A/N: Ah-ha! I FINALLY got everything that needed updating updated! Yes! And the American's just won gold in women's freestyle skiing! Okay, anyway, focusing back now. I really have no idea about this chapter, I really hope it doesn't disappoint, so if you want, I would totally LOVE some feedback. There will definitely be at least one more chapter, maybe more, I don't know yet . . . . Okay, so I think that about sums that up. You guys are totally awesome. Kit.

DISCLAIMER: Still no? Really? That's I shame, I sincerly was hoping that something changed this time. Oh, well, there is always tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next day. Or-

IV.

He had drifted off, finally succumbing to an adrenaline crash and the weight of several hospital strength painkillers, napping lightly beside his partner for four hours or so. He only woke up after he rolled over on his bum shoulder, rocketing into a sitting position with a hiss.

The pain that had dulled to a muted ache returned with a vengeance, lancing through his shoulder like a molten knife. He blinked back the moisture brimming in his eyes, muttering a few choice curses as he tentatively massaged the offending limb. He cast a furtive to his right, praying silently he hadn't woken the sleeping bear-

It was then that he realized Ziva was no longer next to him.

The bedroom door was still closed, the space at the threshold dark. Unless she was dozing on the couch, which he highly doubted . . . .

Water was running, the noise finally registering as he noticed the dimmed light filtering out from beneath the bathroom door, casting a pale glow across the carpet. He swung his legs around to the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor as he stood up with a grimace.

Four strides and he was at the bathroom door, debating rather to knock or just walk in unannounced. Deciding that the latter was probably suicide, he gave a tentative rap against the wood, but this gesture went unanswered. So he forewent proper etiquette and simply walked in, bracing himself for a certain pissed off ninja, but was met with another sight completely.

Ziva was sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, her head resting against the cool tile wall. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulder, tangled and frizzy in the humidity of the bathroom. Her face was a ghostly white, dark stains under her eyes, her nose red and raw. She clutched a tissue limply in her hand. Her eyelids parted slightly, chocolate eyes watching him briefly before sliding closed again. She cleared her throat before rasping over the running shower, "Are you sane again?"

"Have I ever been sane, Miss David?" he replied smoothly, shutting the bathroom door with a click, perching on the sink, mindful of the condensation dripping down the smooth surface of the foggy mirror.

Ziva granted him a faint quirk of her lips, amending, "Valid argument."

"How are you feeling?"

She opened her eyes, lifting an eyebrow, unamused. "About as well as I look, Tony," she said, eyes closing again.

"You hungry?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"You want me to make you some soup?"

"Mmm."

"Okay, then. . . . I'll go start that. You, ah, stay here and, ah, steam," he said gently as he slipped out of the sauna, door clicking closed behind him. He should have told her how beautiful she looked.

...

"Smells good."

Tony paused his stirring, tossing a glance over his shoulder. Ziva stood leaning against the counter, smirking. He returned to tending the soup, suppressing a grin as he stated, "Like you could smell anything."

She sniffled at him in response, moving to take up a seat at her kitchen table, dropping her head down onto the lacquered wood. "It is about time you came around."

Tony shrugged, laying the spoon down on a saucer he'd found in the dishwasher, turning around, back against the cabinet. "Damn meds. So, was I completely insufferable?"

"More than your usual insufferable?" she asked coyly.

He schooled his features into mock offense, a look of feigned hurt entering his eyes as he pouted at her. "Ouch. That stings, Ziva."

She smirked at his antics and deciding not to call his bluff, restated his previous question, "Were you insufferable? Hm. . . ." She pretended to ponder over this, knowing that he was watching her every moment, waiting to hear what embarrassing tidbit he'd let slip, uncensored. "Before or after you escaped from the apartment?"

"I escaped from the apartment?" he asked, surprised.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, deadpanning, "Yes. You made it as far as Mrs. Peters' door before I found you. You were looking for water."

"Huh. Honestly don't remember that. . . . ." and he returned to the simmering soup, their conversation lulling into a companionable silence as he ladled out the soup, bestowing a bowl before Ziva was a flourish and "Bon appetit."

"Merci beaucoup."

He flashed her his patent smile, returning to the stove to retrieve his own bowl, mentally cursing the inconvenience of his slinged arm as he dropped his spoon to Ziva's snorting. After procuring himself a clean utensil, slid into the empty seat across from Ziva, asking, "Well?"

She finished blowing on her spoonful of soup before sampling it daintily. She closed her eyes, merely toying with him now, he realized, before nodding her approval. "I am sure it is delicious, Tony."

He swallowed his own mouthful of chicken noodle, scalding his throat in the process. "Can't taste it, can you?"

She offered him a small grin, shaking her head, tentatively sipping the broth. "How is your arm?" she rasped, clearing her throat forcefully.

"Not too bad," he lied. Between the drugs and the stress of taking a bullet, he had a throbbing headache to accompany his sore shoulder. "As much as I want to talk to you, Ziva, you probably shouldn't be talking."

She wrinkled her nose at him, pantomiming zipping her lips.

He smiled at her again and they finished their meal in a comfortable quiet.

...

After thirty minutes of channel surfing, Tony had finally found something worth devoting his attention to: A rerun of the ever-classic I Love Lucy. He wasn't entirely sure which episode it was having tuned in half-way through the programming, but it was better than the idles of the news. Unfortunately football season was over and he couldn't stand to watch the crime dramas as they never seemed accurate, and the only thing left was either a HGTV DIY on home staging or the depressing news of ZNN. And therefore, Lucy would do.

Ziva had nodded off next to him a few minutes after they had laid back down. She was angled toward him, curled into an impossibly small ball beneath a generous amount of blankets, her breathing labored from congestion. She look peaceful despite how awful she must feel. He didn't know what possessed him, but he cautiously reached over and stroked her cheek with two fingers. Her forehead was damp and dangerously warm with a fever.

It took him a full five minutes to extricate himself from the confines of her bed due to the slow care he took to not disturb her. His feet sank into the carpet, his footsteps muffled as he tiptoed into her bathroom, seeking a washcloth. He finally came up successful, hitting the jackpot in the cabinet under the sink as he located a terrycloth rag which he dampened with cool water. A bottle of Tylenol rested on the counter and he decided to take two tablets with him.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning over her. "Ziva."

"Mmm-nuh hupt," came her incoherent reply as she shifted, burying her face into her pillow.

"Ziva," he repeated, gently insistent. "You need to take this. Come on, wake up for a sec." Murmuring something softly, she allowed him to help prop her up -a difficult procedure considering his decommissioned arm and her fever-induced delirium.

She blinked at him, struggling to keep her eyes open, "Wha'?"

"It's okay," he assured her, placing the pills on her tongue, taking the water glass from the bedside table and putting it to her chapped lips. She swallowed and he eased her back down, wrenching his shoulder, hissing.

"You okay?" she whispered faintly, eyes still firmly closed.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, taking the cool compress and laying it across her forehead.

"Mmm."

"I know," he replied, returning to his side of the bed and climbing back beneath the covers. He dropped onto his back, should throbbing and closed his eyes. Ziva was snoring again, though wheezing would have been a more accurate description.

He was on the cusp of slumber when he heard her murmur something that suspiciously included his name, her lips twitching upward in her sleep.

It took him a few delayed moments before he was able to translate the garbled English in his head. A smile broke out over his face as his fingers found hers under the sheets.

"I love you too, Ziva," he said softly before joining her in dreamland.