A/N: Hi again! As promised, now that it's October 29th, here is chapter two; you can expect chapter three on November 5th. (I plan to post every Thursday!) Now, a note on this chapter in particular: though this story is by and large a Tiva story with a kid woven in, there's still a case-like plot coming regarding Eitan's family... so I hope you'll bear with me through a little more set-up in this installment! Soon, the chapters and the story will be a little more Tony-heavy than they've been so far. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as always, thank you for reading and extra thanks to those that review! Happy Halloween! — xoxo, Clara

Ziva spends the rest of the day working as quickly as she can to transform her small, simple apartment into a child-friendly space. It's the first time she has ever needed to do something like this, though, so it takes some research.

She spends the first half hour after getting home just reading the results of a Google search. According to the suggested websites, even the absolute minimum restrictions that need to be put in place for a child of Eitan's age are extensive. Ziva starts making a list.

She'll need to lock away all of her weapons, preferably out of reach of small hands—that alone will take some time, as Ziva has guns and knives stashed in every room. Similarly, any potentially dangerous chemicals, cleaning supplies, and medicines need to be protected, and even those that are unlikely to pose a direct threat must be stored behind child-proof locks. The locks on her windows will have to be moved higher up.

If that's not enough, the settings on the hot water heater will need adjusting, the batteries on the smoke detector need to be checked and possibly replaced, and any breakables in the apartment, particularly those that might produce sharp shards, need to be stored away from where a child could find them. Any furniture that could be pulled or tipped over must be secured into place.

And those are just the safety things!

Ziva also has to clear out the small second bedroom that she uses as an office. Lieutenant Shulman has offered the use of the furniture that she has been using for Eitan, but logistically, they just don't have the time or manpower that it would take to disassemble, transport, and reassemble an entire bedroom set. Ziva opts instead to seek out the nearest furniture store that offers same day delivery and assembly and she purchases the basics there.

The hours pass far too quickly, and before she knows it, it's time for Ziva to start the trip to Arlington. She hasn't finished everything—that will probably take a few days—but she has managed to complete enough to get through the first night.

The drive to Lieutenant Shulman's house isn't a long one—no more than twenty minutes without traffic—so Ziva doesn't have time to ponder her worries too much on her way there. It's a good thing, too, because there's no turning back now.

She pulls up to the little blue house and parks, relying on every bit of her considerable capacity for bravery to go knock on the door.

Looking more composed now than she did earlier, Lieutenant Shulman answers the door a few seconds later. "Hi, Ziva," she greets the agent, subdued not unkind.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Shulman."

"Please, come in."

Ziva gives a nod of thanks and passes into the house. "How is he doing?" she asks. The boy himself is nowhere in sight at the moment, but several little suitcases sit packed and waiting near the door.

Something in Lieutenant Shulman's expression turns guarded, wary. "He's… alright, I guess," she replies.

Ziva doesn't push it. "Does he know that I am picking him up tonight?"

"Yeah. He's in his room—I'm sorry, he's in the room that used to be his—right now. He said he wanted to be alone."

Ziva makes a sympathetic face. "He has experienced an incredible amount of loss in one day, especially for someone so young."

Lieutenant Shulman's expression becomes even more closed off at that, and before Ziva can ask her what is wrong, she sighs and looks away. "You're going to think I'm awful."

"What makes you say that?"

"I haven't told him yet."

"You have not—"

"About Liora and Noam."

Ziva pauses, momentarily too surprised to answer. Surely Lieutenant Shulman doesn't expect her to be the one to break the news! "Why not?" she finally manages to ask, and only many years of learning to school her emotions allows her to keep a neutral tone.

"You have to understand, I—" Lieutenant Shulman stops to swallow hard a few times, and when she speaks again, she looks more like the heartbroken woman that sat in Vance's office this morning. "I don't have kids. I never even imagined that I'd have kids! My husband and I don't want any and we didn't plan on suddenly having one. But Liora was my best friend, and when she said she was afraid for Eitan's life, what was I supposed to say?"

The lieutenant speaks so quickly, barely pausing for breath, that she starts to trip over her words. "He's my godson, and he needed me. I've done my best, I really have, and I swear I'd do anything for him! But I don't know how to do this—I can't do this! I can't tell him that his parents are dead without breaking down myself, and that's not what he needs! He needs to be someone's priority, he needs—"

Ziva acts on instinct when she pulls the other woman into a hug.

Captain Shulman stops talking abruptly, and she stands trembling in Ziva's embrace. "I can't do this," she says again, soft and mournful.

"It is alright," Ziva affirms soothingly. "You do not have to... I will, so take a deep breath, okay?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Ziva finds that she means what she's saying—she understands why Captain Shulman feels unable to do what Eitan needs, and contrary to what she first assumed, she knows that the decision isn't really a selfish one. Besides, Ziva has been on the receiving end of that kind of devastating news more than once, and she thinks—hopes—that her experience will help her choose the right words to tell Eitan.

She pauses for a second before adding something more: "Eitan is not the only one who has lost much today. You have, as well."

"I can't argue with that, I guess." Captain Shulman slowly pulls out of the hug, wiping her eyes. "Thank you, truly."

Ziva nods and hopes that's answer enough.

It seems to be. "You always were the strong one, so I probably shouldn't be surprised that you still are," Captain Shulman murmurs with a small laugh.

"What do you mean?" Ziva asks in confusion.

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

The question suddenly jogs something in Ziva's memory, and several little details start to make sense… She had thought this morning that Captain Shulman looked familiar, though the thought was lost in the wake of everything that followed it. It had also seemed strange that the other woman had called her Ziva from the start, never the more formal—and more customary—Special Agent David. Even the captain's casual use of both English and Hebrew had seemed unusual, but now it helps Ziva recognize something that she should have been able to discern at once.

They've met before, several times.

"Zohara?" The realization is spoken in a tone of stunned disbelief. "Zohara Avraham?"

That brings a brief, pleased smile to the other woman's face. "You do remember me!"

Memories come flooding back, and Ziva nods. "Of course I do. I am only sorry that it took so long for me to figure that out."

Zohara had been a shy little girl who sometimes joined Liora's family on holidays—the same holidays that the Cohens took with the Davids. If Ziva remembers right—and now she's sure that she is remembering right—Zohara was born in Tel Aviv to an Israeli father and an American mother, and she moved to the United States when the girls were around ten years old. Before today, Ziva had not seen her since that last summer some twenty years prior.

"Don't worry about it," Zohara assures Ziva. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has been. Well, it is nice to see you again—I only wish it was under different circumstances."

"It's good to see you, too."

Whatever Ziva wants to reply dies in her throat when she sees Eitan's head poke warily around the corner of the hall at the end of the room, and she sobers, immediately brought back to the matter at hand. "We have company," she tells Zohara, tilting her head toward the hall.

Zohara turns around. "Hi there, little one," she greets Eitan, speaking in Hebrew again.

Emboldened, Eitan scurries into the room and attaches himself to Zohara's leg. "Is it time for me to leave, Zo?"

"Almost, but not quite. Before we do anything else, though, can you say hello to Ziva?"

"Do I have to?"

Zohara strokes the top of his small head fondly and smiles at him. "I think you should make friends with her before you go, what do you think?"

"I guess."

"Go on and be polite, then, mm?"

Eitan shyly peeks around Zohara's leg. "Hi," he whispers.

Ziva gives the small boy an encouraging smile. "Hello, Eitan," she returns warmly.

"I am proud of you, brave boy!" Zohara praises. "Now, you came in at a good time—I was just about to tell Ziva all of the fun things she should know about you. Maybe you can tell her yourself, though, since you are already here."

"What should I say?"

"Well, what do you want her to know?"

"Um…" Eitan steals another timid glance at Ziva, considering. "Should I tell her my favorite color?"

"That is an excellent idea. I think you should."

"I, um, I like green," Eitan offers, this directed at Ziva.

"What a coincidence! I like green, too!" she shares back.

"You do?" He looks at Zohara again, smiling now. "She says green is her favorite, too!"

Zohara laughs softly—Ziva is impressed with the other woman's ability to keep up a cheerful front around the boy after such a painful day. "I heard her!"

"Should I tell her about my favorite dinosaur?"

They let Eitan share whatever he wants as they start a slow walk around the house, discussing things Ziva needs to know that are relevant to his care. They speak to Eitan in Hebrew, but they switch to English when speaking to one another, not wanting Eitan to understand how extensively they're discussing him. He thinks this is all a temporary change, and for all they know, it might be—there's no need to frighten him by making it into a bigger deal than it has to be.

Ziva has a notepad with her, and she takes careful notes on what she's told—Eitan's daily routine, his bedtime, his medical history (he's allergic to peanuts—this part is underlined thrice on Ziva's list), where he is in his education, how to calm him down when he's upset… the list goes on and on.

As they go, Eitan gets progressively quieter, and by the time they finish, his dark little eyes are barely open. They're already forty-five minutes past his bedtime.

"Well, can you think of anything else?" Zohara asks when they've discussed everything she had planned to talk about, and addressed every question posed by Ziva.

"I cannot think of anything on top of my head."

That makes Zohara smile faintly. "I think you mean 'off the top of your head.'"

"Yes, that."

"If we've forgotten anything, you should be able to figure out the small stuff on your own, and if there's anything big…" Zohara pauses and sighs. "Your director may be able to reach me while I'm deployed, but I can't guarantee that."

"I am sure we will manage. Do not worry about us, Zohara."

"If there's anyone who can take on a challenge like this and flawlessly adapt to it, Ziva, I think it would be you."

Ziva smiles. "Thank you. I hope I can live up to that praise." She hesitates briefly before gesturing to the suitcases by the door. "I will start loading my car and give you and Eitan a chance to say goodbye without an audience, yes?"

"Sure, thank you."

Ziva heads to the door and grabs the handle of a different bag in each hand, but something makes her stop and look back at the other two before going through the door. Zohara is kneeling now, putting herself on eye level with the four year old, and she's holding his small hands in hers.

Ziva tears her eyes away; it's not a scene meant for her eyes.

As she carries the cases outside, though, she thinks about how loved Eitan clearly is. His parents loved him enough to send him halfway around the world for his own safety, a decision that ultimately led on some level to their deaths. Zohara loved him enough to take him in though she clearly felt unprepared to do so, and she loves him enough now to hand him over to someone who will be able to do what Zohara can't and stay in Washington with him.

Even Eli, a man who doesn't love easily, clearly regards the boy as someone important. If the child in question was anyone other than the grandchild of his late best friend, Ziva highly doubts that he would have taken such a personal interest in finding somewhere safe for Eitan to ride out this storm.

Ziva knows that all of those people are counting on her to take care of Eitan just as they would. That's a daunting task, but it's not one she can back away from now.

By the time Ziva finishes loading the car, Zohara is leading Eitan out by the hand; they both have red faces wet with fresh tears, something Ziva pretends not to notice.

"Are you ready to go?" she asks Eitan, pumping as much enthusiasm into her voice as she can.

He nods, but he's still clutching Zohara's hand tightly. The other woman sighs softly and pries her hand away in order to lift the child up with both hands. She settles him on her hip and looks at him seriously. "You will remember what I told you, right?"

"Yeah, Zo."

"Good boy." Zohara gives him a long kiss on the forehead. "I love you, little lion."

"I love you, too, but—but—please do not send me away!"

Eitan's little face starts to crumple into tears again, and Zohara, white-faced, goes to strap him into the carseat Ziva had installed this afternoon. She murmurs one more thing Ziva can't hear, shuts the door, and turns back to Ziva.

"Thank you. For everything."

They can both hear Eitan beginning to sob in earnest in the car.

"You do not have to thank me." Ziva pulls Zohara into a quick hug. "I will protect him as if he was my own. You just focus on keeping yourself safe during your deployment."

They embrace for a long moment, but now is not a time to linger, and they break apart after a few beats. "Bye, Ziva. And good luck."

"To you, as well."

Zohara glances at the car once more and then robotically rotates to face the house, walking away immediately after as if she's afraid she'll lose her nerve to do so.

Ziva's not sure she's ever seen someone look so very tired, and as she moves to get in the car herself, she's sure she catches the sound of a sob coming from the house.

On the way back into Washington, Ziva attempts to figure out a way to comfort Eitan in this difficult moment, and she finds herself at a loss.

First, she tries offering the same platitudes she might offer to an adult: every will be okay, there's nothing to worry about, you will feel better soon. Eitan completely ignores her, continuing to wail at full volume. After a few minutes, Ziva switches tactics.

She tries to distract him, asking him about the cartoons that he likes to watch, but this, too, is soundly ignored.

Finally, Ziva has to accept that the little boy just needs to cry for a while, and from then on, she leaves him to it. All of this has to be traumatic for him—even if he doesn't know the worst part of it yet—and he's well within his rights to be a little weepy about it.

By the time they reach Ziva's neighborhood, though, Eitan's sobs have died away, and a quick glance back at him in the rearview confirms what she has already guessed: he has cried himself to sleep. The thought makes her heart ache… no one should experience so much pain at such a young age.

She parks on her street and gets herself out without waking the little one, and then she pauses, not sure what to do. Waking him up feels like a bad idea, and while he's certain to be a heavy dead weight, Ziva is fairly confident that she can carry him up. She can't hold him and his suitcases, though, and in the end, she makes the executive decision to take him to bed and come back to get his things in the morning. He's already dressed in pajamas anyway, and what else can he possibly need while he's sleeping?

Luckily, Eitan appears to be a heavy sleeper, and she maneuvers him out of his seat and into her arms with little difficulty. Juggling her keys and opening doors proves to be something of a greater challenge, but someone that she vaguely recognizes as living on the floor above her sees her struggling and helps.

Ziva enters her apartment and lays the kid out on the sofa, careful not to disturb him, and goes to do one of the things she didn't have time for earlier—putting sheets and blankets on the bed that was purchased and set up only a few hours ago.

When she comes back to move Eitan, though, she accidentally wakes him up. He opens his eyes blearily, frowning up at Ziva. "Zo?"

"Not Zo, Ziva," she corrects him kindly. "Do you remember me?"

Eitan makes some kind of noise of assent and smacks his lips sleepily.

"Come now, little one." Ziva scoops him up, smiling slightly when he settles his head on her shoulder, and carries him to his new room. Then she lays him down. "Sweet dreams, Eitan. I will see you in the morning."

"Where are you going?" he protests grumpily when Ziva tries to untangle his small fingers from where they're bunched in her shirt.

"I am only going to the next room," she promises. "I do not want to keep you awake."

"But… can you sing me a song first?"

"A lullaby?"

Eitan nods.

"I would be happy to. Put your head back and get comfortable, yes?" While Eitan does as she asks, Ziva steals away to flick the overhead light off, leaving only a nightlight still glowing. "Now, which lullaby do you want to hear?"

"Mm… a nice one."

Ziva laughs quietly and nods. "I may be able to do that. Close your eyes and I will begin."

Eitan's eyes, only barely open to begin with, slide shut, and Ziva tucks the blanket in around his small shoulders. Then she starts to sing a quiet, soothing song, the first one to pop into her head—she thinks it might be one her mother used to sing to her when Ziva was very small, though her memories are too fuzzy to say for sure.

Eitan relaxes back into sleep before the song is halfway over, but Ziva finishes singing anyway, watching him rest. When the song ends, she stays for another few moments, moved by a tenderness that surprises her. "Sleep well," she murmurs, so quiet that she can barely hear herself; the sound of her words doesn't rouse Eitan at all. "Tomorrow will be a hard day, but for now, you can dream happy things."

Then she rises silently to her feet and leaves him to it, tired for herself and hurting for a little boy who doesn't have any idea what's coming for him.

It's not yet 10pm by the time Ziva emerges into the apartment's common area, but the difficulty of the last twelve hours makes it feel much later than it actually is. She knows that she should go to bed—it's not only Eitan who's going to have things to grapple with tomorrow—but she needs a few minutes to unwind first or she'll never get to sleep.

After some deliberation, she pours a small glass of wine and settles on the sofa to drink it. She turns on the television and a low volume and flips through the channels, trying to find something she can focus on, but her mind is buzzing too much to pay attention. Less than five minutes after turning it on, she switches the device off again.

She realizes suddenly that she doesn't want mindless entertainment… no, what she wants is to talk to another adult.

She grabs her cell phone and dials Tony's number without stopping to let herself wonder why he's her first choice for something like this.

It takes a few rings, but then Tony picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Tony."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes—relative to how it could be, at least. Why?"

Tony laughs. "Because you've never just called to chat before."

"There is a first time for everything."

"Don't I know it."

"Is this a bad time?"

Ziva can hear Tony shaking his head, and it makes her roll her eyes and smile. "I'm just watching the game."

"Which game?"

"Ohio State versus Rutgers."

Ziva pauses. "Which sport, though?"

Tony laughs again at that, this time more loudly than before now that he knows she's okay. "Basketball. It's basketball season."

"'Basketball' is not a season."

"No, it's…" The sound of something moving across the receiver tells Ziva that Tony is shaking his head at her again. "Not that kind of season. This is the time of year that basketball tournaments happen, that's all. Football season is in the fall, basketball season comes later."

"Oh."

"You're an American citizen now, right? You should know these things."

"Why do I need to, when I have you to tell me about them every chance you get?"

Tony snorts. "Glad you see me as good for something, I guess."

"Your sports knowledge is not the only good thing about you, Tony."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. You probably have at least two other good qualities as well."

There's a grin in Tony's voice. "Only two?"

"Three in total is more than some people have. Do not be greedy."

"Fair enough. So what are they?"

Ziva pauses to think. "You are a decent shot," she decides.

"I'm better than decent, but okay."

"Well, you are not as good as I am."

"Not sure that's true."

"It is."

"How do you know?"

"Our marksmanship scores do not lie."

"Who gave you access to my records? Those are supposed to be confidential!"

"McGee can find anything, if given the proper incentive."

"I'm going to kill him. What did you offer to make him dig that up?"

"That is between him and I."

"I'll find out."

"No, you will not."

"Yes, I will."

"Regardless, I consistently score higher than you do. That objectively tells us that I am the better shot."

"Hmph. Agree to disagree. What else?"

"What else what?"

"What's my other good quality?"

"Oh. Hmm." Another pause, and then Ziva grins. "You sleep naked."

"What!?"

"You heard me."

"How do you know how I sleep?"

"I see that you do not deny it."

"Why should I? There's nothing wrong with it. It's healthy to let your skin breathe every now and then, Ziva."

Tony sounds aggravated, and it makes Ziva laugh. "I did not say that there is anything wrong with it. I said it was one of your good qualities, remember?"

"Oh, yeah… You did say that." A brief pause, and then: "Why did you say that?"

"Are you asking why I see it as a good thing?"

"Yep."

"Because it is entertaining."

"I ask you again, Ziva: how do you know? You've never seen me sleep naked, not once. Unless you put cameras in my apartment."

"I have never even been inside your apartment."

"Not with me, you haven't. But you're sneaky."

"Do not flatter yourself, Tony. I have no interest in breaking into whatever cluttered den you call home."

"I'll have you know that my apartment is both clean and tastefully decorated."

"Then why do you never invite any of us to visit?"

"I spend at least forty hours a week with you, isn't that enough?"

"...that is a good point."

"Glad we agree. Now back to the point—don't think I've forgotten. How do you know I sleep naked, and how is it entertaining for you if you're not there to see it?"

"I have heard stories."

"What stories?"

"Well, one story in particular—Cuba, warm weather, and an iguana. Does that make any phones ring?"

"What—? Oh. You mean 'does that ring any bells?'"

"Yes, that."

"As a matter of fact, it does. But where the hell did you hear that story? That was well before your time."

"McGee told me."

"Nice try, but no dice. He wasn't there, either."

"Kate told him."

"Of course she did." This is accompanied by a short but forceful sigh.

"Kate told McGee, McGee told me, I told Abby."

"You what!? That explains some things."

"Things like what?"

"Like why she gave me a stuffed iguana for Christmas last year. I thought she was just being, you know, Abby."

"Do you sleep with it?"

"Ha! It's not that kind of stuffed animal. It's stuffed as in, like, taxidermied."

"Oh. I guess you do not sleep with it, then."

"Oh, you think?" The question is sardonic.

"I do."

"Well, if that humiliating story has already made the rounds, I guess I really have nothing to hide. It's all out there already."

"I am glad that I was told. I think about it often."

"I think it counts as sexual harassment to tell someone you like to think about them being naked in bed."

"I am sure you have done worse."

"Do you really want to stoop to my level?"

"Actually, no. I really do not."

"That's what I thought."

"I will still think about you and iguanas whenever I need a feel-me-up, however."

"Pick-me-up. God, Ziva, do you even try?"

Ziva chuckles, and Tony does, too. "Okay," he starts again after a moment. "What's up? I know you didn't call me to talk about lizards and shooting and sexual harassment."

Ziva sighs; their bickering is so easy to fall back into that she was momentarily distracted from how stressful the day has been. "I just wanted to talk to someone," she admits. "It has been a long afternoon and an even longer evening."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"There is not much to tell. I spent most of the day in my apartment."

"Did you get everything done that you needed to?"

"Most of it."

"I knew you could do it."

"I thought about what you said to me when I was leaving this morning."

"Yeah?"

"Yes… one hour at a time."

"Did that help?"

"Surprisingly, I think it did."

"Glad to hear it. So is Eitan there now?" The way Tony carefully feels out the foreign-to-his-ears name makes Ziva smile.

"Yes. He is asleep."

"Do you know what that means?"

"No, what?"

"It means you have the first day over with. You did it!"

"Hah... Yes, somehow I did. You have been right a few times today—perhaps you should play the lottery. I know this is unusual for you."

"Do you insult everyone who tries to help you?"

"Would it soothe your ego if I said yes?"

"Hmm. Maybe."

"Yes, then."

"Glad it's not just me. Well, how is he settling in?"

"We have only been here for an hour, so it is hard to say."

"He went to sleep, so he can't be too unhappy with the place."

"Hopefully not."

"How are you feeling? Any less overwhelmed?"

"I am… tired." This is punctuated by a deep yawn, and a laugh on the other end of the line tells Ziva that Tony heard it. "And maybe just a little less overwhelmed."

"A little is better than none. You'll get through tomorrow the same way you got through today: one hour at a time."

"Tomorrow will be harder, though."

"Why is that?"

Ziva sighs, not wanting to bring that particular heaviness into the conversation but unable to deny that she has an urge to talk about it. "Eitan… he does not know."

"He doesn't know what?"

"He has not been told that his parents are dead."

Tony lets out a rude word, and Ziva knows it wasn't directed at her. "So they expect you to be the one to tell him?"

"Yes."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair."

"You're right. Still…" There's a pause during which Ziva thinks Tony might be cursing under his breath again. "I'm sorry," he says finally.

"As much as I do not want to do it, there is no one else."

"Surely a social worker or something who's been trained to—"

"Eitan only speaks Hebrew, Tony."

"Oh. Oh."

"Yeah."

"Shit. I'm sorry. I know I already said that, but I am."

"I will get through it—we will get through it, Eitan and I. One word at a time."

"Hey, maybe you do listen to some of the things I say."

"Once in a new moon."

"Blue moon."

"Whatever." Ziva yawns again.

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Go to bed."

"Do not tell me what to do."

"Sorry, but just this once, I'm going to do just that. Go to bed."

It would be easier to argue with him if he wasn't right, and after a slight deliberation, Ziva sighs. "Alright. I will."

"Hope you sleep well. Good night, Ziva."

"Good night, Tony. Thanks for…"

"Don't mention it. I said you could call if you needed me."

"Yes, but thank you anyway."

"Happy to help. Okay, talk to you tomorrow."

"Talk to you tomorrow."

It's only fifteen minutes later, teeth brushed and pajamas donned and pillows fluffed, that Ziva realizes the strangeness of the end of that phone call. Both she and Tony assumed they'd be in contact the next day—despite the fact that Ziva won't be at work and they won't see each other. Really, as coworkers, they won't have a reason to talk again until her return to work in a week.

Why, then, does she fall asleep hoping that tomorrow ends in the same kind of silly phone call that tonight ended in?