he's not here. I'm not waiting for him."
"So impatient," she grumbled good-humoredly, and gave him a tiny smile.
"I get it done," he replied sternly, and rested his chin on the top of her head.
. . . .
Ziva was curled on the couch with the quilt from the guest bed when Ducky let himself in, medical bag in hand.
"How are you this afternoon, Ziva dear?"
She smiled at him sleepily. "I am fine, Ducky. Gibbs called you because I was not feeling well earlier. It seems to have passed."
He was unconvinced. "You are quite pale. Do you mind if I take a look at your arm?"
She sat up, struggling among the pillows, and offered her wounded wing.
"You went to the doctor, yes? You're still too swollen for a hard cast?"
"I am," she said coolly. "But I have another appointment on Monday. I'm sure it will be fine by then."
He unrolled the last of the compression bandages and peeled off the soft splint only to whistle between his teeth. "Ziva, you look terrible. The incisions are raw and you have quite a lot of skin breakdown. Are you cleaning and caring for your injury as per the hospital instructions?"
"Yes," she said slowly. "But I have trouble doing it myself."
"So really you mean 'no,' then," he corrected. "This is why Jethro called me, isn't it? You aren't taking any initiative in your healing. What are you afraid of, Ziva?"
"I am not afraid of anything, Ducky. I do not wish to bother anyone, so I have forgotten to ask for help a few times. I will not do that again. Please just do what you need to do. I will take a more vested interest in my health. I promise." She shifted her arm a little higher and looked at him sharp-eyed and sour.
He cleaned her skin with sterile saline, prepped the incisions with antibiotic ointment, and added a layer of gauze padding beneath the compression wraps, then returned her splint, bandages, and sling.
She sighed. "That is better. Thank you, Ducky."
"From now on you are to get help every evening. I don't care who it is—Jethro or Anthony or Abigail, but you are to do as the surgeon requested. Do you understand, Ziva?"
She set her jaw. "I understand. Thank you."
Gibbs appeared at the bottom of the stairs with Sara in his arms. She'd been bathed, divested of her brace, and dressed in pyjamas despite the early hour.
"Glad you're here, Duck. I got a problem." He set her down on the recliner. "I went to get her up from a nap and found her throwing up all over the place."
Ducky laid a cool hand on her brow. "She's running quite a fever. Was she feeling poorly earlier?"
"Said she was tired. Didn't wanna eat." He kissed Sara's head. "Were you trying to tell me something, sweet pea?"
She brushed at her wet hair. "My head hurts, Daddy."
Ducky checked her throat, lymph nodes, and thoracotomy incision. "It seems to be a virus. She has no spleen, Jethro, so she's more susceptible to infection than other children. I do think it was a wise decision to keep her out of school for now. They are veritable petri dishes of airborne viruses and bacteria."
Gibbs nodded. "But what do I do now, Duck?"
"Fluids, rest, acetaminophen, and a visit to the pediatrician if she runs a fever for more than twenty-four hours. You're a father, Jethro, trust your instincts. Is that all you needed me for?"
He shook his head. "I need you to make sure Ziver gets in to see her orthopedist and psychiatrist. Can you follow up with either of them in a day or two?"
Ducky sighed and looked at Ziva, who'd hung her head, cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment. "You know I hate to do that. She is an adult—"
"Who is acting like a child," Gibbs finished for him.
"Fine, but you must take Sara back to bed. I do not think Ziva should be exposed to whatever she might have; her own immune system is already contending with the fractures and surgical healing."
Gibbs picked his daughter up again. "C'mon, sweet pea. Let's read a story."
"Ok," she sighed. "But I might needing some juice."
. . . .
Gibbs dragged Sara's bedroom rug down to the basement and heaved it into the laundry tub. It might be a lost cause, but he wanted to try to scrub the puke out of it before giving up and throwing it out.
Tony's work shoes clicked on the stairs. "Hey, Boss," Tony said cheerfully. "Heard you're on sick-watch."
He pulled a scrub brush off the shelf. "Yeah. You here for small-talk, DiNozzo, or you taking your girl to the doctor?"
He smiled. "She's getting her stuff. Appointment's in an hour. Listen, I might need you to come in this week. We're short staffed and I could use someone to interview a few suspects in the Martinelli case. You game?"
"Yeah. Leave the file on the table—I'll look at it this evening. And take Ziver out for dinner. She needs to eat a decent meal."
Tony shrugged. "I'll try, but she's really not interested in food these days. I think the medication she's on is giving her a hard time."
Gibbs shook his head. "Bull, DiNozzo. She's conning you."
"Well what I am supposed to do about that?"
Gibbs threw the brush down and grabbed him by the collar. "You will not let her fall apart. Not on my watch. Either you get her the help she needs or I'll come at you."
Tony nodded frantically. "Ok, ok. I'm taking her to the doctor and I'll get her to eat." He adjusted the front of his shirt. "Why the rage, Boss?"
"She's not taking care of herself and no one noticed until now because we've all been focused on Sara. Did Ziver ever give her statement about what happened the day she broke her arm?"
"No," Tony realized aloud. "She never called in. I don't think she talked to Vance, either. Damn, Boss. I had no idea."
"Well tonight she sees the doc and Monday you take her in to talk to Vance."
"On it, Boss," he replied contritely.
. . . .
Ziva's doctor was appalled at the state of her arm. He chastised her gently about incision care and a correct medication. Tony held her hand as she winced and flinched through x-rays and the removal of twenty-six blue stitches. She was handed another bottle of sterile saline and sent on her way with well-wishes and a thinly veiled-threat about adequate nutrition.
Helping her into her jacket, Tony wrapped a casual arm around her shoulders. "How about Italian tonight? It's gnocchi night at Caffe Vitta."
Ziva smiled. "No, thank you. I will have something small when we get back to Gibbs'."
"Um, No, Zi. I'm not taking you home until you eat."
She pulled away, crossing her arms awkwardly. "You may not bully me, Tony, and you may not pull rank because I am not working. Please take me home."
"How about Alexander's in Silver Spring, or Pabla in Arlington? Or we could go to that Ethiopian place you like."
She shook her head. "No. I am not hungry. The pain medication makes me nauseous. I will eat when it wears off."
Tony clapped his hands assertively. "Ok, then. Alexander's it is. Do you want that fried ravioli? It's really good with the wilted spinach salad."
"First Gibbs and then Ducky and now you," she snapped. "I am fine and I need you to take me home. To my house. Now."
He took the scenic route back to her condo, driving past Rock Creek Park and Ohev Shalom, past the apartment complexes and the Lowell school. Ziva was silent, brooding, watching the passing residential scenery with a vaguely confounded expression.
"How do they do it?" She asked suddenly.
Tony was baffled. "How does who do what, Zi?"
"All these people with their children and family dinners and sport-utility vehicles. How do they do it?"
He pulled up in front of her apartment; she'd refused to let him see her to the door. "Do what?"
She studied the brick façade of her building, thoughtful, blinking. "Anything. How do they pay tuition or plan picnics in the park? How do they wake up next to one another and know the other one will be there when they go to bed that night?"
He shrugged. "Guess they don't, really. You just have to trust that the world will still be spinning when you punch out at five o'clock and take the freeway home."
She turned her wide, watery eyes on him. "That has not been my experience, Tony. Goodnight." She slammed the door and walked stiffly into the building without even sparing him a glance.
Aside from short visits for clothes and toiletries, Ziva hadn't been home in weeks. There was dust on her framed photos and a musty smell wafted up from the sofa cushions when she sat to regroup. She needed to go to the supermarket, the pharmacy, and back to Gibbs' house to retrieve her clothing.
She made her way to the bedroom, which was dim in the waning evening light. Her sheets needed changing, but the laundry baskets were too heavy to manage one-handed. She sighed and adjusted the shades, jumping at the rap on the door.
"Ziva?" Tony rattled his keys as a means to summon her. "It's just me. You honestly didn't think I was going anywhere, did you?"
"What are you doing?" She stood, wavering, exhausted. "I asked you to bring me home, not to tramp around after me like a puppy."
He grinned. "It's traipse. Though I can tramp if you want me to. Doubt your neighbors will like it." He took her good hand in his. "C'mon, let's to the market and I'll make you some dinner."
Her rage bubbled again. "I am not hungry, Tony."
"Not even for Italian Wedding Soup? It's so good, Zi. In fact, I won't make it—I'll leave it to the master at Parkway Deli. Want to go? Or you wanna lie down while I make the food run?"
"No!" She snapped, and jammed two fingers into the pressure point below his collarbone. "Now leave me alone!"
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Nah," he shrugged. "I don't want to. And Gibbs told me not to."
"Screw him," she spat.
"No thank you," he replied cheekily. "You are so much cuter."
"Stop it," she commanded roughly. "Stop teasing me like this. Go home. I wish to be alone tonight. I cannot collect my thoughts with you hanging about."
"Around," he corrected. "I'm hanging around. And no, I'm not leaving. You don't really want me to. Here." He pulled the back the duvet. "Lie down while I get us some dinner."
Surprisingly, she kicked off her sneakers, undid her belt, and wiggled out of her jeans before curling beneath the covers. He slid a decorative pillow under her broken arm and reached for the sling.
"No," she said softly. "It's more comfortable on."
He pulled the elastic from her ponytail and her curls tumbled onto the pillow. "Stay in bed. I'll come back with food in twenty minutes. Sleep if you need to." He kissed her head and retrieved her mobile phone from her pants pocket, laying it on the table within easy reach. "And answer that if it rings."
She tugged his sleeve. "Thank you, Tony," she said honestly. "I do not know…"
He shrugged, grinning. "It's ok, sweet cheeks. This is what I'm supposed to do. Now rest. I'll be back in a flash."
It was hard to get comfortable—her arm ached, her hip was sore, her road-rash scabs were itchy and falling off—so she sighed and fidgeted and picked her phone up over and over, only to put it down. If no one was looking for her than it was probably a good idea that she didn't go looking for anyone, either. Weren't they tired of her by now?
The front door banged open again and Tony's keys clattered on the kitchen counter. His shadow moved across the living room wall, down the hallway, and onto the headboard when he opened the bedroom door wider and haloed himself in yellowish light.
"Hey again," he whispered. "Want some soup?"
Ziva threw back the duvet. "Fine," she grumbled. "But I'll just eat enough to make the medication dissolve."
"Attagirl—no! I'll bring it in to you." He flicked on the table lamp next to her and the room was cast in gold to match the hallway. He left, returning with a Styrofoam take-out bowl and plastic spoon for her and a box full of pasta and chicken for him.
She was hungry and the soup was filling, even maternal, with chunks of sweet sausage and tiny round noodles floating around in a rich broth. She ate most of it while Tony munched on his late dinner.
"Good, huh?" He said, without looking up. "How's you're stomach?"
Another surprise—she wasn't nauseous or clammy-handed after eating. "It is fine." She slid down into the blankets, warm and comfortable. "I think I may go to sleep now."
"Ok." He set his dinner aside and pulled the duvet up to her chin. He checked the clock—it was early, but not too early, so he stepped out of his shoes, peeled off his shirt, and crawled in behind her, threading one long arm around her waist.
He lowered his mouth to her shoulder. "This ok?"
She smiled against the pillow. "Yes. I have missed you."
"Me, too," he agreed softly, and watched the streetlights on the block buzz to life, one by one.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a long time, enjoying the warmth of her bed and each other.
Ziva shifted a little, pressing her face farther into the pillow. "Tony?"
"Hm?" He'd been drifting, thinking and not-thinking.
"I want permanency."
"Ok," he sighed against her t-shirt. "We're permanent."
She took a deep breath. "I want more than this."
His heart clenched and he sat up. "With me, right?"
"No," she deadpanned. "With Palmer. He has amazing abs."
He guffawed, rubbing his own stomach. "Listen, I'm a good Italian boy. I eat everything that's put in front of me."
She rolled her eyes. "Tony, I was joking."
"So am I," he clipped, and lay down, resting his mouth back on her shoulder. "Permanent, huh? Are you asking me to marry you?"
She swallowed with a click. "I do not know what I am asking. I do know that I need a…"
He kissed the nape of her neck. "A what, Zi?"
"A home," she said softly. "I need a home. I want one with you."
Pressure grew in Tony's chest, a warm weight that spread into his arms and face. He smiled. "So you are asking me to marry you."
She shrugged. "I want a family."
"You want to settle down." It wasn't a question.
"I suppose. I want a real life with someone who appreciates me-who I've become, not who I was." There was a finality in her words that meant he was not to call her a ninja or an assassin or an Israeli Super Soldier.
"And what about NCIS? We're your family."
"That is a job, Tony. For too long I've had work and life confused. I can thank my father for that, but I cannot blame him any longer. I am too old for 'Daddy-issues,' as you Americans say."
He scoffed. "No one's too old for Daddy-issues. Look at Gibbs."
She stiffened. "Gibbs is only himself, but he is an excellent father despite whatever tension existed between him and Jackson. I feel that is over now."
"It's never over, Zi, it just evolves."
"Gibbs is an excellent father," she repeated.
He scoffed again. "Any father looks good compared to ours. Mine shipped me out like an immigrant in steerage and yours trained you to kill."
Ziva shifted again and stroked his arm gently where it lay around her. "I look at the way Gibbs looks at Sara—he is so openly and unashamedly in love with her. And I think…" she trailed off, thinking. "I think so many things, Tony. It is hard. Not hard. Maybe strange."
He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "Are you jealous of her? Of how much love she receives?"
"She deserves it," she snapped. "She is a child and one who has lived through something violent and horrible."
"You were, too, once. A child, I mean. And one living in a horrible and violent country. Didn't you deserve the same thing?"
Her breath left her in a whoosh. "Israel may be violent but it is not horrible. It was my home for a long time. I do not appreciate the way you speak of it. You have been there, Tony, do the people seem unkind or unhappy or cruel?"
He tightened his grip on her. "Only half the ones I know."
She did not deny his unspoken assumption. "My father raised us the only way he could."
"And now two out of three are dead."
She sniffed and said nothing.
He curled himself around her, closing the narrow space between them. "He hurt you."
"Yes."
He kissed her ear. "I'm not talking about Somalia, Zi. He hurt you long before that."
"Yes."
"Emotionally? Physically?"
"Yes."
He sighed. "I figured."
She frowned. "How?"
"You think I don't recognize it? How eager you were to please Gibbs, to win his trust and affection? I've been there." He brushed a hand over her hair. "And it's ok. You're safe with us."
"I know," she sighed. "I wish I would have learned that sooner. A five-year-old figured it out faster than I."
Tony shrugged. "Kids are wired that way. They have an internal compass that tells them when they're safe and when they're not. We lose it as we get older."
"You didn't."
He grinned. "I didn't need to. I started on team Gibbs a long time ago—he told me I was ok long before I figured it out myself." He thought for a minute. "What's it like for you, as a woman, as a survivor, to look at Sara? What do you feel?"
Ziva shook her head, tangling her hair on the pillowcase. "You first."
"I feel this overwhelming sense that we are finally whole, as a team. We love having someone to take care of. I do, anyway, even though it scares the crap out of me when she has one of those crazy tantrums."
She smiled and laced their fingers together. "It is scary, but she does that because she knows it is fine. She knows that someone will pick her up and cuddle her and make the monsters go away."
"You didn't answer my question," he prodded. "What do you feel when you look at her?"
"I feel…I know…what I missed. What I am missing." She adjusted her broken arm on the pillow and Tony checked the clock—she was two hours away from another dose of painkillers.
"And what's that?"
"I want to be a mother," she said softly. "But…"
Tony sighed, sad. He'd read the reports—there was tearing, scarring, infection—she'd never get pregnant naturally, and if she did it would be dangerous for her to carry a baby to full-term.
"There are other ways to make a baby," he said carefully. "IVF, surrogacy—"
"Adoption," she blurted.
"Yeah," he mused. "I'm so excited. Abby and I are already planning the party. We got them both vouchers for airfare so he can take her to the beach or the mountains or something. Tim got her into a therapeutic horseback riding program starting next summer. I think she'll love it. She loves toy horses enough, don't you think?" He pushed himself up on one elbow to look in her face. "You want to adopt, don't you?"
She didn't look at him. "I want a child, Tony."
"We should get married." He said thoughtfully. "It'll be easier to adopt if we get married."
She snorted. "Yes, because Gibbs has had so much trouble adopting as a single father."
"Damn. I just wanted you to say you would marry me."
She rolled over, holding her broken arm high in the air. "I want to marry you," she declared softly.
He smirked. "No buts? No excuses? No contingencies?"
She frowned, puzzled this time. "Why would there be?"
"Because it's me, Zi. Wouldn't you want a pre-nup? I think you've called me a chauvinist pig on a few separate occasions."
She eyed him sharply. "If I ever ask you for a paper clip…"
He shifted to take the weight of her arm. "Got it!" He replied. "I hear you loud and clear. No paper clips, no credit cards, no sharpened toothbrushes."
"Good." She blinked at him lazily and curled again on her good side.
"You're so tired," he observed, and drew the blankets back over both of them. "Sleep. I'll keep watch if you need me to."
"No," she breathed, but he could tell she was already drifting.
He was just sliding into unconsciousness when her phone rang, jolting them both awake. Ziva cursed mildly in Hebrew and picked it up to study the caller ID.
"Gibbs," she told him unnecessarily and answered it David, then softened. "Hello, shaifeleh. Why are you calling me so late?"
Sara was raspy, congested. "M'sick," she reported. "And I had a bad dream. Can you come home?"
Ziva arced an eyebrow. "Does your Daddy know you're calling me on the phone?"
Gibbs' voice sounded in the background, faint and echoing. They were either in the bathroom or kitchen. "It's fine, Ziver."
Sara sighed into the receiver. "I want you to coming home."
"It is late, shaifeleh. How about I come home early tomorrow morning? I'll be there early enough to wake you up. Are you feeling poorly still?"
More Gibbs in the background and then she said. "Yes. Daddy wants you."
The phone was handed off with muffled noises. She smiled and Tony stroked her hair.
"Hey, Ziver," Gibbs said. "She wouldn't go back to sleep without talking to you."
"It is fine. She is ok?"
She could hear him shrug. "She's running a pretty high fever still. Duck said it would run its course in a day or two. Probably a virus. How's your place?"
"Misty," she yawned.
"Musty," he corrected. "Sleep tight." He hung up.
She replaced the phone on the night table. "I suppose you heard Sara had a bad dream. She's picked up some insect."
"Bug." Tony mumbled, taking her hand. She hummed in agreement and settled down next to him, asleep again in seconds.
. . . .
Ziva woke him early the next morning. The sun was barely up; he could've turned over and gone right back to sleep.
"Tony," she whispered. "Wake up, please."
Since when did she have manners? "Five minutes, Zi."
She jabbed him in the temple. "No, now. I want to go to Gibbs'. I told Sara I would be there early."
"It's like, five o'clock. Give me a few minutes."
"No," she said again. "It's almost six. Come on, Tony."
"Why?" He whined, drawing the word into several syllables.
She cupped his cheek. "Because I am hungry. Take me out for breakfast."
He was up in a second, tumbling off the mattress and grabbing his jeans. "How about Geraldine's? They're open early."
She held out her arm, pouting prettily. "Take this off," she commanded. "And help me take a shower."
His jeans hit the floor again. "Sure thing," he squeaked eagerly, and kissed her waiting mouth.
. . . .
Sara was waiting for them in the foyer, sitting on a low stool, holding Gibbs' phone in one hand and a sheepdog in the other. She'd been taught how to speed-dial Ziva, so the two of them spent the morning calling back and forth, making a game out of their ETA. She was still in pyjamas when she greeted them, but wore her brace this time. She struggled to her feet.
"Wanna help me getting dressed?" She asked Ziva, reaching for her hand.
"You are still very warm," She replied. "Do you feel up to wearing clothes today, or maybe just fresh fig'ma'ot?
"No," Sara sighed. "I want a dress on."
Ziva kissed her brow. "Can you go up the stairs by yourself of should I ask Tony to carry you?"
She held her arms out for Tony and he lifted her up, kissing her warm cheek. "C'mon, little bug."
Upstairs, Gibbs was dressed and shaving in the bathroom mirror. "Morning," he said, half-covered in foam. "How was the doctor?"
"Fine," Ziva replied blithely. "I am going back on Monday."
Tony was in Sara's room, undoing the straps on her brace, pulling her sweaty pyjamas off over her head. "She ate a huge breakfast and took medicine," he tattled. "And none of it has been revisited. I think we're two-for-two, Boss."
Gibbs grinned and gave her a one-armed hug. "You look much better," he whispered in her ear. "That was all I wanted."
She blushed, looking away. "I told you I am fine, Gibbs."
"You will be," he agreed, and continued shaving.
Sara toddled in, keeping one hand on the wall. "I can't going to school today," she announced gravely. "I have a feeber."
"I know," Ziva said. "I am surprised you wanted to get dressed. I thought you would rest all day in your fig'ma'ot and watch television."
"No way," she dismissed. "But maybe later I will need a nap in the stroller. Daddy or Tony can push. You can just walking."
"That sounds like a good idea," she agreed. "But what shall we do in the meantime?"
Sara rested her hot head against Ziva's thigh. "I think maybe just reading," she said quietly. "I want farmer book with you."
"I like to think of it as the family book, shaifeleh. Everyone works so hard together."
"Togeffer," she agreed tiredly, thumb in her mouth. "I like that, too."