Ziva drove to her new apartment without much trouble, but when someone cut her off she swore in Arabic. Just a little. Enough to make Damon laugh and ask her to teach him what she'd said.

They entered her apartment still laughing and she hung her keys in a niche in one of doors to a cupboard in the kitchen, then looked back at him for the first time since arriving.

He does not look so out of place.

Damon had his back to her, his face tilting to rue side so she could see he was taking in every detail- and enjoyed what he saw.

After living for years in bland colors, she had argued with the land lord until he was intimidated enough to let her paint, as long as she returned everything to its normal white when she moved. Now the living room was a soft blue, a shade caught in the middle of dark and medium. The kitchen was yellow with green tiles, homey with copper pots and pans hanging above the shiny black stove. She had large, comfy furniture that obviously piqued his interest, because a smile spread across his face.

"Does it meet your approval?" she leaned against the door frame, watching him curiously.

He turned and smiled at her, a soft smile that probably should have been at odds with all of the muscles and strength, but wasn't.

"Yeah. I always think of a girl's place as being like my sister's, with obnoxious colors and frilly furniture."

"I take it my home does not have obnoxious colors and frilly furniture?"

Damon nodded slowly. "It fits you."

Ziva half laughed, surprised. "For all you know, I could have had someone paint all of this for me!"

He shook his head. "No , there really is a lot of you in it." He nodded his head towards the living room, where the blue of the walls was at home with the soft red and green and sand colors. "I bet this is where you read, probably a night, with a lamp that gives off a soft gold glow." When Ziva only stared, he smiled. "And you really do love to cook. The energy in this room alone invites someone in. This is a spot you know you dominate over, but you like others to be in there talking with you while you do, hence the warmth in the room."

Ziva finally nodded, looking down. "Yes, that is very true." She looked up at him, and hers eyes showed too many shadows. "This place is my home. It is not a poor hotel room or just another place to me. It is..." she couldn't find the right word for it.

"Home," Damon whispered, wondering where she had gotten such deep scars from, why they seemed so new and ragged, when just yesterday she had been so strong. Who had hurt her?

Ziva smiled suddenly, nodding to his arm. "You, however, are going to bleed on my rug. I believe that I have some clothes that might fit you."

Damon grinned. "Ziva, you may be larger than life, but I don't think anything you have will fit me."

She smiled. "No, but I used to know someone who was almost your size. Not quite as... well... big, but around your height."

Damon felt a surge of a strange emotion at the thoughts behind why there would be men's clothes at her place, but he tamped it down. The ache in her voice was completely foreign to him. Was this who had hurt her?

"What...ah...happened to him, if I might ask."

She paused for only the slightest of seconds before she opened a drawer. "He is dead."

Damon would have felt terrible for bringing up something like that, but the way her fingers tensed...she was angry at the man still. He had missed a lot in the past few years. He would have to ask and see what, maybe ask her, but he had a feeling she might not be receptive to that. Not yet, anyway. She had yet to realize that he'd meant it when he'd said he would stick to her like glue. Right now they were both bleeding, more than a little vulnerable emotionally, and she was holding out to him a dead man's clothes.

He nodded and watched her walk out the room. She had more wounds then the graze of a bullet on her arm. He knew she could patch that up easily. It was as if she had been born a fighter, not just trained to be one. But the ragged edges on her heart... that was something he worried about. She could deal with physical pain, but what about emotional pain? It was as if she had no idea she still felt it, it had been there for so long?

He could help her- would help her, he promised. He had messed up before, he knew that. He'd known then, when he was so drugged that he couldn't even tell friend from foe, that there was something about her that pulled him to her. That something caught at him, drew him in. He hadn't had a chance then, disappointed her when she had found out the truth.

He had messed it up then. But he could fix it now, help her through this, whatever it was, whatever had left such a dark mark on her heart. Ziva would figure out that he was here to stay, and that he would never hurt her.

He smiled, pulled on a shirt that was the slightest bit too tight through the chest and arms, and grimaced. There was a sound of stretching seams as his shoulders demanded more room, a feeling of fire as a zing of pain ran through his arm as the shirt clamped on the wound too snugly. Damn, the height was about right, but the bulk was off by a long shot. Shrugging off the discomfort, he exchanged his ragged cutoffs for a pair of nice pants which fit nicely in comparison.

"Do I meet your approval?" he grinned as he stepped out of the shadowy hallway and into the soft lighting of the living room. Ziva spun, then pressed a hand to her heart.

"You startled me, Corporal." She smiled.

"Damon, Ziva. I'm ex-marine now."

She grinned now. "And I have learned that there is no such thing as an ex-marine."

He laughed, noticing how her smile lit her eyes, how the soft lighting made her skin look like gold. If it had been anyone other than her, he would have thought he was thinking like an idiot, but with her...she had haunted his dreams fir years, made him wonder what if, a question he had learned to hate, because it made him remember that she had frowned upon him so much because he had done what he had to, just to be a marine. But now...now she was laughing with him, joking, and even with disheveled hair and still in a bloody shirt, she was beautiful. Dark hair that was lit with fire from the light, depthless eyes that had haunted his waking hours and lips that had followed him in his dreams.

It was Ziva, and fate-or whatever it was-had thrown them together again. He wasn't going to miss the chance he had wished for for years.

"I suppose you're right. Especially when it comes to Gibbs. He'll be 107 and still a marine."

She laughed, motioning for him to sit on the couch as she gathered the tools for stitching. He thought, then looked at her again. "I guess if I were to say ladies first-"

"I would be tempted to make you sit on the couch, as it would be quickest with most people, but you are stronger and much faster than the last time we met, so I will just point out that it would be harder for a lady to stitch someone else while in pain from her own stitches." She smiled wickedly.

Damon fake-sighed and sat down. He looked down at the shirt, then up at her. "I don't think you can roll it up. It's...er...rather tight."

She laughed. "As evidenced by the lack of blood circulation through your arm. Here, hold still." She carefully gripped the edges and with a smooth, painless pull, ripped the shirt. He sighed in relief, trying to hide the thrill that raced through him at her undervalued strength. "Hah, much better. I think I can almost feel the limb again."

She laughed, turning and walking away, giving him an excellent view at her backside, which he quickly glanced away from. He would take this slow, and he didn't know if he could with that sort of temptation.

"Here, drink this." She held up a thick glass filled with an amber liquid to his line of sight.

"You drink whiskey?" his brows rose, shocked.

"I prefer tequila, but you seem like you would enjoy this more." Humor glinted in her eyes, challenging him.

He nodded to her, then took a deep swallow. He choked, looking up in alarm as his pain seemed to dull instantly---along with some of his esophagus and stomach lining. "Jesus," he croaked. "What is this stuff? Gut-rot?"

"A special blend that my father used to drink. I hate the stuff, but thought that maybe someday someone else would like it."

He heard a note in her voice when she said father, a cross between anger and grief. He hurt her, Damon realized, and felt his own anger rise. No, he couldn't let that influence him right now. He would ask Gibbs someday if Ziva did not tell him herself, but now was not a time for those thoughts.

"It amazes me that he lives, then, because this will kill you. If not from alcohol poisoning right away, then by the way it burns your insides away." He shuddered and set it down. "No more if that, or you'll look like Frankenstein." And he'd make an idiot of himself, probably say some really stupid crap she wouldn't
be ready to handle just quite yet.

He watched as she knelt in front of him, eyes concentrated on his injury, hands sure and steady. She was sure, but compassionate, moving quickly but making sure to not cause any more pain. Her work was even and tidy, her face calm in spite of the blood covering her hands.

"Are you going to continue to stare, or will you say something?" he heard no anger, only serene curiosity. Something only Ziva could manage in a situation like this, he was sure.

"I was just wondering how the hell I'm going to patch you up while my eyes start crossing." He grinned.

She reacted as he'd hoped, laughing softly to make sure not too jar his flesh as she continued to sew. "I can manage if you cannot. It would most certainly not be the first time."

He frowned a bit. "No, I don't like the sound of that." She paused the slightest amount of time, then smiled gently.

"Alright. Then I suppose you will have to find a way to sober enough to not make me look like Frankenstein. I would not like to explain to Gibbs why, and I would have to kill Tony after the first dozen jokes. There," she said, tying the end and snipping it, then leaning back to check that everything was perfect.

"Done already? Alright, where's your tequila at?"

"That is alright, Corp-"

"Damon. And what, are you going to out-man me by not needing a drink?" he raised a brow at her, the same challenge in his eyes as hers when she'd held up the hell-brew.

"Alright, Damon. It's in the cupboard up and to the left of the stove."

He smiled like a little boy who had been given a gift he had been wanting for a long time. Ziva puzzled over this while she heard him moving about in her kitchen.

What she didn't quite realize was that he actually felt like that. Well, not exactly. He definitely didn't feel like a little boy around her, but at the moment he did feel like he'd been given a gift. She had accepted him in her home, and was finally comfortable with it. Perhaps this was all moving too fast, pushing them together so closely in too short of a time, but he felt like he had waited forever for her. If he had to wait another year to get her to see that he was serious about this, he would wait, but the fact that she was okay with him in her home excited him. He didn't think she let others in it a lot, or even wanted anyone else in her space.

He managed to tamp down his happiness enough that he didn't look like a star-struck kid when he return with a glass of tequila in hand.

"That is a lot of alcohol, Damon." She raised an eyebrow, wanting the reason for it.

Grinning, he fake-sighed. "You caught me," he dead-panned. "I'm actually trying to get you so drunk you will think I am a hero for saving you."

"Saving you? And when would you have saved me? I do not believe I recall such a time." She laughed, but took the glass and sipped.

He shrugged, kneeling down in front of her and looking at her arm critically. The bullet had caught more of her arm than his had, but it didn't look too bad. "The sniper was over your shoulder. That's why you didn't see him. The guy was close enough that the bullet would have gone through you and into me, as close as we were at that point."

She didn't look pleased by this, but didn't say anything because the disinfectant he used made her grit her teeth. His had hurt like a son of a bitch, so he could imagine what sort of hell-fire it must feel like for her.

"Sorry, he murmured, and waited. When she didn't drink anything more, he took the glass himself and brought it to he lips. "Come on, warrior woman. A couple sips won't unman you." He grinned, knowing she would take that as a challenge.

She grinned--and tossed back the rest like a pro. "You were saying?"

He sighed. "A woman who can out-drink me. Maybe I should've had you drink some of that stuff you sicked on me." He watched her closely, watched as the amount of alcohol in the drink she had just thrown back made its way through her body and slowly to her head. She didn't look drunk, but the rigidness left her and her muscles loosened.

"Are you wasted enough that I can ask deep dark secrets and you'll answer them?" He put a hopeful look on his face, making her laugh even while he began to sew her torn flesh back together.

"Perhaps, but right now I would probably end up asking you them."

He looked up, startled. "Ziva, how much alcohol was in that?" Why hadn't he thought to look at that beforehand?

She looked like it took her a while to remember. "I believe it is more than usual. I liked the taste of it, but I usually only have it in small amounts."

"Ziva, what's the proof?"

"90... no, more. It is close, though."

Jesus, and he had given her a glass! Granted, it hadn't been full, but still, it amazed him that she was still as lucid as she was.

"Okay, so we now know you can drink an army of men under the table. What else don't I know about you?"

She thought, then looked sad. "A lot has happened. I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Try."

She smiled, looking a him. "Do you still use..." she paused, obviously wondering how to be polite.

He laughed. "No, Ziva, I'm clean. I stopped after that."

Now she looked confused, her head cocked to the side. It was kind of cute. "Then why are you still so big? I thought you had anemia."

"I do. After that it didn't seem to bother me so much, but I heard of an herbal thing for it." He shrugged. "I have to work harder to keep my build, but it's worth it."

"I like it," she said absently, and he grinned, though he kept his head bent so she couldn't see. He wasn't one to get the girl drunk, but damn if it wasn't nice right now.

"Tell me about NCIS, Ziva."

The words had the opposite effect that he'd thought of. She went rigid, her jaw locked, and she said nothing. The total shutting down of her face alarmed him.

"Ziva? Ziva, what's wrong?" He stopped working and straightened, searching for something that would tell him what was wrong. "Ziva," he said carefully. "What is it? What happened?"

She looked away, but he brought he took her chin in two fingers and gently made her look at him. The pain in her eyes debilitated him. Betrayal, hurt, grief, everything she had buried was close to the surface now. He looked at her for a long moment and understood that this sort of pain needed to be spoken out loud, or it would never heal.

"Ziva, what happened?" He looked away, going back to his work so he could finish it and then take care of the gash someone had left on her heart.

With him not looking so closely, it was easier for her to tell him what she thought she had been over already. "About six months ago a man I had previously thought dead showed up in Washington. His name was Michael Rivkin. He was... sent by my father to try and win me back. By any means possible." She paused, silent as the seconds ticked by.

Damon felt rage building up at what he could feel was coming. Hurt, betrayal...

"So he came here, working as a double agent for my father to find a cell in the Taliban-or at least that's what he told me, but I know now it wasn't true- and..."

"You loved him."

She laughed now, tears spilling over. "Yes, I did. I thought that he did too." She shook her head with a self-depreciating smile. "I wasn't thinking. I believed him even when Tony kept trying to tell me the truth. And then..." her breathing hitched as Damon finished us stitching and he looked up immediately, at first assuming he had pulled too hard. He saw tears falling down her face and felt the anger rage while his insides did a tumble and roll.

"Ziva..."

She shook her head obviously determined to state her crimes. "I came back to my apartment one day to her shots firing. I opened the door, gun drawn, and nearly shot Tony when I saw his gun drawn. I looked over, and Michael was dead on my floor!"

"What did you do then?"

"I withdrew from NCIS, went to Israel and learned that my father thought I was a traitor. All he could do was complain about me. So I tried to prove my worth. I stayed on a ship where I killed too many people, and then, when I was captured and tortured, my father t-turned his back on me and left me for dead. Do you know what they wanted to know about?"

"NCIS." Damon's voice was barely a whisper.

Ziva nodded, a harsh laugh sounding that gave him chills. "If they had asked about Mossad I probably would have told them anything they asked about."

"You...didn't say anything?"

Ziva's head whipped towards him now. "I may be many things, but I am not a traitor."

He took her hands, gave them a squeeze. "I know. Ziva, I've known men who were taken prisoner and they squealed before anyone even came near."

She seemed to pause. "You...have been held prisoner?"

Damon nodded slowly. "South America. Colombia." He grimaced. "One of my men got cocky, decided he would take on an enemy we were trying to take down alone."

"You went after him?"

"Ziva, we're talking about you, not me."

She smiled. "So this is why you got me drunk."

Damon smiled. "No, that was because I don't like hurting you. This is just a side effect. And not really a bad one." He shifted, moved his legs underneath him enough that he could sit down comfortably. "Who came for you?"

She sighed, wondering if she could continue telling him or not. On one hand it felt wonderful to tell him these things, things she couldn't bring herself to say even to her team. On the other hand, she was frightened by the fact that she felt so at ease with him. Though she didn't want to admit it, she felt like if she opened up to him, he too would have power over her, like her father. That sort of control could break her if he misused it.

She sobered at the thought, the nice, fuzzy feeling slipping away. She studied his face closely, the sincerity in it, saw that he was honest and...she didn't know what, only that she knew as a gut instinct that he was someone she could trust to catch her if she fell.

Maybe he was doing it even right now.

"Who else?" she said at last, quietly. "They dragged me in one day, and I was so close to being dead I thought I actually was, because Tim was lying on the ground and Tony was tied in a chair. The man was trying to make one of us tell about NCIS by threatening the other..."

"What happened?" his thumb brushed over the back of her hand absently, as if it was natural for him to comfort her, and his eyes held honest concern. She liked that.

"Gibbs." She smiled. "Tony was telling the man how they'd tracked him because he drank CafPow, the drink Abby always seems to be inhaling, and taunting the man. He even told the man he was about to die!"

"What did he say to that?"

"He thought Tony was saying he would kill the bastard. Tony said he wouldn't, but that Gibbs's former profession had been as a sniper."

Damon grinned. "And that's when Gibbs took him out."

Ziva nodded. "I cannot explain how I felt when they took me back to the US. Part of me had expected to die when I took the case, maybe even hoped I would. But being back here... this place is my home. Immediately upon my return my father sent one of my men from the first mission to frame me for killing
a marine."

"He what?!" Damon couldn't believe that a human being could be so despicable.

Ziva gave a watery chuckle at his outrage. "He wanted to keep me, no matter what cost. If I were convicted-or even suspected-of killing one the marine, I would have had to go back to Israel."

Damon grit his teeth. Right now was not the time to erupt. She needed his support right now, not his anger at a man thousands of miles away. "What did NCIS have to say about that?"

Ziva laughed. "Abby faked evidence so the man my father sent would have to tell the truth! Gibbs actually argued with him, and my father."

"That man," Damon said slowly, "is not your father. He may have helped create you, but no more than that. There is nothing of him in your personality. He is manipulative and cruel, and he does not deserve you. You are loyal and smart and people here appreciate you for being the person you are, not who they
want you to be."

For whatever reason, the tears started again. It was so good to hear someone say out loud what was screaming inside of her. That it was Damon who understood. "You know what Gibbs said when it w-was done?"

"What, Ziva?" his tone ached with tenderness.

"Welcome home." Sobs broke her then and she let them, finally letting them escape after all these months of hiding them.

"Oh, babe," Damon murmured, and picked her up. She felt so fragile in that moment, so unlike her normal self, the tough woman she always presented. He understood what the effort took sometimes and couldn't imagine what sort of stress she had been under lately to make everything seem okay.

He sat down on the couch, holding her tightly and letting her cry it all out. He had done this for his sisters when he was younger, but it was different with Ziva. With them it had been because he had felt like their protector, like he had to make everything better for them. With Ziva, he wanted to make things better, needed to. If it meant beating the shit out of the man who called himself her father, he'd love to. If it meant just being there for her and giving her a shoulder to cry on, he could do that too.

At the moment, he felt a deep and powerful need to do the first, but she needed the latter, so he felt content with stroking her back and seeing her through her grief.

It was a while later that her heartbreaking sobs died to tears, and then from tears to deep, even breathing. Looking down, Damon smiled at her face while she slept, how peaceful and innocent it was. So much had happened to her, yet still she kept going. A lesser person would have crumpled, but not his Ziva. Well, not his Ziva, but...his Ziva. A fighter, and loyal to a fault. Everything he'd never even dreamed of. She had taken everything life had thrown at her and not buckled once. She was someone he would fight for-and with, but he wouldn't mind that. She would be the type of woman to defend him if he went down, to chew his ass out if he was wrong, and love him as deeply as he would her.

When she finally figured out that he was there to stay, that was. Until then, he would have the lovely work of being in her company so much that it would become weird without him, until she cane to realize that it wasn't just the fact that their lives were in danger or Gibbs's order that kept him around her.

Hah, he would have some fun... his thoughts drifted blurrily as he struggled to stay awake long enough to carry her back to her bed and tuck her in, then stumble back towards the couch. The shirt felt odd with only one sleeve, so he tugged it off, thanking the fact that Ziva kept her apartment warm enough that he could do so and not freeze his torso off, and that she had a couch deep enough that he could sleep comfortably on it.

Maybe he should just leave it at thanking for Ziva...

A/N: Hello my few and much beloved readers! I loved making this chapter because I wanted to show a side to both of them that I don't think you really get to see with just their short clips together, so this is how they are when they're finally able to open up and stop having to be tough. It was really, really fun making this! Hope you love it too, and feel free to tell me what you think or any suggestions you have for future chapters! Much love!!! ~Kasha