The muse takes me where it wants to go. This was the end result. Based on a gif on tumblr. Enjoy.
She looks worse for wear most days. Her body is drained, she appears stressed, she cries then goes into long periods of silence that worry Tony to death. He's never seen her this way before, and he's gone through two weeks of his wife being more emotionally distant than he's ever witnessed.
They've both gone through the mill in the past month. Ziva had given birth to a stillborn son. Their son. She hasn't been the same since. Shut off, crying alone in the bedroom and barely speaks a word. Tony literally is at the end of his tether. The last time she let him hold her was the night in the hospital a few hours after their boy had made an unfortunate appearance in the world without a breath or possibility to grow and see the world through his own eyes.
Her control had slipped that night, crashed and burned would be more appropriate to say. She'd burst into tears, he had too. He'd held her as hard as he could, cradling her, rocking her in his arms as she screamed and they grieved together for the son they'd never know.
He still aches over that day; the loss of his little boy, stripped of being father before he had a chance to prove himself and the rapid breakdown of Ziva. God knows she'd had enough emotional trauma and distress in her life, she didn't need anymore. He really didn't either.
He tries for the fourth time today to get her to eat, offering no more than a sandwich and a glass of water with a few sparse words with traces of begging. He doesn't stay by her side to make sure she eats because he knows from experience that she'll merely sit there silently, stare at the plate in front of her and act like he isn't in the room.
He feels slightly better when he peeks from the kitchen to see a quarter of the sandwich eaten and a little less water in the glass. It's a start.
*#*#*#*
She's napping in their room, at least he hopes she is, when his cell goes off. He rubs a tired hand across his even more tired face and answers with a voice that clearly shows his unhappiness and exhaustion. "Hello?"
"Hey, Tony." Tim had been calling most days, he suspects it's because Delilah gave him a push to do it, she's called herself, as she and Tony get along really well, but Tim is the only one out of the two who really knows Ziva as well as Tony. This is the third call this week from his friend, and it's something Tony strangely craves.
"I wanted to check in. See how you are." That's his usual opening line during the short conversations; he asks how Tony is doing first, then drifts to how Ziva is and Tony very nearly breaks when he pictures his wife crying, curled on their bed and constantly rejecting his embraces. He never tells McGee about that though.
"I'm tired, Tim." Exhausted, drained, stressed, upset, angry, sad. "I can't wait for the day to be over."
"What about Ziva?"
"No change." She's still as quiet and distant as ever. "I'm at a loss, McGee. I don't know what to do."
"I wish… I wish I could give you some advice. But anything I say won't make it any easier for you."
Tony's head drops in resignation. He's been desperately seeking advice for a while, looking for words of wisdom and support that could give him the strength to get through each day and deal with the loss. He needed an anchor, and right now his own anchor was more visibly broken than he was.
*#*#*#*
When he comes to check on her later, the bed is empty. The sheets rumpled on her side and the collection of sonograms on the bedside table. She clearly hadn't slept like he'd hoped.
Turning to follow the sound of running water, he picks up her pajamas pooled at the bathroom doorway. He folds them neatly and places them back on her pillows. He hesitates before entering the bathroom, careful, controlled movements as he eases the door open slowly. "Ziva?"
He doesn't get a response, but he honestly didn't expect one. He can just make out her silhouette through the curtain, she's stood under the shower head, hunched slightly, head lowered. It's the thing that pushes him to strip down and join her in the shower. It's not the first time he's done this since it happened; she usually tenses, he washes her hair and no words are exchanged.
"It's just me." When he steps in, she tenses as expected, makes no effort to turn around. The water that flows across the tub beneath his toes is cold. Very cold. He doesn't make a move towards her, she's barely given him any indication over the past two weeks that she wants any physical comfort from him at all, so he remains rooted to the spot as he watches her shoulders drop and the awkward tension leave her body.
His heart aches for her. The woman who should be the mother of his child in no less than three weeks, when their son was supposed to be born. The woman he married; the one he promised to protect and support and love regardless of the hardships that could come their way. He just never imagined a stillborn birth on their list of hardships to overcome.
In the end, moving to hold her, finally, is because she turns and her eyes are red rimmed and she meets his gaze briefly before he enveloped her, one hand low on her back and one stroking her hair. Her arms come up to rest against his back as she leans into his collarbone and breathes.
He closes his eyes and pulls her closer. God, he really has missed holding her. Right now, circumstances don't matter, he's got her and he'll be her goddamn anchor forever if she needs him to.
"It's not supposed to be this way." She grounds out against his damp skin, her fingers digging into his back just a bit more. He thinks that no, it isn't supposed to be this way. They're supposed to be eagerly awaiting their baby boy's arrival and finishing off the nursery. Packing the bag for the hospital visit when she goes into labour. Or deciding which cute outfit their son would wear when he first comes home.
Not dealing with the loss of him. The loss of their son. Their little Jacob Avery. "No, it isn't."
A/N: I'm tired.