I'm taking wayy too long with these, I know. But we're getting into the height of the story, and I'm trying to get the ending worked out the way I want it to and make sure I like it and blah blah blah. So, my apologies for the delay. :)

A week had passed since Tony had last seen Ziva, since she had cut away the final sliver of hope he had that he would actually get to keep his little girl, and not just know her through pictures and scheduled meetings. For a small period of time, he had allowed himself to believe, to dream, that maybe things would work out. He had gotten his hopes up just high enough that being knocked down pulled him lower than he'd ever been before.

The nightmares, which had been strangely calm throughout the process of looking into adoptive couples, came back in full swing, torturing him almost every time he closed his eyes. Then, somehow, they got a little worse. Now, instead of the bump present on Ziva's stomach simply disappearing, he kept seeing a figure in the distance. It was small, a little blurry, and completely faceless, the only clear image being a head of dark curls.

Despite the fact that this mental representation of his daughter was actually present in the dream, it didn't ease his mind at all. In fact, seeing her there made it that much harder to stomach. She was there, in the distance, where he could see her, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was similar to the dreams many people have of walking down a hallway or corridor, but they're not actually going anywhere. In his new, edited dreams, his daughter was there- it was obviously her- but no matter how hard he tried to get to her, she was just out of his reach every time.

Late one night, sitting in his bed with his head in his hands after waking up from a dream that seemed entirely too realistic, he found himself pulling out the picture he had of Ziva from Paris, so many years ago. That had been a tough year for them, whether anyone had realized it or not. He had dragged her back from the edge of hell despite the fact that their last encounter had been anything but pleasant. He'd brought her home, and they had spent that year sneaking around each other's feelings, keeping most of their statements safe enough to maintain the ever so thin balance they had reformed of their relationship.

They had managed, of course. In fact, by the time they had been sent to Paris to pick up their witness, they had worked out the few little kinks, and were on the way to really, truly being okay again. He had taken the picture when she wasn't paying any attention to him, he remembered. That was one of the things that made it so spectacular to him. He had captured her in a moment when she wasn't trying to put up any fronts or be anyone but herself. She wasn't worrying about how she looked. It was beautiful to him, and it had never stopped being his absolute favorite picture of her.

He wasn't even sure why he had pulled out the picture other than the fact that it was something he'd always held close in tough times. Somehow, no matter what was happening, that simple picture of her never failed to make him smile. This time, though, the happiness was much briefer than he remembered.

It was a job in itself to get up go to work for that week after his fallout with Ziva, because every morning he couldn't find the inspiration to even get out of bed. Eventually, though, it became automatic, mechanical. He fell into a pattern that didn't drain him as much as any other would have. He got up, put on clothes, went to work, stayed later than he probably needed to, came home, and watched his television until he thought he could attempt sleep, not actually paying attention to what was on the screen.

At work, he knew he was slacking, but most days, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was getting something done, however, because doing something kept his mind occupied. Most of the tasks were small, simply busy work, and his pace was nowhere near its usual speed. He felt like the little wind up toys that they show on depression medicine commercials all the time on television, where it has to be wound up with a little mechanical twist on its back to get it going, but even then, it barely goes. He'd always thought that concept was silly when he saw it portrayed on his television, but suddenly, the image made much more sense to him.

Hell, maybe he was depressed. How was he supposed to know?

One day, exactly a week after Tony and Ziva had practically ceased communication, Gibbs pulled him to the side in the hall outside interrogation, a look of harsh determination etched into his features. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Tony shrugged, but spoke honestly. "I tried really hard to get Ziva to think about keeping the baby, but... I don't think it made any difference."

"You don't know that," Gibbs replied simply, but the words were lost on Tony's ears. "And this spaced out thing you've got going on? It needs to stop."

"If I could just turn it off, I would," he said, shrugging again.

"I need you," Gibbs stated firmly. "I need you to be able to do your job right."

Tony nodded and blinked hard once. "Okay, got it. I'll do my best, boss."

Gibbs' expression softened. "I know that if she winds up giving up that baby, it's going to hurt. I'm not asking you to be okay, DiNozzo. I'm asking you to find a better way to deal with it than shutting yourself down."

Another firm nod from Tony, and Gibbs walked away. Sighing, Tony leaned back against the wall for a moment, letting one tear fall. He wiped it away quickly before it could travel too far down his face, and then he swallowed, took a deep breath, and followed Gibbs back to the squad room. He couldn't help but wonder how hard it would actually be to force himself not to shut down, when shutting down was so much easier than any alternative.

"Where's Gibbs?" Tony looked up when he heard Abby's voice, immediately taking note of the fact that her eyes widened just the slightest when she saw him.

"He stepped out. He should be back soon." Abby nodded and turned to walk away, but he stopped her by speaking. "Abby?"

She turned back around, her eyes bright. Too bright. "Hm?"

"What's up with you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I... nothing." She smiled, as if this helped her case.

"Abby?"

"Anyway, I have to get back down to the lab, because I'm sure that Ducky has sent something up to me from our dead guy downstairs by now, and so I should probably go check on that. Jimmy might even be looking for me so he can give me something, and I need to get down there before he starts trying to look too hard. Sometimes, he gets lost even though he's been here for so long. It's actually pretty funny. Anyway-"

"Abby." His voice successfully stopped her, and suddenly, realization dawned on him. "Did you talk to her?"

The disconcerted look on her face showed him that he was right in his assumption, but Abby was already speaking. "It was a me and her thing, okay? I..." she hesitated, moving her hands in a way that indicated she was searching for the right words. "I just had a heart to heart with her, just between me and her. You shouldn't worry about it, okay?"

"Did it have to do with the baby?" Another question slipped past his lips, and he felt desperate to know something, anything.

"I really do have to get back," was Abby's only response, and then she was gone.

And even though she hadn't answered his question, her response was all the answer he needed: yes, it had been about the baby.

Sighing, he stood and made his way toward the elevator. When he got to it, it opened to reveal Gibbs, who was holding a fresh cup of coffee. "Where are you going?"

"I... I just... really need some air," he stammered out, pleading silently that Gibbs let him go. "Abby's looking for you, too," he added, hoping it would help.

"Go. Get back as soon as you can."

Tony felt relief flood through him and he made his way outside. It was a warmer day, thankfully, and the cold spell they'd had was nearly gone. He put his hands in his pockets and walked slowly along the path, trying to figure out how much badgering it would take to get Abby to talk to him.

Maybe he shouldn't bother. Abby had made it pretty clear that it was a personal conversation, and if she didn't seem to want to tell him, maybe it was best he didn't know. Maybe the conversation had just been a repeat of all the ones he'd had with Ziva over the past few months. In that case, it wouldn't benefit him any to hear how that talk had went.

Sitting down on a bench, he closed his eyes, trying to picture a reality where everything was going to be okay no matter what happened. For the first time, he genuinely tried to accept the possibility of getting to see his daughter periodically. Maybe it would be okay that he would have to get approval any time he wanted visit her. It could really be worse, he supposed. That was what he had to tell himself to actually see that likelihood as a bearable one.

"Can I please have an ice cream?"

For some reason, the small, high pitched voice asking an otherwise unimportant question pulled Tony out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see a girl, who looked as if she were about four, pulling on the pants of a man he assumed to be her father.

"No, sweetie. You don't need an ice cream. It might spoil your dinner." The father's tone was gentle yet firm in his denial of her request.

Then, however, the little girl, with her bright blue eyes and soft brown hair poked out her bottom lip, her eyes widening to the point that she almost looked like a puppy begging for a treat. The father sighed, and hesitated, but then he smiled down at his daughter.

"Okay, I guess one ice cream cone won't hurt."

A grin lit up the little girl's face, and she laughed. "Thank you!"

A minute later, she had her small ice cream cone in her hand and she was walking down the sidewalk happily, her steps carrying a bounce to them that made people around her stop and smile for a moment. When they were just about out of his eyesight, the girl reached up with her free hand and took her father's, smiling up at him with enough affection to stop a war.

It was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. He wondered if that father was a single parent, or if there was a mother that would be at home with them that night. Maybe the mother was cooking them their dinner, and they had to get home to her. The little girl looked happy, like she'd had everything she'd ever wanted or needed. There was probably a mother in the picture that took care of her, and told her all the things she would need to know.

He couldn't dwell on that for too long, he knew, because pondering those questions for too long would pull him back down into a state that didn't help him do his job at all. Of all the things he didn't want to happen, pissing off Gibbs was very close to the top of the list. So, he rolled his neck around, listening as it popped once or twice in the process.

Then he stood and headed back inside the building to do his job, the one thing that might actually keep his mind occupied long enough to get him through another day.