A/N: Hello! How is everybody doing? All is well in the land of Kit; less than a month until I move into a dorm (Eep!). So . . . As Long As We Both Shall Live. Geez, it's been angsty -it's still going to be angsty. At least for one more chapter and then there will be some proverbial sunshine. As for this chapter: I don't think anybody is out of character. Frankly, I'm impressed neither Tony nor Ziva (especially Ziva) has had a nervous breakdown yet. I mean, come on. Poor things. So, yes, I firmly believe that McGee being seriously injured, Dorneget being dead, being nearly blown up, and having her wrist broken would put both of them on edge, emotionally. And, no, I don't really think that she and Tony do the following often, if ever, so this, as far as I'm concerned, is a first for them (and it isn't anything hinky). So, keep the peace and much love, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation with CBS, NCIS, or whatever other acronym you want to throw in there. I just borrow them and put them back where I found them.

Chapter V

"I was a heavy heart to carry, but he never let me down;

When he held me in his arms, my feet never touched the ground . . ."

Heavy In Your Arms, Florence + The Machine

By the time they leave the hospital, any fire left in Ziva has been extinguished. She sits silently beside Tony on the backseat of the cab, gazing pensively out the window, her lower lip between her teeth. She hasn't said anything since Tony had shepherded her into the taxi, and even then it had only been a murmured, "Thank you." Her carefully constructed charade is gone, tucked safely away for the next occasion in which she needs to be calm, collected, and virtually unflappable. Now, though, she can be tired, and weary, and sad because the cabbie doesn't require a performance and Tony is too exhausted to care. So she sits, slumped beside her partner, her wrist firmly incased in a blue fiberglass cast up to her elbow and resting limply in her lap. She has her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the car window and she lets her eyes slip closed briefly . . .

Somehow, they wind up at Tony's apartment, which looks markedly different since the last time she's been here. When she asks him about this, her voice soft in the quiet of the young night, he seems mildly surprised. "It's been awhile, Ziva; I've lived here almost three years . . ." but his voice trails off because at this point they've both realized that, yes, it has been that long since she's visited him, and longer.

She stands in the living room, looking around, lost, as he moves through the apartment, flicking on lights. She recognizes the couch, though the leather armchair is new and so is the ebony-stained entertainment center pushed up against the far wall. She doesn't quite remember the coffee table, but then again, coffee tables tend to be unexceptional-

"Do you want to shower . . .?" Tony winces when she startles, his eyes apologetic when she turns around to glare at him. She softens at the fatigue clinging to his features, however, and shakes her head. "You go ahead. I, um, I . . ."

"You're more than welcome to anything in the kitchen," he offers politely, and the formality seems awkward to her, as if they shouldn't be so proper. "I can't promise you that you'll find much," he continues with an embarrassed almost-grin. "I think there's some Chamomile tea in cabinet above the stove."

She wants to say, Since when do you drink tea? But, alas, she cannot muster up the energy so instead she just nods, "Okay."

He watches her for a few more heartbeats before turning toward the small hallway just behind him. He pauses, though, with his hand presumably on the doorknob and, after a brief internal debate that plays out across his face, calls out, "Ziva?"

She just looks at him.

"I know you said you didn't need anything, but there's some Vicodine in the cabinet with the tea. You don't need to be a hero; broken bones hurt like a bitch." And then he's gone and she's alone, standing in his living room, wanting to tell him that she never wanted to be a hero, but the words get stuck in her throat.

She makes tea, if only to give herself something to do for the thirteen minutes Tony is in the bathroom. And she does locate the bottle of pain killers, and some saltines since she hasn't eaten anything since lunch and she shouldn't take anything on an empty stomach. A handful of crackers later, and she shakes out a tablet from the little orange bottle and swallows it dry.

When Tony emerges, he finds her sitting in his armchair, watching the evening news with the volume turned down, and clutching a mug of tea. She glances over at him, takes in his flushed face and dripping hair, sweat pants and fresh undershirt, and is hit with a sudden need for water so hot it will scald her skin.

He's about to ask her if she's okay, when she excuses herself to the bathroom, that she's changed her mind and would like a shower, thank you.

He's able to tell her that the clean towels are under the sink before the door snicks shut and she's gone.

He locates clothes for her, a pair of freshly laundered gym shorts and an old OSU t-shirt that is soft from years of wear. He places the offering outside the bathroom door, knocking once and informing her that it's there though she should take her time, no rush.

Back in the living room, he switches the television channel to something less morbid than the evening news because, frankly, he doesn't need the updated coverage on the bombing at the Navy Yard, he was there and that was enough. He settles for a rerun of some weeknight sitcom that he's probably seen before but wouldn't remember anyway, and then heads into the kitchen in the hopes that Ziva has left him some tea. Years ago, he would have scoffed at the suggestion that he, Anthony DiNozzo, drink tea, but within the past year, when his periodic bouts of insomnia became more persistent and nights of sleep became few and far between, he had been willing to try anything. Even New Age herbal remedy crap that he previously put no stock in. At least the tea worked.

He hears her start to run the bath faucet and this confuses him because he wouldn't peg Ziva David as a hot bath kind of girl –or at least, not in his apartment, using his bathtub, after the hellish day they've just encountered. But then he remembers that her arm is in a cast and that a shower is probably counter-productive to keeping it dry.

He moves back into the living room, but doesn't sit down, instead opts to gaze out the window at the quiet street below. Moths are dancing under the yellow glow of the streetlights and a young couple is walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, a little terrier leading the way excitedly. It's a quiet neighborhood, which was one of the reason he moved, and he likes being away from the rush of the city, the constant movement, the blare of car horns at every hour . . .

"Tony?" Her voice is soft, not timid, but hesitant, and he glances up to see her standing in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip. She's wearing his clothes and they dwarf her smaller frame, the shirt alone seemingly swallowing her whole. She's no longer dusty and that must feel good . . .

"What's up?" he asks, moving toward her, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

She frowns and a little dip forms between her eyebrows. When she speaks, she doesn't meet his eyes. "I –I cannot wash my hair with only one hand." And now she looks up at him, her expression challenging, and he finally notices that her dark hair is still dry. He sighs with relief and offers her a reassuring smile because, thank God, he can fix this.

"Rule number fifteen, David: Teamwork."

...

He washes her hair in the kitchen sink because he figures it will be easier on them both if they don't have to figure out the logistics of using the shower together without getting sopping wet. He's surprisingly gentle; methodically massaging the shampoo into her hair and untangling any tangles that occur. When he goes to rinse her hairline with the spray hose, he places his other hand across her forehead to keep soap from getting in her eyes. And it's oddly intimate, but she bats the notion from her mind easily, her thoughts already too scattered to hold onto a single observation to analyze.

Afterward, she combs her hair out, and unknots any curls that have become knotted, and then French braids her hair quickly down her back. She doesn't say anything, and Tony returns the shampoo and conditioner to the bathroom while she wipes down the countertop around the sink. And it's oddly domestic, but she quells this impression as quickly as the previous because now it's time for bed.

He waits until the lights are out and they've both settled on their respective sides of his bed to tell her about Ducky and Ned Dorneget.

"Ziva, I need to tell you something," and he hates the way that sentence sounds, hates its every implication. He feels her stiffen beside him, despite the Great Wall of Pillows that separate their personal spaces.

"Tony . . ." her voice is soft, a warning. Please, please don't say something stupid, she begs silently. I cannot handle it.

"Listen, Ziva, Ned Dorneget was on the first floor when the bomb went off. He was standing right by the windows." He hears her take a ragged breath and he knows that she's pieced the rest of this story together. And Tony can't even give her solace in the fact that it was quick, that their friend didn't feel a thing and he never knew what hit him. Because Ned Dorneget lived long enough to die in emergency surgery.

"McGee will be devastated," she says, but she chokes on her words and Tony's heart breaks a little for her. "McGee," she whispers brokenly and he feels the bed shudder with her silent sob.

He feels like an ass because he knows he's only going to make her hurt worse.

"Ducky had a heart attack," and no matter how quickly one rips off the proverbial Band-Aid, damn it all, it still hurts. She's sobbing now, jagged, uneven breaths that come too quick and too loud. And he's never, ever witnessed her like this, vulnerable and broken, crying uncontrollably in the darkness of his bedroom.

He sits up and tosses the barricade of pillows to the floor before reaching over and doing the only thing he can think to do: Pull Ziva to him and hold her tight.

She goes willingly, curling into his side and burying her face in his chest, her hot tears burning through his shirt. And he wraps his arms around her, crushing her to him, clinging to her as much as she is him. And he's sobbing now, too; deep, gut-wrenching sobs that well up from somewhere inside him. And he embraces her, and she lets him, and they lament tears of frustration, exhaustion, and premature grief.

And they hold on.

Together.