A/N: Sorry for the disappearing act! As I mentioned in my last one-shot, I had a big surgery on my jaw a few weeks ago and that (alongside the business of the holiday season) has severely hindered my ability to make progress on just about anything. I'm well on the road to recovery now, but unfortunately, school starts back Monday and life is about to get far busier again! I'm not abandoning this story, though, so don't lose hope. I appreciate everyone's patience!

After a week in the hospital, Ziva is fed up with being tied to a single room. She's had visitors every day and that has been wonderful—so has the fact that Tony has been a dedicated caretaker, barely leaving her side. It makes her feel valued and loved. She hates being poked and prodded all hours of the day and night, though, and being the center of attention from everyone is tiring. Not a fan of hospitals under normal circumstances, she has trouble sleeping and little appetite during this particular extended stay.

She tries to be patient, aware that she did go through something very serious. She consents to every test the doctors want to run until it becomes clear that despite the surgeon's pessimism, she has no lingering neurological issues from her brush with death. Her pain levels decrease every day, and after the first two days, she refuses analgesics altogether. She'd rather suffer a little and be at full mental capacity than be out of pain and mentally fuzzy.

To her surprise, Tony is an excessive worrier. He asks her several times every day how she's feeling, how much pain she's in, if she desires water or food, if her pillow is fluffed to satisfaction. Having always been fiercely independent, she finds this overbearing and annoying, but every time she gets close to snapping at him to get him to back off, she sees in his face the genuine ache to be able to do something for her. He harbors a lot of guilt over the shooting, she knows, despite the fact that it's not his fault at all. It seems he regards it as his personal mission to make her heal as fast as possible.

She tolerates it, because she loves him.

They've settled into a stage of new-relationship bliss. Despite knowing one another very well already, they still engage in the shy dance of figuring out how they fit together romantically. There's a hesitancy to the way they hold hands, kiss, or cuddle, especially when other people are around. There's something that feels sweetly innocent about it. Given what they've already shared, though, it also feels like several steps backwards.

On the eighth day, Ziva is undergoing her daily basic neurological function tests when she decides that she's had it.

"Touch your nose and then touch my finger," the doctor instructs, and she starts to do it before scoffing.

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No. How many times are you going to conduct the same test? How many mornings must I sit here and touch your finger?"

"Ms. David, we need to ensure that—"

"That I have no neurological issues, yes, I know. So when do you start to believe what you are seeing?"

The doctor looks mildly uncomfortable with her question. "We'll keep you here as long as the head neurologist deems necessary," he finally answers.

"No, you will not," Ziva disagrees, surprising both herself and the doctor, "because I am leaving."

"You're—leaving?" As the incredulous neurologist frowns at her, Tony walks in carrying two disposable coffee cups.

Ignoring Tony's entrance for now, Ziva sticks to her guns. "Yes. I believe it is called an—an AMA form, yes? The form that you wish for me to sign in order to pass off responsibility for my health."

"You are within your rights to leave Against Medical Advice, yes," the doctor says stiffly.

"Excellent. I will ready my things to go, then. Please, go retrieve the proper form and I will sign it." She gestures impatiently to the door, and the doctor leaves without another word.

Tony, however, is another matter. "Whaaaat are you doing there, Ziva?" he asks hesitantly, speaking to her in a manner that clearly means he believes she's gone crazy.

"I am leaving this chara hospital." The venom in her voice gives evidence to the fact that this is something she's been building up to for a while.

"What makes this hospital so shit, hm?" Tony's voice is patient again, measured, and it sort of makes Ziva want to throw something at him. Her mild surprise at his correct translation of her Hebrew curse keeps her from doing so, however, and she reminds herself that none of this is Tony's fault.

"They refuse to accept that despite their expectations, I am quite well, thank you!" she snaps.

"Ziva, they're the experts here. I'm sure they're not keeping you around for their own amusement. If they say you need to stay, it's because you do."

"And what exactly are they doing here that I cannot do at home?" Ziva demands.

"Well, running tests, for starters, but—" Tony attempts to say before Ziva interrupts.

"Oh, do not even try that, Tony!" Her voice is harsher than she means it to be; pent up frustration and restlessness seem to be spewing out now, and there might not be any help for it. "I could do those tests in my sleep—you could, too! I am not receiving any medications, I am unnecessarily confined to a bed, and this IV saline makes me need to pee a dozen times a day, laazazel!"

Tony looks unimpressed, and he sets the coffee cups aside to cross his arms. When he doesn't say anything, she snorts angrily, crossing her arms, too. "You done?" he asks eventually, and she nods, frowning. "Good. Now it's your turn to listen. You are well within your rights to be frustrated—this has been rough on all of us, but especially on you. I'm all ears anytime you need to rant… but the second you start to put your health in danger because you're feeling stir-crazy, we're gonna have a problem."

"I am not putting myself in danger, Tony!" she insists.

"I didn't say you were. I just said not to."

Their voices are hard and they're glaring at one another, but after only a second, Tony turns away to grab one of the cups he brought in. He holds it out. "Drink your hot chocolate while it's warm, Ziva," he says roughly.

"Thanks," she growls, accepting it.

Then the absurdity of the argument hits both of them at the same time, and when their eyes next meet, they break into quiet laughter. Tony draws closer and after the slightest hesitation, he lays a tender hand on her cheek. "If you really, genuinely think you're alright to leave the hospital, I'll support you on that. Just remember that we—that I—almost lost you. Please don't make any rash decisions if you're not 100% sure, okay?"

Ziva smiles a little and puts her hand over his—there it is again, that sweet, calming sense of being cared about. "You are right, Tony. I really think I am okay, however."

"Good. You have no idea how glad I am to hear it." Ziva can see the vulnerability he's choosing to admit to her here, and it makes her awfully proud of his growth.

After putting aside her hot chocolate, she reaches up with both hands, gently grasping Tony's cheeks and pulling him toward her. She kisses him softly and he smiles into it. "I love you," she offers, still somewhat shy over saying the words out loud.

"I love you, too," Tony replies warmly. He kisses her again, and she's really starting to enjoy it when someone close by clears their throat. Tony and Ziva break apart to see that the doctor has returned, clipboard in hand.

"You have my form?" Ziva asks expectantly, unembarrassed.

"I want to emphasize that this is against medical advice, but yes, I have the form here if you want to go through with it," the doctor answers.

"Your opinion is noted, thank you," Ziva says coldly. Tony raises his eyebrows at this but doesn't comment—clearly, they need to get her out of here before she starts shooting people.

The doctor walks Ziva through the form, making her initial here and sign there. Then it's done, and Tony can feel Ziva's relief from several feet away.

The doctor shuffles the papers, making sure everything is in order. "I'll have a nurse come in with your discharge papers. Do you live alone?"

"Yes, I do," Ziva confirms.

"We recommend having someone stay with you for at least a few days."

"Thank you, but I believe that is unnecessary." Ziva's voice is arrogant, almost, completely confident in her infallibility.

"No, it's not," Tony argues quietly, wanting to roll his eyes but knowing better. "I'll stay with her—or she can stay with me. She won't be alone, trust me."

"Tony, I do not wish to disturb your—" Ziva starts, softer, but Tony interrupts. The doctor sees this as his cue to leave.

Tony focuses entirely on his partner. "You're not. I'm volunteering. And I've seen the way you look at me when I worry about you—I know you've noticed. Do you really think I would let you recover alone? What if something happened?"

"I am leaving the hospital because I feel I am up to an acceptable level of health. That does not mean I need you to continue to look after me—if it did, I would not leave here in the first place," she points out.

"Ziva." Tony stares at her, frowning. "Just for a second, could you listen? I'm not saying you're in bad shape, but just in case something happens, you're better off having me there. If you're not comfortable with it being me, I'm sure you could stay with McGee or Gibbs." His expression is neutral, but Ziva can see that she's caused him a tiny amount of hurt. He wants to take care of her.

"That is not what I am saying, Tony," she contradicts, contrite. "It is not you I have an issue with."

"No?"

"No. But I am aware that you have sacrificed this week to be at the hospital as much as you have." Like Tony, she often has a little trouble saying exactly what she feels, and she tries to imbue her voice with an inflection that shows gratitude. His sacrifices have not gone unappreciated, she's saying.

"What do you mean?"

"You have barely left my side, love." The pet name slips off her tongue naturally and her eyes flit away for a second in embarrassment as she realizes what she's just said. She sees Tony's affectionate half-smile, though, and feels safe and secure in her fledgling feelings. "You have not worked a single day in the past week."

To her surprise, Tony snorts—he looks partly amused and partly annoyed. At her questioning glance, he elaborates that noise into words. "That wasn't entirely by choice," he admits.

"How so?" she asks.

"I went into the office the morning after you woke up. I had this half-baked plan where if I worked crazy hard for half the day, I could leave early and spend most of the rest of the day in Baltimore with you. We still haven't caught La Grenouille and I wanted to get the bastard who put you in that hospital bed to begin with. I wasn't at my desk for fifteen minutes before Gibbs made me leave, though." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, judging her expression. "You know he'd never admit it, but you scared him to death, Ziva. You're like a daughter to him. No matter how much I want La Grenouille, he told me my job is to protect you. They'll get the big bad arms dealer without me." He keeps his light intentionally light, displaying the typical DiNozzo teasing because he knows it's expected of him.

There's a lot to unpack there, and Ziva blinks back an unexpected glaze of tears over her eyes. She's not sure which part of his story to address first, so she finally decides to work backwards. "You went along with that?" she asks, her voice a little wobbly.

Tony can hear it and it makes him feel almost unbearably tender for a long moment. He sits down lightly on the edge of her bed and reaches over to stroke her hair. "Wasn't easy to let the others take over, but… yeah, I did, at least for now. You're my priority. Revenge is a stupid motive for an investigator to have anyway, and I… I realized once Gibbs sent me away that all I wanted was to be at your side. Made it easier, ya know, to—" it's his turn to have an unsteady voice, and he swallows several times to clear it. "Made it easier to live with myself. Still not easy, but when I can see you all day everyday, remind myself that you're alive…" He doesn't finish the sentence.

Ziva struggles slightly to sit up, and Tony gives her gentle support until she's propped the way she'd like to be. "Tony, I want to be very, very clear here—what happened to me is not your fault. Please stop blaming yourself."

"You were rescuing me when you were shot, Ziva, remember that?" He sounds bitter, Ziva thinks, and he's avoiding her gaze.

"Yes, I was," she agrees evenly. "I was following Gibbs' orders, just as you were following Shepard's."

"That doesn't matter," he insist flatly.

"You are correct. It does not matter—just as it does not matter who we were rescuing. It is part of the job, Tony."

He just purses his lips instead of replying.

She catches his hand in hers, squeezing it. "If I cannot convince you of that, at least let me tell you this—I would do it again. I would do it ten times more if it meant keeping you safe. Why will you not let me protect you the way you wish to protect me?"

He doesn't squeeze back, but he doesn't pull away, either. "It's not like I can stop you," he says, a little dark humor in his voice. He'll give it up for now, but that doesn't mean his guilt has gone away.

"It is about time you learned that," she agrees, giving him a soft smile.

It inspires him to pull her into a gentle hug, careful not to irritate her injury while he tucks her face into the crook of his shoulder, his hand caressing the back of her head. "You're too good, you know that, Ziva David?"

She kisses his neck before sighing deeply and snuggling in. "Are you certain you wish to stay with me?" she clarifies rather than replying to Tony's question with the joke that is her first instinct.

"You couldn't stop me if you tried." He kisses the top of her head, making her smile.

"Okay," she finally says, giving in. "Do you wish for us to stay at my apartment, or would you prefer your own?"

"Wherever you'll be more comfortable. You're the one who's recovering."

"And you are the one who is being displaced if you stay with me," Ziva retorts.

"Mm, now that sounds like a preference, David," Tony points out smugly.

"No, that is not what I—"

"Can't take it back now!" he teases, and he beams at her as she pulls away to frown at him. "Your place it is."

"Only if you are sure you do not mind…"

"I don't." He sounds so sure of himself that she can't help but believe him. It's hard for her to relinquish control of anything, but letting him have this will be a good thing for their relationship, she can tell. He needs to know that despite her need for independence, she can compromise on things that are important—at least things that are important to him.

"Alright. Thank you, Tony." She curls back against his chest, sighing happily despite the slight pain the movement causes.

"Any time, Ziva."

As soon as they make it inside Ziva's apartment, Tony starts fussing over her again. He sets her up on the sofa, turns on a mindless sitcom for her to watch, and starts a pot of tea. Then he calls for takeout, and the whole thing reminds her strongly of the way she took care of them the night they first slept together. They've come such a long way, and the nostalgia brings with it a surge of affection. Tony's not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but she loves him more than she might have thought possible several years ago. Without question, her time in Washington has changed her.

When Tony returns with the tea, she coaxes him into settling behind her on the sofa so she can lean back against him, and she does so with a feeling of great contentment. "Tony?" she says softly.

"Mmhm?" He draws his arms around her, resting his hands on her abdomen and starting to draw little patterns with his fingers. It tickles, a surprisingly welcome sensation after days of nothing but pain in that area.

"I feel as if we have been here before," she tells him, letting out a breathy laugh.

"Mm, not quite. Different couch, and it was me with the concussion, not you." His voice is self-satisfied, completely confident that he knows what she's thinking about—and, of course, he's right.

"Yes, but this feels much the same, does it not?"

"Yeah… it does. Any chance tonight'll end the same way that night did?" he suggests seductively, nuzzling into the back of her neck.

She laughs louder this time. "It would have to be you doing all the work this time, Tony. I am still weak from spending a week in bed."

"Oh, I could arrange for you to spend another week in bed," Tony purrs, one of his hands sliding up to lightly cup her breast.

Ziva knows he's teasing and she is, too, but her body still responds. She lets her head fall back and relaxes more fully against him. "With you, that does not sound so bad," she admits. "It is too bad that will have to wait until I am a little more recovered."

"Your imagination still works, doesn't it?" Ziva can hear his grin, and she groans as he lightly pinches her nipple through her clothing.

"Tony DiNozzo, do not start something you cannot finish," she warns.

It's his turn to laugh, and he releases her breast, hugging her from behind instead. He adds a kiss to her cheek for good measure. "I'll finish what I started once you're feeling better, sweet cheeks," he promises, his voice full of affection.

She twists slightly to look at his face. "Sweet cheeks?" That's another throwback, for sure, and he chuckles at her expression.

"Bet you thought I didn't remember that name," he says, self-congratulatory and smirking.

"Maybe your memory is better than I thought, my little hairy butt," she agrees, amused.

He tilts his head in acknowledgment of the pet name she threw back at him, but then his expression turns more serious. "I try to remember everything when it comes to you," he says softly.

"Why?" she wants to know.

"Because my happiest memories are with you." His candor surprises her—she's used to joking Tony, but serious Tony is still rare enough to be unexpected.

She glances down at his lips and then back up to his eyes, and he easily understands the hint, leaning in to kiss her. She reciprocates, and they spend several extraordinarily pleasant moments that way. When they break apart for air, she finally answers him. "Many of mine are with you, as well," she assures him, quite serious.

He smiles, but there's something a little heavier than new love in his eyes. "Many, but not all," he concludes correctly, and she wonders just how much her expression is giving away. He seems to be guessing what she's not saying, knowing the fondest memories of her childhood with Tali and Ari have now become distinctly bittersweet, at once nostalgically happy and deeply painful.

"No, not all," she agrees soberly.

"I'll do my best to make sure all the ones from here on out are nothing short of blissful," he promises, and the clear sincerity behind the vow makes Ziva smile.

"Let us begin now, then," she replies, and kisses him again.

Director Shepard is leaving the office for the day when her phone beeps with an intercom call. She glances at it and goes back around the desk to answer it, seeing that it's her assistant's extension. "Yes, Cynthia?"

"You've got a call, Director. I said I'd check and see if you were available because I know you were about to leave—do you want to take it?"

"Depends," Shepard answers, sighing. There's a bathtub full of hot water and a romance novel calling her name after an interminably long day. "Who is it?"

"It's Eli David, sir. Director of Mossad."

Shepard glances at the clock, frowning. It's midnight in Tel Aviv, seven hours ahead of DC time. Why would Director David be calling so late? Sure it's not a social call, she sighs more heavily and answers her assistant. "Okay, put him through. Thanks, Cynthia."

Cynthia connects the calls, and after a moment, Shepard can hear the background noise change. "Good evening, Director. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Shalom, Ms. Shepard," David answers. He sounds rushed, but his voice is still even—hopefully there is not an international crisis to deal with tonight. "Please, for the sake of relations between our organizations… tell me the status of your investigation into René Benoit."

Shepard frowns and shifts the phone to her other ear, sinking back down into her desk chair. "Why?" she asks bluntly. That entire investigation is a thorn in her side and Benoit himself is doubly so.

"Because a Mossad officer was injured in the course of that investigation, and I would like to hear that something has come of it." On the surface, his voice is light, polite. Shepard recognizes it for the accusation that it is, though, and she remembers what she's been told of Director David's powers of manipulation. She certainly prefers dealing with Ziva, herself.

"Your daughter is recovering well," Shepard points out, her voice cool—she's wordlessly telling the Israeli man that she won't be bullied. "And I'm afraid that the details of the investigation are classified. It's need to know, unfortunately."

"When my officer is compromised, I do need to know," he contradicts, and Shepard marvels once more on his ability to intend threats while sounding no more than conversational.

"If I recall, Director David, you loaned that officer to us. While that does imply a certain amount of cooperation between our agencies and our countries, it doesn't automatically entitle you to be read in on everything she works on."

"Perhaps not," David says smoothly, "but if you wish to continue utilizing Officer David, it would be in your best interest to keep Mossad informed on the progress you are making in this case."

"Is this coming from the Director of Mossad or from Ziva's father?" Shepard questions shrewdly.

"One cannot be separated from the other."

That brings Shepard a flash of anger—as much as she and NCIS have benefitted from Ziva's presence, Eli David's particular brand of parenting has brought them harm before. Ari Haswari comes to mind, and Shepard wonders just how large a role Mossad played in Eli's children's formative years… and how much his fatherly influence didn't. "Is that so?" If Shepard sounds a little cold, she can't be blamed for it.

"Are you or are you not going to update me on the Benoit case?" David says instead of answering.

"I'm not."

"Then effective immediately, I am terminating the position of liaison officer from Mossad to NCIS. I expect my officer to be on a plane to Tel Aviv within 24 hours."

Before Shepard can argue or recant, the call ends and she's met with the dial tone. Shocked, she tries to call back and doesn't get through. There has to be more going on than simple fatherly—or directorly—concern. If concern was all it was, David would have called more than a week ago when Ziva was shot. No, now there has to be something deeper, especially given the time of day David called.

She also doesn't believe for a second that her simple refusal to share classified information is enough to make David threaten relations between NCIS and Mossad. He needs Ziva back for some other reason that he's not sharing—he's just using Shepard as his scapegoat for the move. As always, the man has clear ulterior motives.

For right now, though, there's nothing Shepard can do except comply with Eli David's wishes. She doesn't have the power to keep a foreign operative on American soil outside of an open investigation or an ongoing liaison position, and that has just ended.

It's time to send Ziva back to Israel.