Disclaimer: Screw you, pothole.

Spoilers: End of season 7 with added presumptuousness that there will be happy endings for those not intimately involved with the operations of a drug cartel.

Summary: Ziva has an owie while running and has to decide who to call for help. It's not Ghostbusters.

Ziva didn't need to stand up to know that she was going to be finishing the rest of her run at an awkward walk, if not in a cab. Her instinct was to push herself to her feet quickly, although there was really no reason to be concerned about getting wetter; a heavy mist had been soaking through her clothes for the past hour, meeting the sweat moving in the opposite direction. Rolling from her side to a sitting position, she gently touched her right ankle. There was already some swelling she couldn't pretend was the product of a bunched up sock. She stood carefully, allowing most of her weight to shift to her left leg. A tentative step resulted in a quick course correction as she lunged for a parking meter's support.

She took a deep breath and glanced around to get her bearings. NCIS was about four blocks away, her apartment and wallet a mile and a quarter. She had no money, so a cab was out of the question. Had she really been away from Moussad so long that she couldn't grit out a short walk on a sprained ankle? Or remember to carry some emergency cash? Her hand instinctively moved to her waistband. Rule number nine was not being broken. What was the Ninth Amendment again? Random rights? It didn't really matter now that she had been granted citizenship; real Americans didn't seem very concerned about their Constitutional rights until they were perceived to be infringed.

She had yet to decide if real Americans were suspicious of strangers approaching them with big stupid grins on their faces. She opted to stay in her comfort zone and kept her hand in place on the handle of her knife as a somewhat heavyset jogger paused a few steps away.

After a few gasps and another dumb grin, he asked, "You okay?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I saw you slip on that manhole cover. You were real graceful as you went down."

"Yes, well…I will be fine."

He reached out and caught her arm as she stumbled on her first step, her ankle collapsing. "Whoa. Take it easy. You should sit down." She resisted his touch until she realized he was pointing to a stoop sheltered by an awning a short way down the sidewalk.

"Oh. Thank you."

"I'd offer to call you a cab, but I don't take my phone with me. Probably should."

She shook her head with self-directed aggravation. "That I remembered to bring."

"I like to leave mine at home so this can be Fred-time." He chuckled as she limped beside him on the short walk. "I just started jogging six months ago. Don't think I go fast enough to have a wipeout like that. But, y'know, like I said, graceful."

She thanked him as she sank onto the top step of the building and fished through the front pocket of her yellow windbreaker for her cell phone. She scrolled past the top three names she would have previously considered before selecting McGee. He was already at the office, for what reason she didn't ask, and agreed to pick her up. Fred looked at her expectantly; she looked back, wondering why he was still standing in front of her.

His dumb grin reappeared as he asked, "Your boyfriend gonna pick you up?"

"No, one of my coworkers."

Instead of continuing on his jog, Fred sat beside her on the stoop. "So your boyfriend's outta town, then?"

Her hand was again on her knife. "That is a strange question."

He shrugged and leaned back on the steps. "Like I said, I've been jogging for the past six months a couple mornings a week and the two of you usually zip past me. You're probably going too fast to notice."

She looked at him more carefully, but decided only that he could be familiar. Wanting to offer some repayment for his kindness, she said, "Ah. You have lost weight since the first time we saw you."

"Yup." He patted his still-sizeable stomach in a self-satisfied way. "Still got a ways to go, but I think twenty-seven pounds is a good start. Not like I'm aiming to look like your guy, but then my wife doesn't look like you, either, so I guess it evens out. Mostly for my health, anyway. Doc says I gotta lower the ol' HDLs. Or LDLs. I can never remember which one is the bad one."

Though she had not yet decided if she found Fred endearing or tedious, Ziva was pleased when she saw a blue Charger come around the corner. McGee jumped out of the driver's seat almost before the car had stopped and ran toward her. "Ziva! Are you all right?"

Noting that his hand was on his weapon, she smiled reassuringly. "I am okay, McGee. I slipped and sprained my ankle."

"Really?"

"Gotta watch out for the wet metal," Fred said. "Well, your friend is here, so I'll say feel better and hope to see you out again soon."

"Thank you. Keep up the good work."

He sucked in his gut. "Maybe you won't even recognize me the next time you see me!" He waved and chugged off down the street.

McGee offered her a hand and helped her stand. She placed his arm around her waist to eliminate any confusion on his part; he had been all hovering touches and embarrassed blushing when she had dragged him tipsily onto the dance floor at the bar Abby had taken them to after her naturalization ceremony. He appeared less self-conscious now as he helped her into the front passenger seat. "Are you comfortable?"

"Not particularly, but there is nothing to do about it at the moment."

He frowned at her with his hands on his hips. "Maybe you should sit in the back seat so you can stretch out and elevate your ankle on the way to the hospital."

"Don't be dramatic, McGee. Just take me to NCIS."

"But…"

"I will ask Ducky to take a look when he comes in, okay?"

Still frowning, he closed the door and circled around the back of the car. She regretted her choice to stay in the front seat after the second pothole jarred her injury against the footwell. McGee responded to her quick intake of air with renewed concern. "Are you sure you want to go to the office? You're hurt and you're, um, still in your running clothes and…"

"It is just a sprain and I have clothes in my desk."

"Am I the only one who keeps actual work in my desk?" They shared a laugh and he was quiet, allowing her to focus on not giving any demonstrable sign of pain with every bump. When they pulled into the NCIS parking lot, he finally asked, "How did you know I was at work this early?"

She shrugged, more concerned than ever with hunting down and maiming whoever had invented speed bumps. "I did not."

His voice was quiet and close to her ear as he helped her limp toward the building. "I take it Tony couldn't pick you up?"

"I assume he could have, but I called you first."

"Really?" He seemed to remember at the last moment that he shouldn't let go of her waist. "Why?"

"Because I knew you would come."

He allowed her to lean against the wall of the elevator as they rode up to the bullpen. "I take it you two haven't made up yet?"

"Made up for what? We were not fighting."

"Ziva, I'm not stupid. DiNozzo has always been number one on your speed-dial. You're still mad at him for missing your ceremony."

"Not at all. He was working."

"I know." She waited for McGee to help her out of the elevator, but he remained where he was as the doors opened.

She lurched toward the bullpen. "We spoke when he returned from Mexico, after Jackson was rescued. He took me to dinner at Angelo's."

"Maybe you should talk again."

"McGee…" It was hard to turn and face him, mostly due to her throbbing ankle.

He put his arm around her waist again and half-dragged her toward her desk. "Things aren't normal between you two yet. He should be the one carrying you into the bullpen right now. And complaining about having to wake up early to pick you up."

She resisted the urge to comment that McGee was not carrying her, saying, "There is nothing wrong between Tony and I."

"Then what's changed?"

This was not something she was willing to share at the office just yet. She pulled away from him to sit in her chair and retrieve some clothes from her desk. "Can you turn off the security cameras in the squad room for five minutes?"

The request was odd enough to completely distract him from his line of questioning. "I can, but…why?"

"Would you prefer to help me change in the bathroom?"

"Give me thirty seconds." The greater balance of the time was spent escaping from the bullpen after he had confirmed the cameras were off. She smiled as she watched him go. Predictable, but in a good way. She would not have cared about being caught changing her clothes on video if not for McGee's sensibilities. A quick glance around told her that she was alone and she peeled her pants off, being as careful as possible with her right leg. If Tony were here, he wouldn't be able to help her out of her clothes fast enough; that was the major reason she hadn't called him. Maybe. She pushed it out of her head as she focused on changing into dry, slightly wrinkled clothes.

McGee returned ten minutes later, placing a plastic bag full of ice on her desk. "Ducky won't be in for awhile, so you should keep it up and ice it and…" He grabbed Tony's chair and dragged it over for her. "I could still take you to the ER, if…"

"Not necessary."

"Right. Then I'll be back with coffee in a little while."

Ziva was less than halfway through composing an email that didn't sound unintentionally accusatory when an unexpected voice came from over her shoulder, "Hey, where's my chair?"

She flinched as she tried to turn toward the partition and bumped her ankle. "What are you doing here so early?"

Tony waggled his eyebrows. "Clearly, I'm catching a furniture thief. Is this a new thing?"

"What?"

"Well, usually you just waltz over and take my stuff when I'm sitting here. Did you come in early to do a little typing and…whoa." She was afraid that he had glimpsed what was on her screen, but he was staring at the place the bag of ice had slipped. "It's like you have another foot trying to pop out the side there. No wonder I'm supposed to drag you downstairs. I don't know how long it takes to set up the x-ray thing, but Ducky said he's brewing you some tea too, so…"

"Wait, Ducky is here early too?"

"Yeah, early morning McGee promised me donuts, so don't get all gushy on me." He dropped his bag and coat on his desk before turning back to her. "So, are you limping or do I have to carry you?"

She was almost tempted, but replied, "I can limp."

"Okay, so I can just sit here and nap until my donuts get here. Well, go on. Limp, limp."

She saved the draft of her email and pulled her leg off his chair. "I suppose you'll need this?"

"Come on. I wasn't really gonna make you crawl down there yourself." He smelled like he'd overcompensated with cologne as he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted. "Ducky'd yell at me."

She didn't speak until they were mostly stationary, standing in the elevator. "Thank you."

"Hey, I figured you'll be doing most of my paperwork while you're stuck on desk duty and using my chair as a medical apparatus. Least I can do is offer a little support." He gave her a look that begged a snitty reply.

She decided maybe it wasn't so bad running alone, on a short term basis.