A/N: Many thanks to Annoymous033 for betaing this for me. I couldn't do what I do without her. I know many of you are waiting for updates on other stories and I promise they are coming. At the moment I am finishing student teaching and I don't have a lot of time to write. I wrote this one day because I was massively inspired and needed a break. Thanks for reading and reviewing! I appreciate it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to NCIS or its characters. I swear.

Contact

Never underestimate the power of contact; the power of any kind of contact. She's experienced many different kinds. She's spent months undercover using contact to her advantage. She experiences everyday contact with her co-workers. The heavy contact brought on by desperation and loss is another she is familiar with. The lost touch of those that she had felt she loved. The safety of a hug is one she needs to fear no longer. She has even experienced contact brought on by malicious intent and pain used with torturous precision to get her to speak. But this? This contact is completely different.

The confusing aspect is that contact does not have to happen for her to feel that he is around. It's innate. She just instinctively knows that it is him. It unnerves her how in tune she is with him. It's as if she has been near him her entire life. Only, in the great scheme of things, she has not known him all that long. His presence alone takes up a room even when she is across it. Yet, when they actually make contact?

The touch alone sets her on fire. She can feel more than ever before when he dares to cross into her personal space. She puts up a front only to show the rest of the world her hesitancy. His eyes laugh each time she does it. She usually smiles in return, destroying her front. It doesn't bother her though. For some reason, she is absolutely comfortable with him. There is nowhere else she would want to be.

Tonight is different. Tonight there is no show of fear or worry when his hand rests against her back. She looks at him with curiosity. He smiles and it eases her tense nerves. There is something comforting and right about this moment, about this feeling. Her heartbeat is steady and sure. There is no acceleration in her breathing or her step. In fact, she slows down, wishing to enjoy the moment. He accepts her lean by wrapping his arm around her shoulder, balancing her weight.

"I have a question for you," he whispers into her hair. She smiles at the feeling of closeness they currently share. All of it baffles her because she has never felt this feeling before.

"What might that question be?" she teases. Her head does not move from the spot on his chest.

"What are we doing?"

"Riding in the elevator," she answers. His opposite hand reaches out to stop the moving silver box. The small space gets darker and a bit of claustrophobia sets in. She unconsciously moves closer to him searching for some small comfort in the cold metal space. Much has changed since the last time she was here. She no longer feels the need to hide her emotions around him.

"What are we doing, Ziva?" he asks her more directly. His arm moves from the comfortable position on her shoulder to be more forceful. Both hands grip her to prove the gravity of the situation. They are in too deep to let it all go. They have gone too far to end it all now, but something must change. They can no longer stay where they are at for it will drive them both insane if they do.

"Waiting," she responds.

"Waiting for what?" he asks. His voice is slightly higher and louder than it was before. It sets her nerves on edge. She can never understand why his apprehension sets her on edge as well. She ponders it only momentarily. He needs an answer. She just wishes she could give him a concrete one.

"Waiting for the right moment," she admits. He only stares at her with complete shock. She knows her confusion is evident on her face. It is still new for her to show it. It only stays there long enough for him to register it; and then she lets it disappear.

"When is that going to be?" he asks. She shrugs and flips the switch on the elevator. They need to get down to see Abby, or McGee will wonder what's happened to them. Gibbs is sure to know that something has gone on, but that cannot be helped.

She almost waits too long. It's a routine operation; one she deeply wishes to be a part of. The team, minus her, is taking down a suspect. Yesterday, she had suffered a concussion while apprehending the person they were originally misled to think was the suspect. He's still in holding for assaulting an officer, but he was cleared of all murder charges, which, for a man with a record as long as his … is fairly significant.

She's hooked up to a headset so that she can communicate with all three men on the ground. They are each wearing a camera. She monitors them all with an accuracy only she can boast. The team is clearing room after room at lightning speed. She jokes with Tony about how they would already be done if she were there. Gibbs silences them. Her eyes flit from screen to screen, looking for the interruption. McGee breathes loudly into her com, making her fidget.

It's subtle, but she catches it. A shadow moves from one camera to another. Her warning fails to reach past her lips. The sound of a gunshot cuts it off. Her middle camera goes down and turns to look at the ceiling. McGee's breathing gets louder. Gibbs is screaming something in her ear. Abby is behind her a moment later. The goth wraps her in a hug and the com from her ear. Her breathing is ragged and heavy.

"You were screaming," Abby whispers, "you need to calm down, Ziva." She pulls back from Abby to stare at her. She doesn't remember making a sound, let alone screaming. Abby just nods her head, reaffirming the fact that she had lost it all for a moment. Her eyes move back toward the camera, but Abby shuts it off before she can see anything.

"Abby …" she protests.

"No, Ziva. None of us need to see what is on that camera."

She gets to look at the image on the camera two weeks later. Tony is sleeping in Abby's lab after he had argued to come in for a half-day. Gibbs and Director Vance had allowed it, but it had taken some convincing for her. The hospital had kept him for a week. Thankfully, it had been a through-and-though shot. It took out muscle, no bone, no nerves. The cracked ribs he had received from the vest taking three were a different story. Bump one of those ribs and it could break, putting him in a world of pain.

The tape is sitting on Abby's lab table, clearly labeled. The Internal Affairs office had requested it to make sure that everything had been done by the book in the investigation. Whenever someone gets hurt, they gather evidence. It's more frequent when one of the most prominent agents is out of commission for more than a week due to his injuries. She glances at his sleeping figure before inserting the DVD.

The scene just before he had fallen plays on the big screen in front of her. She watches, her attention completely committed to the screen as she walks around the lab table. There is complete silence. This camera only had one function; to record video. She can hear her own voice in her mind going through the moment. The camera twists and she is staring at the ceiling once again. What feels like an eternity later, Gibb's face enters the screen. A drop of something distorts the picture. At first, she thinks it might be water from the ceiling. Upon closer inspection as the video continues forward, more of the liquid is added. The camera moves into the light and a red sheen to the liquid is discovered. Tony's blood is covering the camera lens.

The DVD shuts off. The only sound in the room is her breathing and … someone else's. Initially, she thinks Abby has come back from updating McGee on their most recent case. It's then she detects the slight wheeze that can only be attributed to him. She flinches at the thought. He's seen exactly what she had been watching.

"If you wanted to watch a movie, I can recommend better ones," he quips. She doesn't move. She is more comfortable staring at a blank screen than staring at him. His left hand comes up to rest in between her shoulder blades. She flinches at the touch and he pulls away quickly. She can feel the hurt radiating off of him. His initial warmth is taken away as his shoes click, sounding his retreat. It all makes her want to scream.

"Tony …" she starts, but cuts herself off. Her body refuses to turn around and face him. There is nothing she can think to say. The atmosphere in the room chokes her. It's as if all of the oxygen has been forced out of the room, and she is gasping in vain. Her ears ring as her lungs refuse to fill with their precious life source. A movement beside her causes her innate senses to take over. A simple, yet needed, reflex occurs; her head turns.

Her arm reaches out to grasp his before he can reenter the office he had occupied moments before. An explanation is warranted; her mind is begging her to speak. Her skill with languages is of no use to her here. The one language she needs is the one she cannot find. Her eyes flicker to his face. There are harsh lines where once there were none. Her heartbeat accelerates as thoughts whirl through her troubled mind. She could lose him over this, but her lips refuse to speak.

She finds another use for them.

A/N: Thoughts?