A/N: Don't even point out the deadline that I've long surpassed. . . . . Here we go, just in time for the premier. Let me know what you think, this one was troublesome. Much love and keep the peace, Kit.

DISCLAIMER: Nada.

V.

Return Trip to Washington, D.C., United States of America from Somewhere in Mexico: 1518.8 miles

They've already hammered out a relatively concrete plan: Move quickly and quietly because, once again, they're on borrowed time.

And he's beginning to hate non-sanctioned black ops in foreign countries against hostile parties and the wholly unknown. After all, he's not an idiot and the last time a similar scenario played out, they very nearly died. This time, well, almost has to run out eventually –it's inevitable.

He fixes her with a look, one that conveys too much emotion and the feelings that simmer beneath his ocean gaze are nearly blinding in their intensity, the sum of it all close to too much and it scares her when she identifies with what all he's not saying.

He will not be leaving without Gibbs.

And he'll be damned if he leaves without her this time too.

She's already predisposed to not re-boarding aircrafts and he doesn't think he'll be able to take not having her there again. Eight months in two years and that's enough separation for a lifetime, thank you very much.

I'm not leaving without you either.

And neither of them do leave because the plane's mighty maw yawns open and the object to their retrieval is standing there, frowning in the sunlight, dusty and pissed, but alive and there.

He decides Marines must be like boomerangs.

Israeli ex-assassins? Not so much.

Tony's solid presence beside her keeps her anchored and prevents her from dwelling on the uncanny parallelism of similar flight with the same bitter silence from the not-so-distant past. Her hand is warm in his underneath the careful cover of the blanket.

The rules ought to span into the hundreds before this entire whatever-it-is is over.

The pilot's disembodied voice heeds them of impending turbulence and the irony there runs deep, a foreshadowing of what's to come.

She hopes that the cosmic heads-up is a good sign.

It takes him a moment to gather his bearings and put them in an order that offers some semblance to coherency. The monotonous drone of the turboprop quartet reverberates around the metal belly of the C-130 he finds himself in and here is when reality comes flooding back in.

Mexico.

Franks.

Bodies.

Reynosa cartel.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, finally realizing that the mother of all migraines currently has his skull under siege and that the hit he took to the jaw is the cause of dull throb in his face.

And damn he needs coffee.

He stretches out as best he can, the canvas sling he's sitting in inhibiting satisfactory movement. He joints pop in protest and he would wager he has half of a Mexican beach residing on his skin, but his comfort is the least of his troubles.

His team is in danger.

The plane pitches forward and echoes of a turbulence warning ricochet around his headspace, but he can't quite grasp the thought process . . . . A shift in his peripheral vision draws his attention to the two partners dozing across from him.

Tony's head is tilted back, resting against the canvas netting that comprises their seats. His once impeccable suit is going to need a serious steaming to chase out the wrinkles and creases that have fissured across his pressed shirt. And he could have sworn the younger man had been wearing a tie . . . . . Ziva dozes beside him, her cheek pillowed on Tony's shoulder, her mouth slightly gaping as a soft snore escapes her throat. At some point she's taken her hair down and it now tumbles loosely around her shoulders and face and Tony. Their sharing a complimentary blanket, the cheap fleece spread over both their laps and if it was anyone else, he might think it sweet.

But it's Tony and Ziva and yet . . . . He cannot find the energy to be pissed off.

Because they've finally found each other and he certainly can't fault them for that. They love each other and he loves them and if nobody loved anybody they wouldn't be in this tangled mess. Because there would be nothing (no one) for Reynosa to barter with. He could simply take bullet and be done with it and not have to worry himself or anyone else.

Instead, he reaches a renewed conviction: This is exactly what he must protect at all costs. His team and his family, these people that he cares about against better judgment. They cannot be collateral damage to his transgressions, Reynosa cannot get to them.

He couldn't save Shannon and Kelly all those years ago, but he will save his people now. And if that costs him his life, he will gladly pay . . . .

"This is 150 grains of lead lined belief hitting your heart at the speed of a synaptic impulse . . . . This is life with the safety off . . . . . This is love . . . . .

Fire at will."

FIN