A/N: I haven't watched an NCIS episode since 11x02, so I have no idea what's going on right now. Please excuse/ignore any canon stomping. Also, here be tropes. Thanks to jsq and jelenamichel for support and illuminating chats.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a Great Emu War poster. The emus won, y'all.

He could probably blame it on the medication he was taking, or the fever, or the fact that he felt like death warmed over, but Tony thought that wearing a hazmat suit to work might not be such a crazy idea. Working the crime scenes would be more difficult, but the extra layers would offer protection from the head slaps. He was pretty sure he could get McGee to write his reports for him if he got the right blackmailing material, so typing wouldn't be an issue. It made perfect sense to him. Hadn't they faced dirty-bomb-arming criminals before? Hadn't he gotten the plague already? Couldn't Vance afford to get him decent protection from McGee's disease spreading rampages?

The probie had come into the office days ago, all stuffed nose and sniffles. He'd tried to cover his sneezes and coughs as best he could with the flimsy barrier of a paper tissue, but Tony knew the bull pen was now a hot zone. The next day, DiNozzo had shown up at the office with a can of Lysol, and whenever Tim so much as blew his nose, he'd spray the space between their desks with disinfectant. The younger agent would give him a dirty look, to which Tony would answer with a variation of the phrase "Get away from me, you walking virus". Sometime around Tony calling him "McTyphoid Mary", McGee had yelled at him—with as much volume as his sore throat allowed—to shut up already. Tony had responded by covering his nose and mouth with a mask he had liberated from Abby's lab, and shooing McGee away telling him that he should consider gargles or a career as a blues vocalist. Then McGee had recovered, and Tony had started to sneeze.

Tony was not going to blame it on karma. He'd much rather blame it on his already frail respiratory system, or the fact that his diet consisted of a delicate balance of coffee and take-out, but whatever virus had caused McGee to display the symptoms of a regular cold had wreaked havoc in DiNozzo's organism, making him feel like dying really wasn't such a bad option after all. He'd shown up at work, a cup of tea in his hand, nose red and eyes watery. He was sure McGee had asked him something, but the probie sounded like he was really far away. He'd collapsed into his chair, and put his head down on his desk, because somehow it had grown about three times its normal size during the previous night. The last thing he remembered seeing was McGee's smirk hovering over him. Sometime later, when he opened his eyes—when had he closed them? Had he fallen asleep?—Gibbs was standing over his desk, glaring at him.

"Had a nice nap, DiNozzo?"

"Sorry, boss." He winced at the sound of his voice. "Do we have a case?"

Somehow, Gibbs' scowl faded, and he'd looked at Tony with something resembling sympathy in his eyes. Ok, yeah, maybe he was dying after all.

"Go home, Tony. I don't need you passing out in the middle of a scene."

Tony thought about protesting, he really did, but then a coughing fit had started, and Gibbs told him something about going to the doctor before walking away.

So, there he was, lying on his couch, deep into a between-dozes Bond marathon with empty bottles of Gatorade and used tissues strewn around him, an assortment of pills and syrups somewhere in the vicinity. His throat didn't feel like sand paper anymore; it just felt dry. He had developed a dull ache all over his chest due to the constant coughing. His nose had stopped working sometime the night before, but he had the whole breathing-through-his-mouth thing down to an art by now. He was sure he wouldn't die from suffocation, or dehydration, but death by coughing-fit was still a viable option. That could happen, right? He'd heard people died of the hiccups sometimes.

He was about to close his eyes again, hoping to avoid at least one of the Dalton-era movies with a nap, when he heard a knock on his door. He didn't move; he didn't even try to. Anyone he would let into his apartment already had the means and knowledge to get in without him opening the door, and the last thing he needed was to have one of his neighbors nagging at him while he struggled to keep down the soup Abby had brought him last night while standing up. He closed his eyes and decided to ignore his flat screen and the outside world for however long his body would allow. He woke up coughing yet again—thank you, Y-Pestis lung scarring—to find someone sitting on his coffee table. He blinked, and fought the urge to sit up when he noticed the dark curls and the worried look on his visitor's face.

"Ziva?" His voice was still somewhere between raspy and high-pitched, which only caused her frown to deepen.

"I heard you were sick, Tony."

He was awake, that much he was certain of, because he still felt like crap. Besides, every time he'd dreamed about Ziva lately, he was not wearing his ratty sweatpants and she was certainly not wearing something she could have worn at court. Scratch that, she'd never looked that hot at court. She did look great, with the shorter hair and the deeper tan. He wished he could smell her, though. He would have taken a lungful of Ziva scent to keep his memories very much alive. He wished he could touch her.

"What are you doing here?" He shouldn't be talking. Of course she would choose a time when he shouldn't talk to suddenly show up. Typical Ziva.

"Cleaning up, apparently." Tony began to notice the lack of used-up tissues and empty bottles littering his table, couch, and floor. A fresh box of tissues sat by her hip, as well as his half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade, and a thermos that hadn't been there before she appeared in his living room. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore." He attempted to clear his throat. Not his brightest idea so far. "Clammy. Gross. Hot, and not in the usual way." He reached out for the bottle right next to her. It would be so easy to reach out and touch her knee. A pencil skirt, really? Of all the times she'd been to his apartment before… well, before… she'd worn a skirt today? He tried not to focus on her tanned legs… and defined calves… and smooth skin. He looked away abruptly, making his head throb. He winced. She really had impeccable timing. "Mostly confused. What are you doing here, Ziva?"

Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes had never shut up. It was a bit too much to process for his cough-syrup fueled brain.

"Like I said, I heard you were sick."

"Keeping tabs on me, ninja?"

That got a smirk out of her as she gave him a once over. "Well, it is my job to watch your six."

He frowned at that, as he felt a twinge in his chest that had nothing to do with his lungs. He looked down at the Ohio State blanket currently bunched at his lap in an attempt to sort out his thoughts. It was her job. It used to be.

No, he didn't want to think about that right now. He shook his head, carefully, before speaking again.

"You came all the way from…" he couldn't remember where she'd last been. The last email from his contacts—her contacts, actually—had come months ago. "…some refugee camp because I am sick?"

"Keeping tabs on me, Tony?" The half-smile on her face looked sad, as did her eyes. He shrugged. He was done talking for now. She took a deep breath and stood up, beginning to walk around his living room. In goddamned high heels. Really, a skirt and high heels? Did she have any idea what the sight of her legs in heels did to him? Or the sight of her backside in that skirt? He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the pillow, fighting the urge to groan. Forget the coughing. His tombstone was going to read "Death by Deprivation".

"I was in DC." He opened his eyes and winced before turning to give her his best death glare. She had been in DC, and this was the first he'd heard of it? "We are trying to get funding to aid the families, and the organization thought I was the right person to come."

She kept slowly walking about the room, looking everywhere without focusing her eyes on anything, especially not him. He continued to glare, seething on the couch. Her explanation made sense—even if he had trouble picturing Ziva being diplomatic or measured enough to request money from anyone—but still, why hadn't she called him? Had she contacted someone else from the team? The same person who'd told her he was sick?

"And what? You lost my number?" His tone was harsh, but the raspy sound didn't help. He saw the change in her stance as he said that, but she didn't stop pacing. "Would you sit down? You're making me dizzy."

He realized how hurt and bitter he was beginning to sound, but damn it, he was angry. He should have known he wouldn't like what she had to say the moment she started walking because, when had Ziva David been able to have a serious conversation while sitting down or standing still? Her expression was painfully neutral as she took her seat on his coffee table again, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes at how uncomfortable she was. He was about to speak again, to ask her what the hell she had been doing for the last couple of years that made it so impossible to write or call. And why the hell she thought it was ok to show up unannounced like that after she'd been in town for days without trying to contact him, but he began coughing, hard. He sat up, trying to make it stop, but the more he tried, the worst it got. His ribs hurt, his head was pounding, and his heart felt like it was trying to make a run from his chest. There were tears in his eyes, and his stomach felt like it was turning over. Not to mention his throat, which now felt like someone had used the sand paper on it before splashing some acid around. He tried reaching up to his chest, hoping to decrease the tension he felt in there by placing his hand on it, when his hand fell over hers. He looked up. When had she moved to sit next to him?

"Look at me, Tony. Breathe with me." Her face was calm and her voice steady, but her eyes nearly undid him. Ziva David could play it cool like the best of them, but right now, she couldn't hide a thing. She was concerned, that much was undeniable, but the warmth in her eyes was deeper, grabbing his attention. Even as he struggled to breathe, he grasped her hand, pressing it against his chest. He began to relax, slowly, as he tried to match his breathing pattern to her deep, timed breaths. "That's it. Slow, easy. Just breathe with me."

He kept focusing on her, on the rise and fall of her chest as she took the deep breaths, on the feeling of her hand under his, the soft warm skin, the gentle yet firm touch. She reached out for something with her other hand, he didn't know what until he felt vapor wafting around his face. The mysterious thermos was now open, and even through his stuffy nose, he could smell something soothing and warm.

"When you're ready, take a sip. Slowly."

He nodded, taking a couple more breaths before grabbing the thermos with his free hand. He inhaled deeply before finally having a taste, the warm liquid washing down his throat like a balm. His heart was still hammering, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the seizure he'd just had or the fact that his fingers and Ziva's were entwined over his chest. He didn't know if she'd felt it, but when her hand reached out to wipe away the stray tears that had escaped his eyes, he had gulped.

"Not crying." He felt the need to explain, still somewhat breathless. This whole thing was so un-Bond-like. Not even Lazenby had been this pathetic in front of the girl.

"I know you're not crying, DiNozzo. Calm down. Drink your tea."

He nodded again, lowering their hands to his lap, and slowly drinking the tea. It really was very good, which wasn't surprising since Ziva had always been good with food and health and all the crap he had sort of forgotten about since… well… before. He was still so conflicted about this whole thing. A part of him wanted to pull her close and hug her and never let go, distance and all this time she hadn't said or written one word to him be damned. Another part wanted to tell her to leave him alone to wallow in his loneliness and his sickness because it was really hard to keep the angry, bitter vibe he had been cultivating while staring at her pretty brown eyes and holding her hand. He could let go of her hand. He would do so. Any second now.

"Good tea."

They'd probably taught her how to do it in Mossad. Super spy ninjas couldn't be taken down with something as simple as a cold, after all, so they probably used enhanced natural remedies to bounce back and kick more terrorist behinds before bed time. She probably didn't need anyone to sit with her while she was sick. She probably hadn't missed him at all.

"Old family recipe. I'll exchange it for your Nonna's tiramisu recipe."

He would have snorted if he could. That pain in his chest got deeper somehow.

"So, fund raising. You're not…" sip of tea "…threatening people to obtain money, are you?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and at any other time, he was sure she would have landed a blow on his arm. Instead, she gave him that same half-smile as before and shook her head before pulling her hand back. Bad result. Very bad result.

"No. If I were doing that, I'd be wearing far more comfortable shoes." She said as she stretched out one leg, pointing her toes. He stared, and made sure he wasn't gaping or anything of the sort. He definitely loved those shoes on her.

"And what a shame that would be." He winked at her, and this time, he got a full playful smile. Good result. Very good result.

"I am sorry I haven't been in touch." She said as she sobered up. "I didn't think I could focus on what I was doing while still…" She took a deep breath and looked away. "I had to disconnect completely if I wanted it to work."

He wanted to resent her for that, and a part of him did. But he could also remember spending months in a boat without being able to call her because he wouldn't be able to take being stuck in that tin can while she was out there. Back then, he'd thought that not knowing was better than knowing something that would increase the pain, so he tortured himself with his thoughts and dulled the pain with alcohol. He didn't have to imagine how she had treated herself. Ziva had a master's degree in self-flagellation, and she numbed the pain with work, whatever that might be. He was glad she had at least found something she could feel proud about. He asked her about it while he finished his tea, about her work and the people. She relaxed as she spoke, becoming animated when talking about the small triumphs and how frustrating it was when people just didn't understand what was going on and what they were trying to do. He understood why they'd sent her. The passion with which she spoke was compelling. Add that to her background, and who wouldn't want to pitch in?

"It sounds like a very worthy cause." An understatement, he knew, but he didn't know how else to put it. He suddenly felt bad too, because, who was he to want to have her with him instead of letting her do something like that? She was being selfless and altruistic while all he wanted was to be able to feel better so he could find a way to bury his hands in her hair and kiss her. He suddenly felt exhausted again, but if he went to sleep, she'd go away, and he couldn't have that.

"When they decided to send me here, I didn't know if I could call." She said. "It's been a long time, and I thought you'd have…" She winced, struggling to find the words. "I didn't think…"

His jaw tightened at that. That was something else he had no idea what to do about. He'd lay awake at night thinking about how he should be able to do it, to find someone so he could move on. But most women had no idea of how to throw a knife and speak a dozen different languages and make a carbonara as good as his Nonna's. He didn't think he could find a woman who could take his breath away while being held hostage as well as while being dressed up for a date. He'd never feel as comfortable with anyone as he felt with her, and no one would ever make him feel so out of his element as she did. How could he find someone and move on? His partner had raised the bar impossibly high.

"No." It was simple enough. "I haven't. You should call. You should always call."

She'd turned to look at him then, the same look on her face as when he'd told her about his mom and the movies, or when he told her how stunning she looked before going out. He loved that look. He had dreams about that look.

"Next time, I will."

He nodded, going for a sip of tea to mask whatever was showing on his face, only to find the thermos empty.

"Tea is gone." He said sheepishly, as he placed the empty container on the table.

"But so is your nasty cough." She grinned, and her eyes were happy again. The pain in his chest wouldn't give up, though, and words piled up on his throat while he swallowed to make them go away. It was a lost battle.

"I missed you, ninja." The words came rushing out of his lips before he could stop them, raspy and foreign to his ears, but they still made her look down and away. She couldn't hide the tears, and he had to fight his own. It was easy to give her a time out, because he needed one too, so he bunched the blanket in his hands and looked away from her.

"Tony, if this works—if we get the funding—I'll have to keep travelling back and forth." Her voice was shaky. "I can't make any promises, but maybe…"

"Just call, Ziva. And maybe come over with more tea?" This time he did reach out to take her hand.

She looked up at him, nose red and eyes watery, and nodded. He pulled her hand to his lips, but she had never been one to lag behind. She came closer, put her hand on one of his cheeks and kissed him on the other one, her lips lingering on his skin before resting her forehead on his. God, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted it so badly. He held her there, hands running up and down her back over her silky top, before going up to her curls.

"More tea tomorrow, then?" She asked with a cheeky smile.

"Just in time for Daniel Craig's Bond. You can ogle him while I blow my nose."

She did punch him on the arm then.