Chapter Text

Between the lines

The last remnants of winter sunlight streamed through the wide office windows, bathing Tony’s desk in golden light that only pretended to be warm.
He had been sitting there far longer than necessary, pretending to read a report he’d already finished an hour ago, his eyes fixed on the same paragraph without seeing a single word. The rest of the team had long since wrapped up their latest case and vanished into what promised to be a well-earned Sunday afternoon off.

With a final frown and a sideways glance, Gibbs had been the last to storm toward the elevator a few minutes earlier.

“Go home, DiNozzo. Job’s done.”

When the doors finally closed with a soft ping and silence settled over the bullpen, Tony’s posture deflated at once, as if his shoulders had been waiting all day for permission to drop. He let out a long breath, then cast one last glance toward the elevator before bending down to open the lowest drawer of his desk.

His hand closed around a phone.
Not the phone.
The other phone.

The one his teammates didn’t know existed. The one that never synced to any NCIS network but was always kept nearby. Its dark-gray lock screen gave away nothing about its owner — a small mercy, in case McGee ever went digging for paper clips or spare staples again.

He tapped the corner of the device thoughtfully against his lower lip before unlocking it. Then he opened the messenger app, selected the top contact, and began to type:

Another week gone by. Time to pay your debt — McGee still hasn’t noticed I slipped “Egyptian linen” into his crossword while he was in the bathroom.

Tony smiled faintly and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t expect an immediate reply — different time zones, different worlds — but the phone buzzed less than a minute later.

Good evening to you, too. Clever. But no proof, no prize.

He could almost hear the voice behind those words — calm, teasing, that unmistakable accent that softened every consonant. His grin eased into something gentler. For the first time all day, the tightness in his chest loosened just a little.

He typed again.

Still awake? How are you — both of you? I’m enjoying a bit of quiet here, racking up some overtime. Everyone else’s already gone. Feels strange without you.

There was a pause. The little dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again — Ziva was typing, erasing, typing again. When her message finally came through, he had to read it twice before he fully understood. His Hebrew was still shaky at best; the new language app hadn’t worked any miracles yet. But the meaning came through.

Tired… and a bit like a punching bag. I know it’s not easy. But this is better. I’m not ready for… all that, there. Ani mitga’aga’at lecha. I miss you, too.

He let the words sink in, knowing exactly what she meant. And he respected it — even if it tore at something deep inside him every time he thought about it. Ziva needed space. She’d told him as much. Israel was the only place she could breathe again — far from everything and everyone.
After so much loss, so much fighting, she wanted to build something that was entirely hers. No agencies. No weapons. No fear.

And that meant she had wanted to do it without him.
She loved him — he knew that — but she believed she had to let him go, so he could live. So they both could. He understood that. He still did. But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

And yet, every night, she texted him.
And every night, he answered.

Later that evening, Tony sat on his couch, laptop forgotten and dark on the coffee table. Instead, he was holding a small ultrasound image in his hands — the one Ziva had sent two weeks ago. The black-and-white swirls had already become familiar: the faint curve of a cheek, the tiny shadow of a hand.

“Little miracle,” he murmured. “How did we miss you for so long?”

He drew a deep breath, reached for his phone, and sent one last message.

Ziva had been nearly four months along when she finally let herself consider the possibility. The chaos around her had quieted just enough for her to listen to her own body again. By then, Tony had already been back in the States — drowning in guilt for leaving her behind, replaying every moment of that October day on the tarmac.

He’d nearly dropped his phone when it rang one night, an unfamiliar international number lighting up the screen. Then came her voice — trembling, raw — and the words that hit like a boulder.

Four months.

So it had to have happened just before she left for Tel Aviv — those blurry May days when they’d thrown their badges onto Vance’s desk and walked away. Before she’d asked him to come with her. Before Clayton Jarvis was killed. Before bullets tore through his apartment walls. Before she vanished — and before he’d spent weeks chasing whispers and rumours of her across half the Middle East.

Back when anything still felt possible.
Like now.

We’re off call the weekend after next. I could take a few extra days…

Her reply came almost immediately:

Only if you stay discreet. 

He grinned — part sadness, part joy.

Discretion’s my middle name.

No. Your middle name is Chaos.

At that he laughed out loud, the sound echoing strangely in the quiet apartment. For a brief moment, he could almost see her, eyes rolling, mouth twitching at the corners, pretending not to smile. He set the phone down next to the photo, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
There were thousands of miles between them — an entire ocean, countless unspoken words — and yet right then, it felt like she was sitting beside him.

Half a world away, moonlight filtered through orange trees and the air was still warm.
Ziva stood by her open window, staring into the night. Her phone lit up again, Tony’s last message glowing softly on the screen. She read it several times, ran her thumb across the letters, and exhaled slowly. She felt a flutter low in her belly — not fear, not anymore. On good days, it felt like bubbles rising, or butterflies. On bad days, like fear itself. She rested a hand there, gentle and certain. It reminded her that, despite the distance — despite oceans, duty, and silence — she wasn’t alone.

“Rough night, Tony?”

McGee’s voice cut through the hum of the bullpen the next morning as Tony stumbled in, clutching a coffee cup roughly the size of a small planet. He tossed his backpack behind his chair and let out a yawn loud enough to wake the dead. He dropped into his seat, rubbing at his eyes. He’d been the last one to leave yesterday — and somehow showed up on time today. Maybe a little suspicious, but he didn’t care. He’d spent half the night at his laptop, planning his next trip.

“What gave it away, McEarlybird? The lack of shaving or the designer eye bags?”

“Both,” McGee said with a grin. “Don’t tell me — movie marathon? Or were you downtown again? Abby says you should cut back on the drinking.”

“My alcohol intake is perfectly acceptable, thank you! Totally under control. But what can I say… when the great Sean Connery calls, you answer.”

McGee rolled his eyes and turned back to his monitor.

“Sure, Tony,” he muttered, then added after a beat, “You might wanna find a hobby that involves more sleep and actual human company. You’re not getting any younger, you know — and you need your beauty rest more every day.”         A paper ball shot across the desks and bounced off the back of his head.

“Whatever you say, Elf Lord!” Tony smirked. Real people, huh…

He yawned again, took a gulp of what was more sugar than coffee, and began hammering away at his keyboard — more noise than purpose. It never hurt to look busy. Just in time, too — seconds later Gibbs stormed down the stairs.

“Grab your gear. Dead body in Georgetown.”

Before their boss even finished the sentence, Tony and McGee were already on their feet. A new case. A new mask. A distraction. He was good at the game. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Long weekends

Plans. They were such fragile things. You could build them out of logic and good intentions, polish them until they gleamed with certainty — and still, one heartbeat, one phone call, could send them spiraling apart. People weren’t machines. They never moved predictably. Two paths might run parallel for a while, touch, drift apart, cross again, twist around unexpected corners, and sometimes end at walls that no one saw coming.

Her plan had been entirely different. She had wanted to leave everything behind and start over – wipe the slate clean. And yet, a single phone call had undone all of it. One weak moment, one soft word, unexpected news through tears, hearing his voice again. Afterward, she'd felt ashamed – not of him, but of herself. For needing him. For pushing him away and reaching out in the same breath.

A week later, Washington had slipped back into its dull mid-december gray — the kind that made even Gibbs’ coffee look darker.
The NCIS headquarter hummed in quiet routine. Tony tried to act as normal, busy, casual, like nothing inside him was shifting. But his thoughts were already thousand of miles away.

His leave form lay under a stack of files, signed and stamped by Director Vance himself. He had asked for two days off and somehow walked out with four — a small miracle he wasn’t about to question too loudly.

Next to him, McGee leaned back in his chair, eyeing him with mild suspicion.
“So. Film festival in Boston, huh? Since when are you into independent movies?”
Tony shot him a grin - the old, practiced one that used to fool everyone. It didn’t work quite as well these days.

“Hey, I’m a man of culture. There’s more to life than Marvel and Abby’s vampire musicals.”
“Sure,” McGee said, unconvinced. “It’s just… you’ve been acting weird lately.”
Tony shrugged, keeping his tone light. “It’s called maturity, McGee. You should look it up sometime.”

Across the room, Gibbs looked up long enough to murmur, “Don’t be late coming back.”
It wasn’t a suggestion — it was the kind of warning built on twenty years of experience.
Tony just nodded. If Gibbs suspected anything — and of course he did — he didn’t press. That was their unspoken agreement. Gibbs didn’t pry. Tony didn’t lie. Well not much, anyway.

When the plane finally touched down at Ben Gurion Airport, Tony felt that familiar cocktail of nerves and electricity tighten in his chest. No other place — no other person — could stir that particular mix in him.
The flight had been long enough to strip him of any illusion of control — ten hours trapped with his own thoughts, thoughts that kept circling back, again and again, to the same image:

Their last encounter. Her fragile but determined smile. The way her trembling hand had hovered protectively over a life neither of them had planned for. That moment had branded itself into his memory, haunting his dreams — dreams he didn’t want to wake from. And still, beneath all of it, was a whisper of fear: that one day she might stop answering his calls, stop writing, slip back into the shadows entirely — and that when he reached out, there would be nothing left to find.

He adjusted the strap, slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and strode briskly through arrivals, grateful to skip the baggage carousel. He hesitated only briefly at customs as a flicker of an old unease hit him - ghosts of the past, Mossad officers who'd more than once intercepted him in this very place. But this time, no one stopped him. No men in black. No interrogation rooms.

He stepped through the sliding doors into a wave of sunlight and heat — and saw her.

Ziva stood at the far end of the hall, posture straight, hair loosely tied back, a beam of sunlight brushing her cheek. For a heartbeat, he froze. Reality and memory blurred, colliding inside him. She looked radiant.

The last time he had held her, she’d felt smaller, almost fragile. Now there was a quiet steadiness about her — not quite peace, but something close to a ceasefire or truce. Had it really been only five weeks? It felt like years. In early November, her pregnancy had still been almost invisible, hidden by muscle, movement and wider tops. Now - at almost 30 weeks - it was unmistakable — and breathtaking.

Tony crossed the distance before he could overthink it.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” she echoed, her voice almost tentative. A brief pause - then the faintest smile. “You actually came.”
Tony's grin was automatic, though the small tremor in his voice gave him away.

“What, you thought I’d stand you up? Not my style.”

Her mouth quirked. “You have many styles, Tony,“ she said, that teasing lilt in her voice. „Not all of them reliable.”
He laughed. The sound of his name on her lips — teasing, intimate — hit him like sunlight after rain.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m consistent where it matters, Zee-vah.”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved again in that small, reluctant smile he loved. Then, hesitating, standing on her toes, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.                         

“Perhaps there is some truth to that“, she murmured. “Long flight?”

“Worth every minute,” he said simply, wrapping his arms around her. Her body stiffened for just a breath, then melted against his. She fit perfectly, like she always had.

Later, in her small house in Be’er Sheva, the air smelled faintly of cardamom and fresh paint. Tony dropped his bag just inside the door and exhaled realizing only then he'd been holding his breath.

“Home sweet home,” he murmured.

“Temporary,” she corrected.

“Still counts.”

He tugged her toward the couch, sank into the cushions, pulling her with him. She resisted for half a second again, then gave in, curling against him until her head rested on his shoulder. Zivas hair still smelled of jasmine. Tony feld something inside him unclench further. Yes — home.

He let his gaze wander around the room - different from what he remembered. Warm, brighter, more lived-in, less like a shrine to the past. There was anew bookshelf, a small plant on the windowsill, a framed photo of Ziva with her late siblings on a table. The same one that used to hang in her old apartment.

“You’ve been busy,” he said after a while.

Zivas eyes swept the room as if she were seeing it anew. “It helps,” she said softly. “Building things, painting, preparing…”

“For her?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer at right away. Instead she turned toward the small adjoining room — the one with the pale walls, a rocking chair and a half-assembled crib.

“It is not finished yet,” she said. “But it is a start.”

Tony smiled faintly. “Sounds like us.”

For a while, they sat in silence, the desert wind whispering outside the window. “I still can not believe you came all this way again,” she said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper, a little absent. “Just for a weekend.”

“I would've come for a day, if I that's all I had”, he said

“You should not have to,” she murmured. “The lies, the travel, the-”

He cut her off with a look. “I don't have to, Ziva. I want to. I need to.”

He reached out, resting his hand gently on the curve of her belly. When she didn’t flinch, he drew her closer until their foreheads touched.
“You do what you need to do, Ziva. I get that. You’re healing. Finding yourself again. I’ll wait.”

Her eyes met his, then turned aside. “Sometimes I think about going back,” she admitted. “But then I remember what I left there.”
He waited.

“Ghosts,” she said finally. “Many of them. I am tired of fighting them.”

He studied her quietly. “I told you, you don’t have to fight them alone, Ziva. You never did.”

She gave him a sharp but tender glance. “You say that as if it were easy.”

“It is,” he said softly. “Complicated is overrated. This”—he gestured between them—“this is what makes sense. Nothing else does.”

She closed her eyes, her voice now no more than a breath. “You should not have to wait for me.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he replied with a crooked smile.

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the floor when Tony woke. Ziva's side of the bed was already cool. Right - jet lag, he realized - not morning anymore, noon.
He found her standing in the nursery, one hand absently resting absently on her stomach, staring at the crib.

For a moment, he just watched her, committing the image to memory.
When she turned, her eyes softened. “You are staring again, DiNozzo.”

“Can you blame me?”

She shook her head, smiling as he stepped closer, brushed a stray curl from her face, and kissed her softly.

During his last visit, a month earlier, they had talked for hours - had the same conversation over and over again – about where they stood, about what came next.

“You have your life in Washington,” she’d said then. “And that is how it should be. Those are not your demons.”
“And if I wanted to stay?” he’d asked.
Her look had been gentle but firm. She had again tried to tell him it wasn’t his fight. He had insisted he would stay anyway. In the end, they’d reached a fragile, bittersweet compromise: she would stay here; he would come whenever he could. She’d blamed her tears on hormones; he’d joked his were just peer pressure.

Now, surrounded by open paint cans and half-built furniture, he remembered that talk.

With time slipping away way too fast (more than half way through pregnancy and weekend - crazy), they’d started painting the nursery together, laughing a little between arguments about colors and brushes. It had once been her mother’s bedroom, after Eli moved out. The walls hadn’t seen a fresh coat in nearly twenty years. Now the scent of fresh paint and new beginnings lingered in the air.

Today’s task was assembling the crib. It took longer than expected — mostly because Tony refused to follow the instructions.

“That's called advanced improvisation,” he claimed.

Ziva arched an eyebrow, amused. “Improvisation won’t keep the crib from collapsing.

“Good thing she’ll probably inherit your reflexes,” he countered.

The following shift in mood was subtle but unmistakable, the way it always did when unspoken things crept too close.
When Tony looked up, his face open, unguarded, it made her chest tighten. The man who had once hidden behind jokes and movie quotes had become quieter, steadier in the last year – and somehow, that undid her more than anything.

“Don not feel guilty for not being here, Tony,” she said softly. “I have managed fine on my own.”

He shook his head, turning a piece of wood in his hands.

“It’s hard“, he admitted. “Not being here. Not sharing this with anyone.”

Then came the crooked smile that always gave him away. “Who’d have thought I’d be this good at keeping a secret? Maybe I’d make a decent spy after all.”
Ziva laughed, shaking her head at his fragile facade reappearing. “If you really want to be useful, Super-Spy, set up the changing table next. If I have to sit cross-legged on this floor again, I may not get up.”

Monday came too soon — again.

“Next month, same time, same place?” Tony asked, leaning against the rental car, trying to sound casual — and failing miserably. He was only stalling.

Ziva stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with that mix of exasperation and fondness. “You are impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She sighed, then stepped closer, fingers brushing along his cheek.
“Lehitraot, Tony.”
“See you soon,” he whispered.

When he finally drove away, Ziva remained on the porch until the dust settled and the sound of the engine faded into the distance. Then she rested her hand on her belly and spoke softly, “You have a good father — even if I don’t deserve him yet.”
The wind carried her words away, but the truth lingered, suspended in the quiet morning air.

Chapter Text

New agent in town

The thing about secrets is — the bigger they are, the harder they are to keep.
They grow, pressing against your ribs, crawling up your throat until you can almost taste them every time you open your mouth. One careless breath, and you might slip up.
Rule Four had always been one of the hardest for Tony to keep — right up with Rule Twelve.

He spent most of his days surrounded by the people he couldn’t talk to — colleagues who noticed everything. Friends were off-limits too, because, well… they were the same people. And his father? Absolutely not. Senior would sell him out by accident over martinis before dessert even hit the table.

So for the next two months, Tony talked to his fish. And as long as Kate didn’t start talking back, Tony considered himself at least mostly sane.

McGee looked at him funny.
Abby asked funny.
And Gibbs… Gibbs did the absolute worst thing he could do: nothing.

The man just watched him with that quiet, surgical intensity — the kind that peeled you open without touching you. Tony could practically feel Gibbs tracking every small inconsistency: the sudden silences, distracted smiles, the phone left face-down and on silent. If Gibbs had formed a theory, it wasn’t the right one. He didn’t suspect international flights and hidden lives. No — Gibbs thought Tony was still haunted by Ziva David.

Technically… not wrong. Just not nearly right enough.

Only once had Gibbs stopped by his desk, coffee in hand, the frown between his brows deeper than usual.
“You alright?” he'd asked.

Tony had looked up, half-grin already in place.“Me? Peachy, Boss.” 

Gibbs hadn’t believed him for a second. But he didn't press. Just paused,  gave a small nod, and walked off. No interrogation, no headslap — just silence doing what words couldn’t.Still, later that day he caught Gibbs watching him again, out of the corner of his eye — a look somewhere between suspicion and sympathy. The kind of look you give someone when you know they’re bleeding but don’t want to ask where the wound is.

Then came the explosion.

One morning he'd barely made a step out of the elevator, when he'd been shoved back in and Gibbs started yelling. Tony missed a weekend call — just one. His work phone had been safely left on the coffee table back in D.C. Shit. But really, how could he even possibly answer his phone and get to Maryland in time to retrieve a dead petty officer from a washing machine when he was 30,000 feet above the Mediterranean?

He’d mumbled something about “clearing overtime hours.” And Gibbs, the equivalent of a raging bull, of course, didn’t buy it again. Tony paid for it with a week of paperwork and silent treatment. Still, it had it's advantages. With everyone else out in the field, there was no one to talk to, no one to accidentally spill the truth to.

Though he was bored out of his mind — something he made sure to complain about during his nightly calls with Ziva.

Right now his heart was racing again. Whether it was from the fact that he’d actually managed to hand Gibbs his leave papers in person without flinching under that icy blue stare, or because he was currently speeding toward Dulles Airport like a madman — who could say?

Tel Aviv had barely woken after the long March night.
The first light crept through the blinds in thin, hesitant stripes. Inside the maternity ward of Ichilov Hospital, Ziva lay still, listening to the steady rhythmic of monitors and the quiet murmur of nurses beyond the door. She had been in labor all night. Now, as the storm quieted, everything felt surreal — her breathing slowed, her fingers clutching the tiny blanket folded against her chest.
Then came the sound she would never forget: a single indignant cry — small, fierce, alive.

The nurse smiled. “A healthy girl.”

Ziva’s vision blurred. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

When they placed the baby in her arms, the world shrank to that one fragile, miraculous being — warm, trembling, impossibly new. A few dark curls already framed the newborn’s forehead. Ziva brushed one gently with a trembling fingertip.

“Tali,” she whispered. “Tali David DiNozzo.”

For a moment there were no scars, no missions, no oceans, no years lost.
Just skin and breath and the fierce, overwhelming ache of love that felt like breaking and rebuilding in the same heartbeat. Ziva closed her eyes. Let the weight of her daughter settle against her chest. Felt the rise and fall of two tiny lungs syncing with her own.

Outside, cars were beginning to honk in the waking city. Life resuming. But in this room, time bowed.

And Ziva — who had survived wars and betrayals and lonely nights far from everything she ever cared for — let herself rest in the quiet victory of this moment. She had never been more tired. Never more astonished. Never more terrified.
Never more whole.

His phone had buzzed in his jacket pocket the moment their plane touched down on the runway, the signal returning. The message appeared instantly in the secure app only one person ever used.

She’s here.

He’d stopped breathing before the next line arrived.

Seven pounds. Healthy. Beautiful. Just like you said.

His hand had trembled as he read it again and again until the screen went dark. Until the words blurred and the world around him — passengers stretching, overhead bins opening, babies crying — went quiet, insignificant.

She’s here.

The world shifted, finding a new center of gravity.

Now, less than an hour later Tony DiNozzo was running, again. He'd barely cleared customs, barely processed that he’d actually made it from Washington to Israel in record time, before he was sprinting again — through the terminal, into the rental car, across the still quiet streets of Tel Aviv. When he screeched to a halt in front of Ichilov Hospital, his shirt clung to his back, adrenaline pounding through his veins. He ran. Past security. Past bewildered nurses. Down the hall, sneakers squeaking on polished tile. He was charging up the third-floor hallway, startling a security guard who half-rose from his chair. Tony raised a hand mid-sprint, gesturing toward the door he hoped was the right one.

“I’m supposed to be here! I’m… uh… Ani Abba!” Father, he blurted, his Hebrew terrible but understandable. The guard grinned, settling back down. Probably not the first frantic new father he’d seen that morning. Probably not the last.

Tony didn’t stop until he reached Room 312.

He didn’t bother knocking.

Ziva lay in bed, exhausted but awake, her hair damp against her temples, her eyes shining in the soft light. In her arms - wrapped in a pale blanket - lay a tiny bundle of life. Tony froze in the doorway. She looked up as the door swung open, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.

“Tony…”

He shook himself, a wide grin breaking across his face. “I heard there’s a new agent in town.” He took one step closer. Then another. “I thought I’d miss it.”

“Almost,” she whispered. “She came faster than anyone expected.”

He laughed softly — the unsteady breathless kind of laugh meant for moments too big for words.
“Little whirlwind, huh? Guess she gets that from you.”

Ziva huffed something like a laugh, gave him a weak punch to the ribs that said don’t you dare start crying before I do. He brushed a curl from her temple — gentle, reverent — and sat, unable to tear his gaze from the baby.

“Tali?” he asked softly. She nodded.

“Yes. Tali David DiNozzo. Sounds… a little unfamiliar, doesn’t it?”

He sat beside her carefully, as if a single wrong move could shatter the moment. He looked down at the tiny face — smaller than his palm — and smiled, a mix of disbelief and pure awe. “Hi, little ninja,” he whispered. “It’s me, Abba. The guy with the bad timing.”

Ziva met his eyes, and in that look was everything — distance, loss, hope, and something that finally felt like peace. “I should have told you sooner that it was time” she murmured. “But I didn’t want you to rush for no—”

He shook his head, eyes still on his daughter. “Ziva. I’d have swum here if I needed to. I made it. That’s enough.”

Tali stirred, let out a tiny indignant squeak — already dramatic. Already perfect. Tony reached out. One fingertip. One impossibly small hand curled around it — strong, determined. He choked out a laugh, awestruck. “Wow. Strong grip. Definitely Mossad training.”

Ziva rolled her eyes. “You are an idiot… but you will be a good father.”

He shook his head, still dazed. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That is the first step to being a good parent,” she said softly. “Knowing that you do not know anything.”

Hours blurred. Tali slept in Tony’s arms and he couldn’t stop staring. Her weight terrified him — an entire universe in less than eight pounds. Every breath she took lodged itself inside his bones.

Ziva watched him through half-lidded eyes. “You should sleep.” 

“Can’t. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find out this was a dream.”

She turned her head, studying him with one of those knowing looks, and pinched his hand lightly. “Dreams do not hurt. You are still breathing. So it is real.”

He smiled wearily. “That’s so you, Ziva – dangerous even in a hospital bed.“

“And that’s so you, Tony — to talk your way through the moment instead of feeling it.”

He shifted Tali carefully, freeing one hand to rest on Ziva’s — gently, as if she were made of glass. “I feel it, Ziva. Maybe too much.”

She didn’t answer, just brushed her thumb across the back of his hand — a quiet gesture that said more than words ever could. Outside, the city moved on — car horns, voices, the rhythm of life resuming as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

“How long will you stay?” she asked eventually.

“As long as they’ll let me.”

She nodded faintly, eyes already closing again.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”

The monitors beeped softly. Nurses murmured in Hebrew. Somewhere down the hall, a newborn cried, then another answered. Life went on, steady and wonderful. As his eyes finally began to drop, Tony stood, carrying Tali to the small bassinet in the corner. Sleeping with her in his arms probably wasn’t the best idea. He laid her down gently, half expecting her to wake and protest. But she didn’t.He sank back into the chair, ready to drift off at last — until Ziva’s voice whispered again through the quiet.

“You had work.”

One eye opened.

“I have this,” he said softly. “Everything else can wait.”

“What am I going to do with you, Tony?”

They both laughed softly. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist — no secrets, no danger, no ocean between them. Just three heartbeats finding the same rhythm. Finally,

Ziva nodded, eyes closing again, and for the first time in a long while, she let someone else keep watch.