Rifiuto: Non Mirena

She watched, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, as Tim made sure the wooden mobile Gibbs had made was secure over the head of the baby's crib. Like everything else in the nursery, Gibbs had made the mobile out of sturdy oak; the little painted wooden trains, cars, planes and boats swayed as Tim gently pushed it, to make sure it was stable. A small smile came to Ziva's face.

The nursery didn't really have a theme, like many parents opted for. Themes just weren't their style.

She glanced around the room. The second toy chest- the smaller one, for Amal's baby toys- sat by the window, while the other one, the bigger one, for the toys the boy received when he got older- was resting comfortably on the floor of the closet, waiting to be used when the boy got older; both could easily be used to store quilts and pillows and things when he reached college.

After a moment, she went to her husband, sliding a hand around his bicep and resting her chin on his arm. He looked back at her, before she pulled away, sighing. Once done, they left the nursery, slipping into the bedroom. Ziva settled against the pillows of the bed, her hands on her belly. Tim joined her, watching as she counted softly under her breath. But her eyes soon snapped open and she turned to him. "Do you want to count his kicks?"

Tim raised an eyebrow before Ziva reached out and took his hand, resting it on her belly beside her other one. "What do we do know?"

"Well, from what Jeanne told me, we're supposed to count ten kicks. If we get to ten, everything's okay. Think you can do that?"

Her husband chuckled softly. "Math? Hello, MIT graduate. I think I can count to ten."

They easily got to ten kicks in a matter of a few minutes.

Once they finished that, they spent the rest of the time talking softly together, their hands resting linked against her belly. Eventually though, Ziva pushed herself up, away from the pillows, her legs out before her, her protruding belly jiggling and stretching with each movement of her son. She groaned as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh, that's my kidney you just kicked, Amal."

Tim chuckled, moving closer to her. "He's very active, isn't he?"

Ziva nodded. "Especially when he hears your voice." She met his gaze, before leaning close. Their lips met in a soft kiss before Tim pulled away, allowing Ziva to lie back down. Once she was settled, Tim scooted down; he'd taken to talking to the baby in the evenings when they went to bed, telling stories of when he'd grown up with Sarah, and what it was like to work on Gibbs's team.

"How you doin' in there, baby boy?" He glanced up at his wife, who smiled softly at him, reaching down to rub her belly quickly before she moved to stroke her fingers through his hair. "Hmm? You doing okay?" The baby kicked hard in response to his father's voice. He chuckled softly. "Be nice, sweetheart. Ima can only take so much." He sighed. "I wish I could remember you, little one. I'm starting to remember Ima and... and our marriage, but... but the memories are hazy. I can't quite grasp them, no matter how much I want to."

"You're doing better, sweetheart. You may not remember our marriage much, Tim, but you are getting better. It just takes time and patience." Ziva groaned as the baby began to pedal against her stomach to his parents' conversation. "Something our little Amal does not seem to be grasping!" She sighed, rubbing her belly. "He is exactly like his Abba."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? How is our son-"

"You are just as impatient-"

He scoffed. "The one who's impatient, my darling wife, is you, not me. Patience is a virtue, after all."

She sat up quickly, wincing as the baby's foot connected roughly with her ribs. "Oh, God! Amal McGee you stop kicking my ribs this instant! You have been going after my ribs a lot lately and it hurts!" She reached down, pressing firmly on her belly. "No more, Amal! You hear me? Not tonight! I am up half the night with insomnia anyway, I would really rather appreciate it if you didn't damage my ribs while I'm up."

The baby seemed to settle down momentarily before it kicked back firmly in response to Ziva's demands. Tim chuckled softly, which only made the baby kick harder.

"Did you just... put our son in a time-out while he's still in your womb?"

Ziva blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Believe me, Timothy, he needs it. I do not mind being a punching bag, but that is just ridiculous."

Her husband shook his head, sitting cross-legged beside her as he reached out, brushing his fingers over her belly. Ziva watched, before reaching down. She pressed gently on her right side, looking up at her husband. "He's shifted. His head is right here." Tim watched in silence as she pressed firmly on the side of her belly, a grin coming to his features as the baby moved; it was almost as if the skin of her belly seemed to slide further down on that side, though he knew it was because the baby's head was resting against her side. Without a word, Ziva grabbed his hand, resting it against the bulge. "Feel that, Tim? That's his head. He likes whatever side your voice is coming from- that's where he shifts to."

"So he can-" He stopped, and she nodded.

"Yeah, so he can hear you." She sighed, covering his hand with hers. "I know you don't remember him, Timothy, but... but I think... I think on some level... on some level you do. But that level... that's the level you can't remember. That's the level you're trying to regain again."