A/N- This one-shot is my proof to you call that I'm not dead.

Disclaimer- I don't own NCIS or the characters, blah blah, you know the drill.

The rating is mostly just for language.

Thanks for reading/reviewing! :)

The elevator switch was flipped milliseconds after the doors closed.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Ziva?" Tony hissed, turning to face her, his eyes flashing in the dim light.

His fury caught her off guard, but she quickly regained her footing, and the caustic sarcasm in her voice almost disguised her shock and pain.

"No need to thank me, Tony. After all, I did just save your life," she retorted, meeting his gaze evenly.

"You didn't need to save me," he spat at her. "I'm a cop. I can get myself out of a burning building."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "And how, exactly, did you plan on doing that, Tony? From what I remember, you were passed out from smoke inhalation!"

She jabbed a finger into his chest but he was prepared and caught her hand, lifting her arm to the eerie light to examine the bloody makeshift bandage that was wrapped from her palm to her elbow. His face was pained as he tried to assess the damage, but she yanked her forearm from his grasp as though his touch were acidic.

He took a shaky breath to try to compose himself. "You were right next to McGee when he called the fire department. You could hear the damn sirens. I would have been fine, Ziva," he told her, keeping his voice low.

"Another thirty seconds and the roof would have fallen in!" she protested, taking a step towards him.

He felt himself losing control of his temper, and he couldn't afford to. He turned away from her with a huff, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of complete frustration.

"Tony!" she yelled, trying to get his attention. But he still avoided her gaze, running his fingers through his hair and breathing deeply, trying to get his thoughts in order.

"Hey!" she shouted louder, grabbing his collar with both of her hands and ignoring the pain that shot up her bad arm like a jolt of electricity.

He was surprised that she'd go as far as being physical to get his attention. She only did that when she was absolutely livid. He was the one who was supposed to be angry with her for putting her life in jeopardy. What right did she have to be angry with him?

"I have been trained how to react to a fire," she seethed, inches away from his face. Her hands were clenched into fists, gripping the tattered remains of his shirt and keeping him in place.

"What, and I haven't? Just because you're from Mossad doesn't mean you're invincible. A fire isn't a person, Ziva. You can't just run into a burning—"

"I am not," she cut him off, refusing to let him finish. He decided to let her complete her thought, before his words got him into trouble.

As she tried to find the words to finish her sentence, he saw pain flood her irises. She tightened her grip on his collar, her words barely escaping from her lips.

"I am not willing to sit around while you are in danger. I am not willing to take that chance," she rasped, looking into his eyes. His stomach dropped, and although he tried to speak, his vocal cords refused to cooperate.

When she leaned in to close the distance between them, he didn't pull back. Her lips met his tentatively.

He didn't expect for a thousand memories and words to resurface when she kissed him. He didn't expect to react the way that he did. He didn't expect to lose whatever little control he had left. But suddenly, he was kissing her back like his life depended on it.

His tongue slid past her teeth and she met him full force, passion pounding through her veins. He tasted like smoke and burnt wood and fear, and she pressed her body against his to remind herself that he was safe. Their tongues warred, fighting for dominance.

He felt ashes smeared across her skin as his hands moved to her face and neck and that only made him kiss her with more passion. Her hands clutched the fabric of his shirt with such force that her knuckles turned white. She was vaguely aware of her arm protesting loudly, throbbing with pain that should have been unbearable, but she paid no attention.

He tasted the salt of tears on his tongue; whether they were hers or his, he couldn't say.

When they finally broke apart, she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on. They clung to each other for as long as they needed to, listening only to the sound of their ragged breaths and their staccato pulses.

"Don't do that to me, Ziva," he murmured into the crown of her head, cradling her in his embrace.

She released him from her arms, shaking her head. "I am your partner. I have your back. It is what partners do, yes?"

He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that he didn't care if it was what partners did, that he couldn't bear to see her get hurt, especially if she got hurt trying to defend him. But he didn't get the words out, because she knew what he was going to say and she brought a finger to his lips.

She understood. She tried a different approach.

"Tony, it is what you would have done for me," she said to him gently, quietly. Although she did not verbally remind him, the scars of Somalia were in her eyes.

He knew she was right, anyway. Yeah, if she'd been in that burning building, he'd have gone in after her in a heartbeat. He knew that much, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

He stepped away from her, enough to reach the elevator switch and bring it to life again. It groaned as it resumed its ascent and the lights flickered back on.

For a moment, neither said a word, and she became worried that they would return to their smoke and mirrors, and pretend that nothing had happened. Her fear worsened when he shrugged in a nonchalant manner, his face a smooth mask.

"I guess we'll just call it even," he said simply.

But his voice gave him away.

Her breath rushed out. The ghost of a weak smile flickered across her lips, and when he leaned in to kiss her, it was anything but nonchalant.