Thanks JSQ for the read-through, again!

Conversation is sparse on the plane ride back home. Gibbs and McGee rest their eyes. My focus is still on Ziva. I just stare at her. She has bouts of sleep as well. Not me, though; I feel like if I close my eyes this dream will end – and it won't be real and I'll just I wake up back in my apartment alone and feeling lost.

Every time she opens her eyes, my words fail and flub on the tip of my tongue. I have so much to say but this is neither the time nor the place. Emotions run rampant. The moment Saleem ripped the hood off of her head, I felt something I can't categorize it. For months, I thought she was dead. Gone.

The questions plays over and over."Why are you here?" I look over at Ziva again. I whisper. "For you." I know she may not hear me but I just need to say it. For you. For you. For you.

I get antsy on airplane rides - it's silly. It seems like we've been flying too long. Shouldn't we be home by now? Just as I say that, our pilot announces we are preparing for our final descent. The intercom wakes the rest of team up. They stretch then look to each other and smile.

We gather our gear and head back to the Navy Yard. Silence inhabits the car. Just another day at work. Abby and Ducky are waiting for us when we get there. Everyone is clapping. My legs feel weak so I just go and sit at my desk.

I'm angry. Is there a reason to be? Maybe I'm being selfish but I just want Ziva to talk to me. What do I say now? Sorry for killing Rivkin, but wait. . . nope, actually. . . I'm not sorry. . . Your father is bastard. How could not trust me?. . . We would have killed Saleem. . . because he took you away. . .

Nah, I just go back to work.

Once again, our ninja has disappeared. I know she can't back be in Israel. They can't send her back, right? I speak as an authority when I say she'll call when she's ready.

In the next day or two, I notice she makes the rounds to every other member of the team. Maybe she's saving the best for last. (I'm going with that statement for sanity's sake.) She pounces when I least expect it. I didn't hear the door open or footseteps. She's here in the bathroom with me. . . I finish up my "Chad Gadya" stanza, (It is a catchy tune. It still brings me back to that day.) I think she'd appreciate the fact I have learned this nursery rhyme. More proof that Ziva is a part of me.

When you think about it, in any argument words are slung around without much regard. In apologies, words are said with the utmost care, yet the words from the argument stay with you too. An interesting dichotomy.

The world of Anthony DiNozzo has righted itself. Case solved, paperwork to pass off to McGee, and Ziva sitting across from me at work. This calls for a movie and a glass of red wine.

I stop and grab some take out on the way home. This makes me think about where Ziva was staying. Her apartment was destroyed. All her material belongings gone. She has to start over, again. She's the strongest woman I know.

I hear a faint knock on my door. This sound makes all my thoughts evaporate. I stumble to the door and open it.

Ziva clutching a bottle of wine. She makes eye contact, then scoots past me, sits on the couch, and all while taking an eager interest in the food picnic I have laid out on the table.

"For two?"

"It is now."

I walk into the kitchen and grab another set of chopsticks. I smile as I reach for a wine glass. Ziva has already made herself comfortable. She is holding a take-out container and chopsticks.

"This is good."

"I know." Good thing I got myself some more utensils.

She leans over and with one stealth move covers me with the rest of the blanket and manages to steal a good size piece of chicken from me. I give her the eye.

"What are we watching?"

"Wait and see."

"I have not heard of that."

"No, I mean press play and you shall find out."

"Ahhh, okay."

We settle in for the movie, food containers empty and discarded on the coffee table in front us. Ziva leans against me, and I can feel her breathe. It reminds me again, how close I came to losing her.

I look at her. "You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing."

"Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow. . . I have learned a few things from you over the years, Tony. Especially when it regards Humphrey Bogart."