She watched, across the dim room, as her boss said his goodbyes to the rest of his team. The men took it in stride, with merely looks of shock on their face as he made his intentions clear. Maybe this was because they were men, or because they knew this was coming, but still it surprised her that they could keep themselves in check so well. She knew how close this team was, knew how important the older man was to everyone in the room, and, though she was somewhat unfamiliar with overt displays of emotion, she wasn't entirely sure that, in their positions, she could have managed the same.

She was relieved that, as he made his way to her, she was able to slip into her Mossad training—she didn't allow the sound of his voice to affect her. She merely nodded, and promised to collect on his debt, then turned to watch him enter the elevator. When the doors slid closed, taking him away from his team forever, she heard a quiet sob. Abby.

The Goth's eyes were glued to the elevator for several more seconds, maybe hoping that he would come back out and tell them that it was all a joke. When he didn't, she took a few unsteady steps backwards, before letting out a louder, more painful sob and turning to run from the room. McGee moved as though to go after her, but Tony grabbed his arm before he could. Neither of the men said anything, but a look of understanding passed between them.

The room felt empty, strange now with the knowledge that their leader would not return. Drawing in a breath, Ziva packed several files into her bag and left, still without speaking to the others. She had every intention of going home, sitting at her kitchen table with the files and a cup of very strong tea and the familiar, not-so-strange silence of her own house. Instead, she found herself taking a detour to Abby's lab.

She couldn't say why she went. The last time she'd been in this lab, she'd been made to bear the brunt of Abby's fear and frustration...and then did the exact same thing to the other woman. She knew that the forensic scientist would undoubtedly prefer to be alone with her feelings, and would probably explode at her again for daring step foot in the scientific fortress. Because of this, she hovered outside the door for many moments, scanning the room for any sign of movement.

There she was. Crumpled on the floor, back resting against a boxy machine, with her knees pulled to her chest as though to protect herself from—well, from anything. Ziva crossed the room quietly to her, but got the feeling that even if she had been clog-dancing across the linoleum, the other woman would not have heard a sound. She did, however, notice when Ziva sank to her knees beside her, and treated her unwelcome visitor to a hateful glare. Ziva was unfazed—the effectiveness of such a glare is significantly reduced when one's eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by makeup running with one's tears.

"What do you want?" Abby demanded, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. What did she want? She wanted to go home. She wanted to be by herself, not with this woman who wanted her to disappear most of the time. What she wanted clearly did not matter at the moment, and thus, she had no response. A few moments went by in not-entirely-comfortable silence, and then Abby rose to her feet, wiping her eyes and sniffling to try to regain control of—well, of everything.

Ziva rose as well, and offered her a clean but crumpled tissue from her pocket. Abby glared at her yet again, incredulous, but finally accepted the token. The tiny acceptance held much significance for Ziva, who smiled—but only faintly—as Abby turned away from her to wipe her face and blow her nose. This simple act encouraged her, gave her the confidence to speak her next words.

"Come. I am taking you home."

Later, Ziva would all but marvel at the fact that she could stand strong and unblinking in front of assassins and criminals, but needed so much confidence in front of Abby. It was part of the reason she had always hated accompanying the rest of the lab for results—that and the fact that Abby had never bothered to hide the way she felt. Ziva had been accepted by Gibbs, Tony, and McGee, but with Abby, it was as though she was always being tested somehow. It had been similar back home, with her father and Ari.

"I don't need your help," Abby said, venom dripping from her words. Ziva didn't bat an eye.

"I do not care. Gather your things."

Ziva had been around long enough to know that when something was bothering Abby, the woman grew steadily more self-destructive. If someone didn't do something, it was likely that she wouldn't leave the lab: she'd just find more and more things to process, tests to run, paperwork to catch up on. She wouldn't sleep for days, and, to make up for it, would probably double her already-dangerous intake of caffeine.

She knew as well as anyone how stubborn Abby could be, and therefore was admittedly shocked when the taller woman didn't argue. Instead, her shoulders slumped forward and she turned on her heel to go into her office. She returned momentarily, surrounded by an air of defeat that shocked Ziva. Hiding this shock well, Ziva gave a slight nod of approval and indicated the door. She would be behind Abby, to discourage any ideas of running that might crop up in that rebellious, pigtailed head of hers.

Ziva guided her to her car—there was no way she was going to drive Abby's hearse, nor would she allow her to drive—and as soon as the doors shut, an even thicker silence settled between them. It was broken only once, by Abby's raspy, sullen voice.

"You don't know where I live."

Ziva glanced at her, and contemplated making sure that the locks were engaged to keep her from jumping out while the vehicle was moving.

"I do not," she agreed.

"Well, don't you need to know? If you're taking me home?"

"I am taking you to my home," Ziva corrected, eyes on the road. Much of her focus was already on trying to drive much more slowly than she usually did. She did not feel like getting pulled over for speeding and risking one of Abby's outbursts. Now she ventured a glance at the woman in the passenger seat, who was gaping at her.

"I don't think so!" came the indignant reply. "I don't even want to be in this car with you—forget being in the same room! Let me out of the car, right now."

She received no answer, other than the revving of the engine as Ziva pressed harder on the gas pedal. In her second stunning display of submission of the night, Abby let the subject go.

Soon, Ziva was pulling up in front of her house and putting the car in place. She looked over at her passenger, who, after falling silent earlier, had pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Her eyes were open staring sightlessly at some point just beyond the window, and she made no movement towards undoing her seat belt and exiting the car.

"You may not sleep in my car," Ziva declared, unfastening the buckle for her.

"You're not my mother," came the reply, sounding for all the world as though it had been spoken by a petulant child. Ziva tried not to laugh.

"That is correct. Get out of the car."

She was tired, drained from the past week, and, as such, was no longer making the effort to mask the irritation in her voice. Abby looked up, maybe shocked, and finally complied. She followed Ziva to the front stoop and waited patiently as she unlocked the front door. Ziva dropped her things on the small table next to the entrance and locked up behind her. She noted that Abby continued to clutch the strap of her purse, as she stood awkwardly in the living room, and felt a pang of pity for the woman make its way through her frustration.

"You have a choice," she declared, making an effort to soften her voice once more. Abby scoffed, and may have muttered a "That's a first" under her breath, but Ziva let it pass. "My couch folds out into a bed, or you may sleep in my bed and I will take the couch. Which one would you like?"

"I don't care," Abby said with a shrug that seemed to say "I'm not going to be sleeping, anyway."

Despite the fact that this whole situation was a direct result of Ziva's own actions, she was done being nice. "Fine," she said. "You will sleep on the couch then. I am going to bed. If you are hungry or thirsty, my kitchen is through there. Do not bother with my television. It is broken." She paused in the doorway, on the off chance that maybe Abby might have something to say to her, but after silence prevailed for a very long moment, she went to leave.

"Who do you think you are?" Ziva turned around, to see that Abby had finally dropped her purse and was now glaring at her with her hands on her hips. "Whatever you're trying to do, it's not working. You can't just drag me here against my will and tell me to go to sleep like—like a good little girl. Unlike you, I actually have feelings. Do you even care that Gibbs is gone? Do you give a shit that he's never coming back to m—to NCIS?" She stalked over to her, her glare somewhat more effective now that she was no longer crying.

Ziva crossed her arms and lifted her chin, fighting against her instincts to keep from pushing Abby away. Their faces were mere inches apart, and Ziva could see in every detail of Abby's face just how long it had been since she'd last slept.

"I care, Abby" she answered, keeping her voice level, dangerously quiet. This was not the first time that she had been tempted to tell someone about Ari, about what she had sacrificed for Agent Gibbs and his team, but tonight, as before, she held her tongue.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it is the truth." Ziva looked down, could see Abby's pulse beating in her neck. Suddenly, she was gripped by a strong desire to place her mouth there, to feel Abby's heart against her lips. Her skin would be soft, and heated by her blood. She would feel real against Ziva's body, and sweet to the taste. She took a moment to regain control of herself, and noticed—at the same time as Abby—that her hands were balled up in fists at her sides.

"Do you want to hit me again, Zee-va?" Abby spat, moving closer. "Do you want to wind up and punch me in the face? Knock me out? Make me bleed?" Ziva did not roll her eyes. She would not roll her eyes. Instead, she turned away from her once more, and walked calmly to her room. Before she had taken more than a few steps, the other called out to her again, the fire and anger in her words slicing through the air. "What do you want, then? Do you want to fuck me?" Ziva's spine stiffened, but she did not turn around. Abby's voice was thick, a sure sign that she would be crying soon. "What are you doing? Why am I here, Ziva? What do you want from me?"

Ziva closed her eyes against the pang that came from hearing Abby sound so lost and, for both of their sakes, did not look over her shoulder at her. "I want you..." she began slowly, and kept her voice low. She heard a soft hitch of breath behind her, and she continued. "To sleep, Abby. I want you to rest."

Without another word, Ziva resumed walking, and locked herself safely in her room for the night. What was she doing?