A/N:I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain.

OK, chapter seven – think this is mostly fluffy, hopefully in a good way. Sorry for the delay, the time gods conspired against me. I know 'A Man Walks…' was a Kate tribute and I liked Kate but she just doesn't fit my tale.

I'd like to wish all authors and readers a 'Happy Christmas' to those that do that: 'Happy Holidays' to those that do that – and simply 'A Happy' to everyone else!

And the usual for the background details….

"An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself."

Charles Dickens

February 2011

Ziva sat in front of the desk. This was precisely the reason she'd skipped as many Psych. Evaluations as decently possible. Registering only the attendance required in order for her to be cleared for a return to duty – and none since.

Rachel concentrated on the file and notes. Mentally concluding Ziva was going to be an exceedingly tough subject; judging from the report, the Probationary Agent had uncompromising reserves of endurance and resolution. Cooperation would not be obtained easily and thus assessment of her psychological state would be a challenge.

"I respect and like my superiors. I work closely with my fellow team members; I feel valued, supported and that my co-workers appreciate my strengths and contributions." Staring at Rachel, Ziva's tone was flat and coolly detached.

"We work long hours, in a stressful, demanding profession." It was a clever rendition of the classic buzz words and pertinent phrases; without being asked a single question.

"In order to compensate for such pressures, I ensure my physical well-being. I have social relationships and make time for leisure activities." The speech was designed to encompass all aspects of a standard session.

"Currently I am not experiencing any problems. However, were that to be the case I feel I could seek help without fear of any professional repercussions. There is a framework of assistance and open encouragement in place." She pushed back the chair, half standing; as though the interview were completed.

Rachel listened intently, nodding agreement at various points. "That's very good, Agent David. I think you've covered just about everything."

She held up a hand, indicating Ziva shouldn't leave yet. "But, I'm afraid we're not done."

Ziva settled into her seat again, clasping her hands in her lap; contained and controlled.

"Help me out here." Rachel's smile was a friendly appeal.

"I can't very well inform Director Vance and the Secretary of the Navy you've passed your mandatory…. – With a little emphasis on the word as a reminder Ziva was contractually obligated in the matter.

That Rachel was authorized in her role - by the chain of command – and using the former soldier's mindset. "…evaluation on the merits of self-diagnosis."

"Why not?" Ziva asked matter-of-factly. "You are here to establish we are fit. I have told you that I am fine. You have done your job and can release me to do mine."

Rachel nodded patiently again. "It's my report, my responsibility." She patted the folder. "I would think you could understand that?"

There was a key for everyone. Rachel hoped targeting Ziva's regimented self-possession would provide the entry point.

Ziva rejected the suggestion of confederacy; waiting impassively for the next angle.

"You've shouldered considerable responsibilities – displayed dedication - from a very early age. In the I.D.F., for Mossad: and now here at NCIS." Rachel outlined the path, before trying the lock. "Although you're only a Probationary Agent. Does that downgrade bother you?"

For the first time, Ziva shifted from enforced toleration, stiffening at the subtle jab.

"It is a necessary step. There is no point in being" A sharp little smile as she paused. "Bothered."

"Hmn." – Maintaining the air of mild interest. "Is everything simply a choice of necessary or unnecessary?"

"No." Ziva stared at her stonily. "Of course not."

Dr Cranston was very good at her work. And, despite having a hidden personal interest in Team Gibbs, was genuinely invested in the task of profiling their mental health. Moreover, having received the assignment she had prepared rigorously. Diligently reading the backgrounds, making notes and familiarizing herself with the group; possibly the most eclectic, disparate - though undoubtedly successful - operational team she'd ever encountered.

She couldn't fail to be touched by Ziva's narrative – even with extensive sections unavailable - and wished to apply her expertise. She might aid the extraordinarily courageous yet strangely apprehensive character in achieving a balance between the two extremes.

"Tell me about your colleagues." – Selecting another key.

Ziva leaned forward. "There is none better than Gibbs; as an agent and leader. Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee are very different but complimentary. We are an effective unit." Although the descriptions were official – rigidly correct and proper - there was a flicker of animation as she spoke.

A trace of pleasure that she was associated with the MCRT; that she belonged. "Dr. Mallard, Ms. Sciuto and Mr. Palmer are exceptional specialists."

A potential way in was revealed.

"You've said your working relationships are close; that wasn't, perhaps, always the case?" Rachel smiled; taking any accusation out of the observation. "At one point, you terminated your liaison with NCIS; returned to Israel and rejoined Mossad on active duty."

"There was a conflict of loyalties, agendas." Ziva shrugged dispassionately. "The status quo was untenable. It became…." – Thinking of an appropriate description.

"Necessary?" – Supplying the missing word with another calm smile.

"Difficult." Ziva returned the smile – appreciating the attempted link whilst simultaneously dismissing the ploy.

Rachel flipped through the papers, formulating the next progression. Ziva was, at least partially, engaged and less distant.

"I can imagine. Allegiance to your father, your roots; emotional involvement with your boyfriend." She looked up at Ziva. "Queried, opposed by your partner - causing a severe rift. Yet a few months later you applied for citizenship, requested a position at NCIS."

"I had much time in which to think." Her voice was steady as she made the ironic remark, remembering Tony's gentle principle. And Rachel was left in no doubt; Ziva's imprisonment would not be a topic for discussion.

"Sometimes these types of issue trust or…misjudgments, aren't always easily repaired?" Respecting Ziva's defenses, she reverted to the prima facie reason behind her mission.

The psychologist had been ordered to conduct an appraisal of the flagship team; checking for possible weaknesses or signs of fracturing.

"Tony is an excellent investigator. His motivations, actions were justified." Fleetingly the taut, watchful veil lifted from her eyes and Ziva's expression softened.

"I was wrong." – Almost as quickly the tense guard was in place. "It has not affected our professional relationship."

Rather remarkably this was true. Underneath, the deep affinity and steadfast loyalty had remained unharmed. Almost perversely, if anything, the Somalia episode had reinforced their connection. The events permitted a reinvention of the affections - which was causing other disturbances. Although, definitely not in the everyday interaction as co-workers.

Jotting a summary in a notepad and pretending to check information; "I'm curious. The men involved in your life, in this clash, and their influence…"

Before she could continue the inquiry, Ziva interrupted. "I do not see how this, any of this, is relevant." – Leaning forward, aggression simmering. "And it is none your business."

"Well, actually, it is my business; my job." Rachel smiled sympathetically.

"It all tells me something about you. All this drama… this huge upheaval." – Choosing a more tactful précis at Ziva's angry stare. "A change of profession, a new nationality; the men you're drawn to. These all help me pinpoint what you are looking for."

Ziva leant back in her chair, suddenly struck by the statement. She had intended nothing more than cursory lip service in the evaluation; however Rachel had highlighted a truth. Ziva was – had been for many months – searching for a deficient element. The sense was like an apparition - a yearning which haunted the very edges of her mind. Appearing periodically – vanishing before she could quite focus on complete identification and interpret the implications.

Noticing Ziva's response, Dr. Cranston capitalized on her advantage. "What is it that you want?"

"I want…something that is permanent." - Slowly articulating the notion, glancing out of the window. "Something which cannot be taken away."

"And you have found that here? At NCIS?" - Quietly confirming the confession.

"Yes." Ziva frowned.

She sounded a little puzzled. She was a little puzzled. In many ways the team was her family – formally adopted as part of her rehabilitation after the rescue. The acknowledgement was another manifestation of Ziva's dogged determination for rebuilding and moving forward. Nevertheless, her current romantic entanglement lived and worked in Miami – heavily committed to his territory.

She shouldn't be able to declare – without reservation – that her heart's desire was here in Washington D.C. Yet it was. The realization was perplexing, distinctly alarming. And, since Ziva didn't analyze the rationale any further, imperfect.

Nine times the MCRT had been able to duck the therapists' scrutiny. Gibbs was the architect of that avoidance; staunch in the belief no-one knew his team better than he did. The squad could handle any troubles together; in their dysfunctionally functioning way. The fact Vance had overruled sparing them, on this occasion, precipitated a slight ripple of disquiet.

In the brief intervals during the course of the case, Tony, Ziva and McGee commiserated. Like post-examination candidates, they compared notes – carefully omitting any questions to which they might have given an incorrect answer.

"What happens if we fail?" McGee suffered from bona fide test anxiety.

Although years of exposure to Gibbs' direct if-you-don't-have-an-answer-yet-find-me-one' technique had lessened the effects, he still doubted his abilities. "Can they re-assign us? Break up the team?"

"No-one fails a Psych. screening, McParanoid." Tony was exuding cavalier confidence. "Unless you have fantasies about killing Vance. Or read comic books." He grinned. "Oh wait, you do read comic books – oops."

His colleagues had already been interviewed. And it would be an exceptionally rare breed of shrink who dared probe Leroy Jethro Gibbs' innermost contemplations. Tony was heir apparent to the couch - he was dreading the prospect. Partly it was because soul-searching and introversion weren't main features of his temperament. Partly it was because, recently, any meditations on his life had led to increasing discontentment.

"This is just Vance covering his ass with the suits….." Tony caught sight of Rachel entering the bull-pen and discovered an urgent quest elsewhere.

She trapped him, finally, in Autopsy. There had been one earlier attempt which Tony had aborted; deflecting and mocking the process by proclaiming the obvious demons in his file. As the doors swished open, he didn't move.

"Thought we did this already?" - He was staring down at the body pulled out from its refrigerated slumber.

"Does that always work for you?" Rachel walked nearer. "Everything's a joke, never serious. Keeping people away?"

"Obviously not right now." - Faintly sarcastic as she approached, standing opposite.

Quite apart from reading his file, she felt she knew Tony – as with most of the other team members – because of her sister.

Dr. Cranston ignored the hint and tackled Tony's coping mechanism. "It won't work forever, you know."

"So what'd you want me to say?" Tony shrugged, sticking hands in his pockets.

Casually passive-aggressive; as if Rachel could supply any analysis she wanted and he would agree. That his psychological make-up could be accessed and ascertained merely by repeating planted concepts.

"What do you see when you look at him, Agent DiNozzo?" She indicated the corpse.

Tony's past was interesting; however, clearly, his current mood centered upon the deceased Commander.

Tony glanced into the room. Vincent Reynolds had taken his own life; answering Hamlet's eloquent dilemma "To be or not to be" by deciding on not being. He'd been a faithful, well-regarded servant of the U.S. Navy; capable, reliable, loved by his crew. And that was all.

"A man works his whole life, dedicates himself to his job and then has nothing to show for it." - A candid, though somewhat austere, summary.

In fact, it wasn't entirely truthful. Although, Tony had been pondering the X.O.'s biography, his concentration hadn't been especially career-related. Reynolds loved one woman - who'd married someone else - and they'd conducted a lengthy affair, across the decades. His life had been inextricably bound with the Admiral's wife; unable to have her, yet powerless to free his heart. This particular aspect echoed elusively in Tony's thoughts.

Rachel smiled a pre-emptive apology. "How does that make you feel?"

The hallowed inquiry of all mental health experts; it was clichéd but important nonetheless for her appraisal of Tony.

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow, his jaw clenching – hesitant. "Afraid."

His body language was outwardly mimicking the feelings – underlining authenticity. His similarity with the dead officer – only vaguely perceived - was exceedingly unnerving. The parallel was undeniably troubling. Tony had no reason for an assumption his life would be emotionally lonely, nor romantically unfulfilled. Nevertheless, this unformed sense had permeated through Tony's musings on Vincent Reynold's tragic, despairing last act.

"I'm a good agent, Dr. Cranston, a really good one." - Shifting his attention to more solid, commonly shared worries.

She nodded. "I know. So do a lot of other people." She looked at him directly. "Has anyone ever told you that? Perhaps Agent Todd?"

Tony met her gaze, smiling recognition dawning. "I think I just realized who you are, Rachel."

She had almost recused herself from the process; fearing the suggestion of bias. The SecNav. and Vance had dismissed the protest – her professionalism would ensure impartiality. Moreover, Rachel knew the majority of her fellow practioners would condemn them unequivocally; struggling to fathom the unconventional style. Gibbs's foibles, his team's quirky composition and the attitudes were the magic which made the whole thing work.

Out of loyalty to her sister's devotion for the MCRT, Rachel would perform the task. She would be objective and certainly wouldn't overlook any critical failures. However, she would give them a pass on the harmless idiosyncrasies.

"You're good at what you do." Rachel laughed drily at the deduction.

"She did tell me once. Kate was a really good friend." - Lost in affectionate reminiscences. "A great agent, partner."

Dr. Cranston reappeared and redirected to the formal discussion. "And your partner now, Probationary Agent David?"

Tony cocked his head quizzically. "Zee-vah, well…."

"No nickname?" Rachel pointed out the omission. "They all have tags, the Boss, the Autopsy Gremlin and I'm surprised McGee ever responds to you."

Tony's penchant for creatively renaming his co-workers – and many others - was famous. She was curious as to why Ziva should be immune.

"Um, she does but I figured this was sorta official." – Puzzled by the query. "She's the Ninja."

Slight tension slipped into his demeanor. Tony was nervous of something, Ziva was bewildered – these responses apparently contingent upon referencing each other.

"A warrior." – Appreciating it was an eminently suitable label.

Tony slid Vincent Reynolds into his chilly chamber, cautiously non-committal. "Pretty much."

"Any problems with that?" Rachel explored the relationship. Ziva's lethal, comprehensive skill set might provoke resentment or irritate even the most easy-going of egos.

"Nah." – Shaking his head. "She's high-strung, complicated but Zee-vah's OK - unless you pull the pin."

She'd heard Ziva's resistant version, Rachel sought Tony's point of view over the discord several years ago. "Have you ever pulled the pin?"

"Oh yeah." Tony laughed wryly. "A couple of times." He leaned against the bank of storage containers.

"You just gotta understand her, know how to handle her, 's all." - Gazing across the antiseptic, deserted space of Autopsy, his mind clearly occupied by his junior associate.

"And you do? You know how to handle Agent David?" She couldn't help being intrigued.

For all of her subjects, wherever possible, Rachel liked to base her conclusions on a complete picture. Observing people in the widest variety of environments available; she would accompany them in the field, watch interactions in the office. During the past days, she'd noticed the squabbling, sparking dynamic surrounding Tony and Ziva.

Tony grinned. "She hasn't killed me yet." Flippantly dismissing the altered approach, he began walking toward the exit.

"My team OK?" Gibbs growled the pertinent concern. They were in his estimation; he simply wanted to establish the bureaucrats would accede to his opinion.

Rachel laughed. "No, but they're cleared."

She had regained composure. No-one would be surprised at the discovery the former Marine had healed the healer. Administering his own - rather more blunt - treatment; bourbon, plain facts and a poignant pep talk.

There was nothing wrong with memories. Whilst some found recollections discomforting or difficult, Gibbs used his as an analgesic. His memories were palliative care for an incurable condition; the loss of his wife and child.

"There are stresses, Gibbs, it's a really tough job." She looked at him. "You set a very high bar. Kate told me all about that." – Smiling as she mentioned the name.

Her eyes slipped to the spot on which Ari had died; at the hands of his half-sister. She accepted Tony wasn't joking when he assured Rachel that Ziva was complicated; deservedly so.

"And then there are Agents DiNozzo and David."

Gibbs returned the smile; he'd been very fond of Kate. "You pulling a shotgun on me Doc.?" The phlegmatic blue stare never wavered.

"No. Kate always said your gut doesn't give you hiccups, it gives you advice." Dr. Cranston acknowledged the twist on her parable. "But it's a potential situation."

"It's been a potential situation ever since Jen cooked up the scheme." - Pouring another shot of liquor for them and admitting the seemingly eternal conundrum.

He had chosen Tony, Kate and Tim. Hand selecting the personalities – like grading wood for one of his projects – based on an instinctive grasp of their strengths and talents. And how the individuals would merge, form cohesion.

Ziva had been re-gifted by his ex lover. However, the events in his basement combined with his intuitions and Gibbs had allowed the circumvention of autonomy. Now she was an integral component in the team – and a surrogate daughter.

He raised his Mason jar. "Time to worry'll be when it's a situation."

"Then what?" Rachel doubted the simplistic 'wait and see' wisdom.

A portion of her job description was recognizing problems, facilitating counter-measures; before the difficulties had adverse impacts. Although the speculation wouldn't form part of the report submitted to her superiors, she wanted to warn Gibbs.

"Might need that shotgun." A half-smile canceled the firm rejection of Rachel's involvement. Gibbs refused the invite; this issue wasn't her responsibility.

"OK." McGee pressed the right button and transmitted a list to the plasma. "Here's the ten most frequent internet searches from that IP address."

Tony surveyed them. "That's not how you spell porn."

McGee sighed. "Your private life isn't gonna help us with the case Tony."

A shipment of armaments had been intercepted and hijacked. Not a huge haul but useful – and dangerous – for anyone interested in acquiring weaponry. One of the criminals had met the Marine Corps'. definition of appropriate force – with fatal consequences. The team was tracing the investigation from data pieced together via a laptop retrieved from his apartment.

"Who's their market?" Gibbs waited for Ziva's input.

She picked up a document and handing it to her boss. "I do not believe it is terror related. There are no connections to international groups."

Gibbs glanced at the communication from Interpol; there had been no hits with known threats.

"Could be anyone who's after a little more firepower." Tony was reading over Gibbs' shoulder. "Gangs, rogue militia." He grinned wickedly. "Zee-vah."

"If you need to watch porn, Tony, perhaps it is you who are lacking in.…firepower." Her teasing remark and smile added that unique charge to their atmosphere.

Gibbs stared thoughtfully at the screen. "Number four. Pull up that one Tim."

It was a link to a local network for free advertising. The dead man had been tracking rental properties in small, rural communities.

Gibbs nodded. "That's it. Find me what he found."

Tony and Ziva arrived at the small, rundown house; although that was a somewhat generous term – shack was much nearer the mark.

"Tire impressions." Ziva called out. "But no vehicle."

Tony was checking the outside of the building. "Maybe no-one's home."

She didn't answer; scanning the vicinity and scrubby woodland at its perimeter - which framed the property with three sides of natural cover. Ziva looked down the long track, toward the junction with the road – assimilating a line of sight from the windows of the house.

Tony drew his gun immediately. "Or maybe they are." Quiet and serious; he didn't need Ziva to articulate the suspicion generated by her Ninja senses.

They climbed the ramshackle steps, onto the creaking boards of the porch. Tony rolled his eyes at the noise, prompting Ziva's amused smile. Then they took up positions – either side of the door – and Tony waited for Ziva's slight nod of readiness before trying the handle and carefully swinging the door open.

A stale smell of long-term vacancy, mildew and dust filled the air. Most of the rooms were empty and sparsely furnished. Neatly stacked against a wall in one of them, under a tarpaulin, were boxes of guns, ammunition and a small quantity of explosives.

Ziva crouched down, lifting the edge of the canvass. "Gibbs was right."

Glancing up at Tony, she holstered her Sig., preparing to read off the serial numbers for Tony to cross match against the list on his 'phone. Disbelief in coincidences notwithstanding, trafficking in guns wasn't an unusual occurrence; this mightn't be NCIS' particular cache.

He put his gun away, wandering a little distance and took out the cell. They'd check in and then confirm the find. Her awareness whispered and Ziva heard the squeak a fraction of a second too late. She started to straighten up, twisting to face the noise when a pipe thumped into her midriff, knocking the breath from her lungs - temporarily winding her. Already off balance, a hard kick sent her sprawling head-first into the corners of the crates.

Tony spun around, the cell clattering down, and went for his gun. Their attacker wielded the pipe again, dislodging the firearm from Tony's grasp. Recovering from the surprise Tony grabbed the end of the makeshift weapon. He pulled the man toward him; bending his arm until he dropped the pipe.

The assailant was tall, strong and heavily built – obviously capable in a physical confrontation. He launched a fierce punch which connected and Tony released the arm. Regrouping, he shifted his stance before throwing a punch and backhanding the man viciously across the face.

Tony could hear Ziva's wheezed gasp for air. The gunrunner was between him and Ziva; he needed to buy a few seconds' recovery time – then it would be two against one. As his opponent recoiled from the previous blow, Tony moved - intending to lunge for the gun which had skittered across the floorboards. When Tony turned, the attacker caught his left arm and yanked forcefully. Tony felt the pop and yelled as searing pain engulfed his shoulder.

Tony savagely shoved his other elbow into the man's head, wheeling around and connecting with an unyielding right. The maneuver achieved an advantage; the assailant was doubled over from the onslaught. Tony grabbed the man's hair and brought his knee up into his face; resulting in a sickening scrunch of soft tissue, cartilage and bone. The fight was done.

As Tony bent to retrieve his gun and 'phone – one handed and breathing heavily - Ziva stood. She shot him a look – a mix of slightly stunned and extremely relieved.

He motioned at the figure groaning on the floor. "Cuffs." His voice was tight. "I'll call Gibbs."

Ziva restrained the suspect and half dragged him over to a wall. She propped him against it, well away from any mischief, and ensured no vital airways were completely clogged. His face was a mask of blood, mucus and saliva drooling onto his shirt – Tony's last hit had been merciless.

"Tony?" She'd noticed the way he was holding his arm.

"They'll be here in about an hour, maybe a little longer." - Ignoring her real query. "You OK?"

"Yes." Although her forehead was a little grazed from the contact with the wood, she'd only been incapacitated by the muscle spasm for breath and briefly dazed.

"Tony?" – Walking over to him, Ziva's manner was firmer. He backed away from her. "Let me see what you have done."

"I know what I've done." Tony was grimly resigned. "I did it before, in college." On that occasion the dislocation was a football injury – and made a repeat more likely.

Ziva tracked his movements, cutting off the avenue of escape. "Let me see."

Tony managed a small grin. "Nuh-uh, you pull things out."

"And I am able to put them back." – Smiling at the insult.

It wasn't an idle boast. Ziva was a competent medic; trained in significantly more than basic first aid. "At least let me examine you?"

The pain was excruciating. He was light-headed and nauseous – breaking out in a cold sweat.

Ziva wouldn't be deterred. "Tony?"

"OK." He grimaced.

She felt his shoulder lightly, noting the squishy give; as if the bones were missing. "Can you move it?"

"Not really." Tony flinched at the notion.

She started unbuttoning his shirt and he took another step back.

"I need to check something; stop moving." - Scolding him with sweet gravity.

They'd worked side by side for years – under all sorts of circumstances – it shouldn't be awkward. Nevertheless, it was awkward – definitely awkward. Ziva ran her hand gently along his collar bone, her fingertips feeling for the alignment and then moved onto his shoulder – confirming her diagnosis.

Tony watched the concentration in her eyes – a fixed point of diversion from the pain and the fact she was touching him.

She glanced up at him. "I can fix this."

Just as Tony sought to defend her - when she went down – Ziva wanted to alleviate his suffering. They were protecting and caring for each other again.

"It will hurt." Typically Ziva didn't dodge the massive drawback. "But it hurts a lot now, yes?"

Tony nodded. It was agony – hurt was a miserably ineffective word for the feeling. There were only two options. Leaving the discovery unsecured and transporting a prisoner wasn't viable. He could wait several hours before reaching a hospital – so doctors could carry out what Ziva was proposing – with the added bonus of the unpredictable, unpleasant trip from painkillers. Or bite the bullet and reduce the damage now. Ziva didn't try to persuade him – she let Tony make his decision.

"OK." Tony agreed.

She positioned his arm and paused. "I need you to relax."

Tony gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah, right."

"Trust me." - Both an instruction and a request – steadily, solemnly staring at him.

Tony met her gaze and swallowed. "Do it." - Gritting his teeth.

Ziva worked with cool, absolute calm which provided Tony with reassurance. Clinically rational, she wouldn't attempt the relocation if she didn't have total confidence in her ability. There was nothing tentative in the manipulation – she was gentle but firm.

"I am sorry." – Murmuring soothing compassion as she felt Tony swaying, shaking and holding his breath – impressed by his incredible toughness.

The first grinding rotation failed but the joint slid into place after a second try.

Instantly, Tony pulled away from her, pacing restlessly.

"Shit…Holy fucking….Shit." - Suddenly releasing the iron grip on his control in stream of exhaled expletives.

"Sweet fucking…." - Frantically running the inventory of his vocabulary in a vain attempt to adequately vent the tension.

"Christ….mother of fucking..." The diatribe slowed and he looked at Ziva. "Jeeesus that hurt."

She was trying to appear sympathetic, not amused. Clearly he felt much better. "Now how does it feel?"

Cautiously he wiggled his arm and shoulder. The lacerating discomfort was gone; replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. "It'll work."

Ziva chased him down again, stretching out a hand. Tony retreated.

"I want to make sure." – Following him, a little exasperated she had to explain; the worst was over.

"It's fine." Tony wasn't about to risk the sensation of her skin on his without the distracting barrier of agony. "Look Mom, I can do buttons all by myself now." – Fastening his shirt.

He cocked his head. "You're a woman of many, sometimes scary talents, Zee-vah David."

Ziva smiled at the praise, pleased she'd helped. "I can do sutures too." There was a hint of playful pride in her tone.

"Yeah, well, you're not coming anywhere near me with a needle." Tony grinned.

"You did not mind Abby's specialist nurse." Ziva pointed out tartly, appearing slightly offended.

She began a weapons check – ever practical. Accomplices might show up ahead of back up; she wished to be prepared.

"She was hot and in a uniform." Tony was teasing. Then, spontaneously, he leaned closer. "You don't wear uniforms anymore."

She blushed. Ziva never blushed yet Tony had just informed her she was hot – and she was taken aback. Ziva's stomach tightened, tingled – his voice was soft and beguiling as he made the comment.

Tony nearly tossed out a joke about breaching the Ninja Camouflage System. However, her reaction was unexpected, unguarded; and he experienced a different response. There was something so utterly gorgeous in her self-conscious smile, his mouth went dry and his heart rate ticked upwards.

Suddenly, they weren't willing to make eye contact.

"Uh, Uh can I get some water?" Like a malevolent sprite taking scissors to Cupid's bowstring, their captive's snuffled plea broke the spell.

Obstacles and interruptions - sometimes accidental, sometimes contrived – were the bane of Tony and Ziva's relationship. The moment passed. Later Ducky declared satisfaction with Ziva's intervention; the joint would be stiff and sore for a little while. However, the films revealed no other detriment to Tony's shoulder.

Dr Cranston would have found the incident noteworthy for her private speculations. Shakespeare wasn't a qualified psychologist. Nevertheless, Rachel could only concur with the characterization of love as a 'madness most discreet' – especially in regard to Agents DiNozzo and David.

Their emerging feelings pushed perceptions from the confines of abstraction; ideas and desires were becoming nearly visible, corporeal. And madness – discreet or otherwise – was highly probable in the short-term.

I probably don't need to, but just in case: the shoulder thing is possible - you can even DIY if you're gutsy and feel it's really necessary. However, please don't try this at home, get to a medical professional?

Many thanks to the reviewers; you are truly a wonderful help as I scribble away! Please post a comment if you have the time. What worked/didn't, likes/dislikes are always appreciated.

Thanks also to the alerters. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read.