A/N: I'm not really sure how this came about. But I kinda like it.

Disclaimer: ~witty note about how I don't own NCIS or the characters goes here~

Tears, he muses, are funny things. They're triggered by emotions. Not arousal or exercise or physical exertion- simply a feeling. You're happy, or sad, and they just appear, sort of. But it's this pondering that causes him to delay his realisation. It's only as a trail of mascara emerges that he leaps up off the couch and bolts to standing in front of her in the doorway. And for the first time in a very long time, he has no idea what she's thinking; no idea what to do. And that petrifies him, really it does. So he leads her over the threshold, regretting his shout, said only out of pure laziness, of "Door's open" because she had swung it open and just stood there as she began to cry.
And it surprises him, really, that he's been allowed to see this; to see her so very weak, and helpless. At that thought, his heart falls deep into his gut and he feels sick to his stomach, because now he knows that whatever's happened, it's real bad.
She continues to cry after she sits down on the cold leather seat, and he lets her have her space and time and cry all she needs, because God knows he'd wait hours for her. Hell, he'd wait a frickin' lifetime. But as he sits on the other side of the couch, she might as well be a mile away because she's just sitting and crying and she looks so damn lonely. So he moves closer to her, listening carefully for any change in her breathing or a gasp or any sign that'll suggest she'd rather he just sat far away again, but nothing changes. His arm slides round her shoulder and he pulls her tight, squeezing her sideways as he rocks, just slightly, back and forth. And eventually, the sniffing slows down and the tears subside and the racks down her body that he's been praying to stop, well they stop too. He keeps his arm around her, though, because he can see she's just being brave. He turns his face and kisses the top of her head, purposely leaving his lips there.
"You wanna talk about it?" he whispers against her hair, so quietly it's almost inaudible.
"Not really." comes her reply, and he can't withhold the gasp that escapes him at how weak her voice is. He can't blame her really, for the voice or her decision. And he might have had no clue how to act a couple of minutes ago, but somehow he knows exactly what to do now. He stands up, and takes her hand in his.
"C'mon." he says, whispering yet again. She stands, and he leads her through to his bedroom. And she sleeps in his arms that night, and he's so thankful that she stayed all night, because not only was having her waking up in his arms an experience he'll never forget, she told him what the problem was the next morning. And as he drops her off (thank God it's their day off) on her doorstep later in the afternoon, he kisses her quickly on the lips as he leaves, as if it's something he always does. And he realised it's something he could rather get used to.

Note: Hmm. I've just noticed, I rarely say 'Tony' or 'Ziva'. Heh, would you look at that?