This might be considered creepy by some, he'd give them that. Though at least he admitted it, so that was slightly better than bonafide stalkers.

Right?

Whatever. No one was watching him, watch her. He earned a few mindless looks from passerby, but they probably just assumed he was trying to find peace in the garden.

Peace – eh. Not really. At least, she didn't look all that peaceful at the moment.

From his position behind the door, Tony could see her every movement through the glass window as she paced (albeit slowly, those ribs couldn't possibly be healed yet) back and forth outside in the small garden area. As far as he could tell, Ziva was alone except for the small fountain and a few benches scattered around the patio. She was visibly tense, and he was conflicted about revealing himself, so he stayed right where he was.

Just watching.

He actually hadn't seen her – physically laid eyes on her, let alone spoken to her – in two days, as his doctor had been confident enough that the antibiotics were working well and there was no need for him to return unless the wounds on his leg gave him trouble or the sutures reopened.

That first day completely away from the hospital had been difficult. Gibbs had forced him to stay at the hotel and do some bitch work (photocopies, tedious phone calls, memo filing – kid stuff) in an effort to keep him distracted. This quickly failed, however, as Tony eventually became so bored and frustrated with everything that he just up and quit.

Gibbs, thankfully, had not commented on this, as he probably would have done the same thing. Somehow, this only served to piss Tony off even more. It was bad enough being made to feel pitied and predictable and understood by the doctors. He didn't need that from his boss as well.

So the rest of the night and most of the next day he'd spent alternating between not sleeping and not thinking – the TV in his room helped with both. McGee was dutifully concerned, bringing him food and washing his shirts and whatnot. He would've made fun of him for playing housemaid, if he hadn't appreciated it so much.

(McGee was just being a good friend, something they'd all fucking learned was not so common in the world.)

Still – being cooped up in that hotel had begun to mess with his already reeling head, so here he was. Back at the hospital, the place he'd desperately wanted to leave, staring at his partner through the glass-paneled window that separated them.

He'd actually gone looking for her in her room when he first arrived, but her nurse had informed him that she'd gone outside to the patio for some fresh air. And then he'd stopped at the door, hesitating, seeing how strangely on edge she was. So here he stayed.

His view was suddenly blocked by the opening of a side-door somewhere to his right, the frame cutting into his line of vision before swinging closed again. By the time he could see clearly again, Ziva was no longer alone.

She was being embraced by – Tony recognized him with a scowl he could not place– her father. His bodyguard was standing stoically by the door the Director of Mossad had just entered. Thankfully, Mr. Security couldn't see Tony with the angle and the glare off the glass, and he was keen to keep it that way.

Over his temporary shock at seeing a man he really wasn't expecting to show up, Tony focused his attention on trying to interpret their conversation. He didn't really think it qualified as eavesdropping, since he was too far away to hear what they were saying. Not to mention he was behind considerably thick glass.

(Gibbs mysteriously right behind him? Nope. Clear.)

Ziva seemed to be listening to her father calmly, although behind that he sensed – even from behind this glass – a bored weariness about her, as if she was not altogether unsurprised by the appearance of her father and whatever he was saying. At his words, she did not nod, or reply, or even move. She just took it in, shoulders low but not entirely relaxed. Her father talked for a while, occasionally animating his hands, his expression fluctuating only slightly. Ziva just stood there, arms crossed against her chest and brown eyes shadowed with a look Tony had seen too much of lately.

Eli fell strangely silent.

He took a small step forward, closing a bit of the distance between him and his daughter. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm. Ziva still had no reaction, until her father said something again, rubbing his thumb against her neck in what Tony assumed to be an affectionate manner.

Then things changed, fast.

Her head shot up, eyes sparked (finally) with that fire that so characterized her. She threw his hand off her shoulder, and took a step back, brow furrowed. She ignored her father's look of confusion and began ranting angrily, moving her hands and arms around in a way that could only mean she was seriously annoyed.

Eli tried to interject, getting angry himself, but Ziva cut him off every time, raising her voice and matching his authoritarian glare with a challenging one of her own. She stopped once, breathing heavily and still glaring, and Tony took that as a sign that it was over. But when her father tried to reach for his daughter and calm her down, she shoved him back forcefully, earning a hesitant twitch from the bodyguard.

Then the shouting started, and though Tony could technically hear muffled bits of it now, they were clearly yelling in their native tongue, and he was slightly ashamed to find himself wishing he could understand it.

While Tony had no desire to intervene and get his ass kicked by all three Israelis currently gracing the patio, the shouting was starting to draw attention from some of the people inside, and maybe if he fetched her nurse she could politely diffuse the situation –

The shouting suddenly stopped. Tony jerked his head back to the window, thinking they'd spotted him and panicking a little. But they remained where they stood, Ziva radiating a cold fury at whatever her father had just said to end the argument.

And then she slapped him across the face, Eli reflexively catching her wrist after she did so, his other arm twitching as if he was considering returning the favor for her audacity.

Tony had his hand on the door, heart racing stupidly, but Mr. Security beat him to it.

As her last act of defiance she threw something – something small, glinting in the sunlight – at her father's chest. He stared in shock at his last remaining child, the warning hand of Mr. Security like a weight on his shoulder. By the time the hand was gone and he opened his clutched hand to see what had been thrown at him, Ziva had left.

Tali's silver necklace dangled from his palm, and he collapsed onto the bench, head in his hands.

(Tony had no desire to see that, turning away with an odd mixture of fear and lingering resentment.)

Ziva had not noticed him when she stormed away in all of her wounded grace as only she could, and he didn't stop her, or even call her out. Instead he followed her back to her room, trying to be as quiet as possible with his crutch. He stopped in her doorway, not wanting to intrude more than he reluctantly already had.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe.

"Ziva?"

She spun around, traces of anger not quite faded, but her features relaxed immediately upon seeing who was at her door.

(Was he imagining the way her eyes lit for the smallest of seconds?)

"Tony? I was not expecting to see you until tomorrow."

"Yeah, me either. Surprise visit," he replied lightly, shifting his weight in an attempt to smooth over that little lie. Ziva, despite being annoyingly good at reading body language, passed it off as his leg giving him trouble.

"Just thought I'd stop by, say hello," he continued, grinning slightly.

"Oh. Shalom," she answered tightly, turning her attention toward the table near the window.

She picked up a small bottle and unscrewed the cap, pouring three little white capsules into her hand. She swallowed them with a swig of water from a cup and turned back to see Tony staring at her, his eyebrow raised in question.

(Are you allowed to just pop pills in a hospital? Don't they regulate that? He didn't know.)

"I should not have been walking around without the cane," she explained reluctantly, mistaking – perhaps intentionally – his concern for her wellbeing as a silent criticism of her apparent weakness.

(He still had to dope himself into a stupor just to be able sleep, so there was no basis for judgment even if he wanted it.)

"Ribs still bothering you?" asked Tony, knowing what she would say and genuinely surprised when she didn't.

She nodded, slowly, avoiding his eyes as she failed to formulate something less true. He sensed her discomfort and stepped in from the door, hoping that his small smile came off as more than the stiff frown he had become accustomed to these past weeks.

"Ah well, too bad they didn't give you a crutch. Then we could be cripple buddies and annoy the hell out of McGee," he intoned, aiming to erase that five seconds – just five seconds – of careless vulnerability she had not wanted to show.

He was met with her own interpretation of a forced smile.

"Sorry, dumb joke."

"I am used to it," she replied, deadpan.

(Well shit, if this was the direction they were going.)

He cleared his throat a little, trying to casually bring up what he really wanted to talk to her about.

"So uh, where were you a few minutes ago? I was looking for you."

She turned to look at him, as if gauging whether this warranted her honesty or not.

(It did. Sort of. He'd like to call that progress.)

"I was outside."

He nodded, tone still measured with just the right amount of respectful indifference.

"I get it. Some fresh air, birds singing, shooting the breeze a little bit."

"Not quite," she replied darkly, turning away from him to put the pills back on the other table across the room.

"You're right, doubt there are bir – wait, you understood that?"

She ignored him. Sort of.

"My father came to visit me," she replied, the tone of her voice unfinished and ambiguous.

"I'm guessing it didn't go so well."

"No, it did not," she affirmed, leaving him hanging once again.

He moved a tiny bit closer, trying to sound more detached than he was feeling.

"What did he want?"

Her lip turned downward, like some sour taste renewed.

"What he's always wanted. To make sure I never forget where I came from."

Odd way to describe that conversation, if what she meant was –

"Israel? Are you going back?"

She sighed, almost defeated. A release of tension long overdue.

"That was his request, yes."

It wasn't quite an answer to his question, and of course she knew that. But Tony could not form real words to press her further, because currently he was having immense trouble stomaching the possibility of a parting of the ways in the near future.

Just…cheat death together in that fucking desert and then –

And then she wouldn't come

home, not ever.

(Not her home, a voice reminded him coldly.)

"And?" was about all he managed, his voice strange even to his own ears.

"I watched the last of my family die, weeks ago. I want nothing more to do with…" she stopped, frowning, unsure how to describe the cold disillusionment that gripped her. "He can do whatever he likes. I am not leaving NCIS."

Tony pushed the surprise and relief back down, not wanting to trivialize whatever was eating at her by showing his own stupid reactions that she didn't need to see.

The way she stared at the floor, determined, distant, stirred something in his head.

"Did he blame you?" he asked softly, thinking of that necklace she had thrown as a blatant fuck you.

She barely blinked, intuitively knowing what he meant. Still the warrior, even now.

"Her death is as much on his hands as…as it is on mine."

"You tried to save her," Tony reminded, dimly aware of its futility.

(She needed to hear that anyway, at least once. If it meant relieving her of even one second of agony.)

"She was bait, and I followed blindly. As they knew I would. My father was kind enough to remind me of that," she spat, her words sharp, strained.

"Then he can go fuck himself. I hope you told him so."

Months – weeks – ago, she would have laughed, or at least disapproved of his outright callousness. Now he was spared only a shrug, noncommittal. Indifferent.

"Not in so many words."

Huh.

It may have been worth it to drag himself here just to hear that, because it meant that somewhere in there, she was still fighting.

(Isn't that all he'd wanted to know, really?)

"I can tell him a few more times for you, if you want."

That weird grimace thing again.

"I think," she started, feeling the weight of bruised bone and blurred nights and the lack of anything in Kadin's voice when revealing his sins, "that all I want to do is go home."

Still fighting, he reminded himself. Still fucking fighting, somewhere.

He wanted to say he'd fight for her again and again and again because he almost could not stand the way she looked so strong and angry and heartbroken all at once, but what came out was –

"Okay."

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