Em ... okay. Anyone remember that about six months ago, I think, I wrote a fic called Survival? Well, here's a sequel to it :D it remains a one-shot for now for two reasons: 1) My writing style apparently changed somewhat between then and now; 2) I've forgotten most of the information I looked up to write that fic.
But I wrote this months ago, intending to make it a multi-chapter sequel, and things got in the way for a moment so I never posted it. I have given this a generic title in the hopes that I may someday continue it. I still hope you like it!
I don't own NCIS.
Enjoy!
-Soph
Life
It was so different.
Seeing her like this; like a young girl stepping out into the unknown for the first time. He wondered if she'd looked like that on her first day of work at Mossad.
No. They were two distinct things, of that he was sure. Mossad had been her life; even before joining it, her father had brought it home in the scent of his clothes and the gunpowder on his fingers. It was something that was familiar to her, no matter how secretive, how dark, and how deadly. It was something she had known how to handle before she had even fired her first kill shot. Cancer was different. Cancer had not been part of her life, and it had not been familiar to her. She did not know how to handle it.
Well, that's why he was there, right?
He ignored the little voice in his head that told him he didn't know any better how to help her anyway and stepped closer to take up her hand. She was cold, so cold. Her lips pressed together so tightly, as if to keep herself from screaming out.
He ignored, again, the little voice that said she might well have been doing that. He took up her other hand too, and started rubbing both of them in between his. She shot him a look that suggested she thought he was crazy. "You're cold," he simply explained, and she didn't reply. They both knew by now that comfort came in unconventional ways.
xoxo
She started trembling when the hairstylist came towards her.
Hairstylist. That was an ironic word for someone whose head was about to be shaved.
The first of her hair had fallen out that morning. He hadn't been there to hold her when it'd actually happened, because even if he was at her place a lot of the time, he didn't live there. She wouldn't let him stay, except for the first few days after her first round of chemo. They were only partners, after all. Work partners – the kind they were – didn't live together.
So he'd driven around at the usual hour to pick her up for work, and she hadn't been downstairs waiting for him. He'd called her cell, concerned. She'd picked up after an eternity and said only three words in a voice that had sounded heartbreakingly close to crying – Tony … my hair.
He'd understood at once. He'd called Gibbs as he raced up the stairs to her apartment, and Gibbs had understood at once, too. Poor Gibbs, though. These days, their team was missing two members more often than not.
He'd unlocked her door with the set of keys that he had and checked every room until he found her in her bedroom, sitting at the edge of her bed and staring at her pillow like she saw the end of her life on it. It wasn't the end of her life, of course, it couldn't be, but that was hardly the point at the moment. The point was that she needed him.
So he'd taken her into his arms and she'd buried her face into his shoulder. And he knew things were bad when he couldn't even stroke her hair as a form of comfort. Neither of them exactly needed to see more of her strands fall ungracefully onto her pillow.
He'd convinced her to visit a hair salon. Warm water and some gentle scalp massage would probably have done the trick, but he didn't think she needed to watch herself lose her hair in that manner. Shaving was better, even if it was kind of pointless by now.
And so, that was why she was sitting in the chair, trembling and trembling as she watched the razor pull away her hair. He tightened his grip on her hands; if she didn't stop shaking soon, the hairstylist would probably nick her by accident.
Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. The hairstylist was done far too slowly, and at their feet lay what had once been her beautiful brown locks. And yeah, it did hurt his heart a lot to see that, because he had always loved her hair.
It didn't matter though, because he had always loved her more. He refocused his attention on her and helped her out of the chair, and she trembled in his embrace. He kissed her forehead gently, paid the salon, and pulled her out of the shop, all the while holding her close to him.
xoxo
He settled her onto the couch after they got back to her apartment, and moved away to make her some tea, but she clung onto the jacket of his suit with one hand. The slight pulling almost went unnoticed by him, but he was used to her drastically weakened movements by now. It wasn't always physical; sometimes, she just didn't have enough fight left in her to keep up the pretence of being strong.
He turned back and her imploring eyes met his, and various emotions dashed across her face as she struggled to keep her pride. In the end she let go of him with a tiny shudder that ran through her. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips once more, drawing her knees up to curl into her couch. That was simply how she convinced herself – and him – that she didn't need him.
He paid no heed, anyway. She opened her eyes as he sat down and pulled her into his lap, stretching out her legs over the couch. She curled into him this time, pressing her cheek into his shirt much like the first day they had … cuddled, for the lack of a better word. They stayed quiet for a long time.
"Do we have to go in to work?" she finally asked. That question would've surprised him if it'd come from any other person.
"No. Gibbs gave us the day off."
"Even you?"
"Even me."
"Oh." She fell quiet, and when she spoke again her voice was soft. "How do I look?"
He paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. There were two sides to his answer, really. One was that she didn't look very well, because no one ever looked gorgeous when they were sick. Another was that she always looked stunning to him, simply because she was her, and he loved her.
He settled for an answer between the two. "Fancy new haircut."
She stilled in his arms, and he looked down just in time to see her eyes well up. It was then that he considered kicking himself, but decided against it because he would have to put her down in order to do that.
He hastened to correct his mistake. "I didn't mean that, Zi. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pressed another kiss to her forehead.
She wiped at her face. "It's okay."
"No, it's not. But … I really do like it."
"Don't be stupid. How could you like me bald?"
"I do. Doesn't matter what kind of hair you're wearing. You've always been beautiful to me, Ziva."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
She sighed and touched her head with the tips of her fingers. "My ima used to say that hair was a woman's crowning glory."
"Yeah?"
"She would brush Tali's and my hair every morning, before I cut it short, when I was eight … she refused to brush it again after that. She was hurt by my decision. But I was always my father's girl. Short hair is easier for training … I kept it long again at fifteen when he said that it would attract men. It was good in my line of work. Abba was right.
"My hair served good purposes." Her tone flattened. "I never realized how attached I am to it u-until now, and I have lost it."
"It'll grow back after the chemo."
"It is not…that simple. Tony, if I had voluntarily shaved, I would not mourn it…because I would have had a choice. Like I did when I cut my hair. But now…" She swallowed. "I am … sick. And I do not need this reminder."
"So don't take it as a reminder. Take it as a…new experience," he faltered. It sounded awful even as he said it.
"Who wants to experience cancer?"
He bit his lip. "I didn't mean it like that."
She lifted a hand and draped it softly over his other shoulder. "I know."
They fell silent once more, and he looked down at the beautiful woman in his arms. She was so beautiful. He could say that without its having to be a lie. She was so strong, so independent; so much like a ninja chick in more ways than one. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
She looked up, puzzled.
He drew back, suddenly uncertain of the perhaps too-intimate contact. "What?"
She blinked at him once, twice. "Nothing," she sighed before glancing away again. "We need to get a wig."
"Oh." He paused. "Where do we get one?"
"Hair shops, I guess," she answered listlessly.
"Ziva."
"Yes."
"We don't have to do this, you know. If you don't want to."
"I have to. I need it for work."
"You could just tell them you're trying a new style."
"Yes. And they would believe me."
"Well…" He scratched his head in frustration at his inability to help. "I don't know."
She tapped her fingers on his shoulder lightly, contemplatively. "I want to."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I just need some time … to … adjust."
"Okay. Well, we can go whenever you want."
She offered him a small smile. "Thanks."