A/N: I posted the first chapter almost exactly a year ago, and it was supposed to be a one-shot, but I received a request from readingpenguin5 for the continuation with a scene involving Gibbs and Ziva. I may eventually add another chapter later on with Tony, and maybe one with Tim, but for all I know, it might be another year before that happens. In any case, this story is quite complete as it is.

This scene doesn't correspond to any episode, but it would take place some time after 3x16, Family Secret.

What They Need (part 2)

The first time he ever slapped her, it was a welcome to the team.

The second time, it was more a tease than anything.

There wasn't a third time.

When Gibbs drove Ziva away from the latest chase, he didn't light into her, not right away, even though what she'd done had been bone-headed and stupid. Gibbs would have torn DiNozzo a new one on the spot if he'd pulled the same stunt. Ziva would be expecting it, of course, expecting the scolding and the shouting and the slap, and some part of her would even want it, if only to feel that she wasn't receiving special treatment for being a woman. That was the last thing on Gibbs's mind.

Gibbs knew that Ziva wasn't afraid of pain. She could take much, much more than McGee or even DiNozzo without so much as flinching, and she wasn't particularly sensitive to being reprimanded, either. But she was sensitive in a different way, and it had taken Gibbs some time to figure out how. She was acutely aware of the way she was treated by her superiors and her peers, and she interpreted her relationship to them in light of every detail. And Gibbs didn't need her to be a submissive soldier or a mindless drone. He needed her to be Ziva.

So he had to be careful with her. Not delicate or gentle or (God forbid) polite, but deliberate in everything he said and did, keeping in mind how her twisted, traumatized mind would take it.

Earlier that day, she hadn't exactly disobeyed orders. It had been a case of asking forgiveness rather than permission, taking a risk when she knew he'd never approve. It had paid off, too—they'd caught the bad guy. But she'd still been reckless. She'd gotten herself shot.

Not badly shot. The bullet had just barely grazed her arm. He doubted she'd even need stitches. But that didn't make him feel any better. He couldn't help but remember Kate, and his mind kept reliving the moment when the gun had fired and Ziva had dropped, misremembering the scene so that the bullet took Ziva in the head instead of in the arm. The fear made him want to forget everything he knew about her sensitivity, about her past, and about the trust he wanted to develop with her. He wanted to lash out, yell and scream, make her feel the weight of her actions.

But the very air between them was heavy with tension as he drove. She was very much alive as she sat beside him, showing no signs of pain or distress other than the minuscule tightening of her jaw—as though she was waiting for him to start scolding her. Meanwhile, her shirt sleeve was soaked in blood.

They passed the exit to get back to the office, and Ziva just looked over at him, the question in her eyes.

"Taking you to the hospital," he said.

Her voice caught. "Gibbs, I don't need—"

"Not a negotiation, Ziva."

"It's a scratch."

"You were shot."

"I was grazed."

"I'd feel better if you had someone take a look at it."

"You wouldn't go to the hospital for a scratch like this."

He kept his eyes on the road, because she wasn't wrong about that. If she'd asked whether he would send her male colleagues to the hospital after the same injury, he'd probably be able to answer in the affirmative. A bullet was a bullet. Gibbs himself, though, would never have sat in a hospital waiting room for a scratch like that.

"Doesn't matter what I'd do," he said. Internally, he winced a little, because he didn't like the approach he was using with her. He sighed and relented a little. "Okay, give you a choice. Let a doctor look over that scrape, or let me do it."

She scoffed. "I'm perfectly capable—"

"Hospital it is." He hit the gas just a little harder.

"Wait, Gibbs."

He raised his eyebrows and looked over at her for a moment.

She sighed. "Fine. I'll let you take a look."

He nodded and made the turn back towards the office at the next exit.

He didn't take her all the way back to the bullpen. Instead, he stopped by his own office to pick up a pack of medical supplies. He could have used the ones in his car, but that would mean he'd need to restock later. He liked to be prepared in case of emergencies, and this wasn't one. From there, he took her to an empty conference room for privacy.

Ziva stood awkwardly in the conference room as he closed the door behind himself, but when he sat on the table and opened the med kit, she sat beside him. She never made eye contact with him, never spoke a word, but she pulled back her sleeve enough for him to see the scrape. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, and he didn't see any reason why it should get infected. He could take care of this himself.

He let antiseptic soak into a cotton pad, and he dabbed it onto the open wound. He knew firsthand how much the cleaning could hurt. Ziva, of course, didn't so much as flinch.

But her jaw tightened, ever so slightly, as he put away the cotton pads and unwrapped a bandage. And he could see it in her eyes. She was feeling the weight of her recklessness, the burn of his unspoken disappointment, the embarrassment of his need to take time away from work to care for her.

Gibbs wanted to tell her she'd been brave and he was proud of her; that was rare, coming from him. He wanted to tell her how worried he'd been, and how happy he was she was safe; that was something he almost never said. He wanted to shout and scold and warn her to never, ever try a stunt like that again; that was a speech all of his agents had heard at one time or another.

But he didn't say any of it. It wasn't what she needed. Not right now. Instead, he simply replaced her torn sleeve over the bandage for the time being, and he put his hand on the back of her shoulder.

She let her weight rest against his hand, ever so slightly, and her eyes fell closed.