A/N: Well. I said I would never do anything like this, but then this plot came to me and . . . . You know how it goes. I just had to go there. And I am SO excited to get this story off the ground, so I hope you all enjoy it (let me know, if you want). So Happy Summer everybody! Much love and keep the peace, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: Alas, I own nothing . . . . .


"Hey, Zee-vah . . . ." his voice trails off and dips into silence as he comes across her sleeping form. She's curled up on the couch, eyes closed, face relaxed, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breathes. He glances at the cable box under the television where green numbers glow 7:45. "Hey," he whispers softly, crouching down so his lips are level with her ear, "Why don't you go lay down in the bedroom, hm?"

Dark mahogany eyes flutter open and rapid blinking ensues as she brings him into focus. "Wha'?" she wonders fuzzily, half asleep as strong arms lift her into a semi-upright position.

He cannot help but grin at the look on her face because there's something so innocent and fresh softening her features. It almost makes it worth risking mutilation to wake her up. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty," he says, hoisting her to her feet and supporting the slightness of her deadweight as she leans against him.

His bedroom is dark and quiet and cool and she sighs contentedly as she burrows herself between the sheets, rubbing her face against her pillow. He kisses her forehead, simultaneously tucking an errant curl behind her ear. And she murmurs something, but the words are incoherent and he can't quite decipher them . . . . So instead he just shakes his head and makes sure that the quiet click of the bedroom door doesn't startle her as he silently backs out of the room . . . .

She hears him enter the bedroom at a quarter till midnight. He stumbles over the carpet and soft curses are whispered vehemently into the darkness. Then the rustle of clothes being shed denotes the dip in the mattress as he sinks in beside her, the cool rush of air infiltrating the sheets before his body heat eradicates it again. He sighs, rolling onto his side, his back to her.

"Tony?" she says, her voice awake sounding. And it also has that edge that means she's been musing over something, something, more than likely, important because her accent seems thick in his ears.

The bed creaks as he shifts so he's facing her, studying her through the ebony fabric of darkness. She feels the question in his eyes but waits for the inquiry, "Did I wake you?"

"No."And there's more to this conversation, he knows, it's just a matter of time before she reveals her ulterior motive. . . . But the silence seems to stretch on and he's growing more impatient and worried with each passing second, so he musters up the courage to ask, "What's up?"

"I think I might be pregnant, Tony."

Neither say anything for a few heartbeats, either waiting for the other to offer their introspective. But before even that can be said, Ziva offers an amendment to her previous confession, "Actually, there is ninety-five percent chance that I am."

And he doesn't say anything at first, though he does reach up and flick the lamp on so that a soft glow permeates the room, sending pale rays chasing the shadows from every corner, effectively illuminating her face, as she stares up at the lazily spinning ceiling fan, dark eyes pensive.

And he doesn't exclaim, "What?" because he heard her perfectly. Nor does he assure her he isn't going anywhere; he doesn't insist that he won't leave and run away with some blonde to Las Vegas. She knows he's going to stay and he knows he's going to stay and there's no need to elaborate. And he doesn't ask her if it's his because, in all honesty, who else's baby could it be? McGee's? Seriously . . . . He doesn't reach out to touch her –yet- because she seems to still be thinking. And he definitely isn't going let his fingers settle on the toned skin of her stomach if only because she'd most likely maim him. He doesn't profess his undying love since she already knows that too and he doesn't bring up the prospect of their boss because, frankly, Gibbs just doesn't belong in here right now. . . .

"What're you thinking?" she asks, eyes never straying from the fixed point above them.

He sighs, drawing himself up to lean against the headboard. "Hmm . . . . I'm thinking . . . . that I am really excited. I mean, I'm nervous as all hell, but I'm excited. How about you? How'd you feel about this?" And now he dares to reach out and pick her hand up in his, toying with her fingers as she gathers up her thoughts.

And she takes a few minutes to answer, licks her lips a few times, a quick dart of a pink tongue and she is the epitome of stalling. And then she turns her face toward him, her eyes bright and perhaps a little damp, and grins. "I am terrified," she admits, "but I am also happy. This is a happy thing, yes?"

"A very happy thing," he agrees. Then, his voice softer, he asks gently, "Can I touch you now?"

Her gaze shifts down to their linked hands. "I don't know, Tony, can you?"

And he scoots over and wraps her up in his arms, kissing her forehead and nose before settling on her lips. "We can do this," he whispers in her ear and she cranes her neck around to peer up at him.

"Was there ever any doubt?"