Title: When She Wears Her Hair Up

Disclaimer: NCIS, Tony and Ziva are not mine!

A/N: So this little ficlet was inspired by an icon of Tony and Ziva and it's actually my first NCIS/TIVA fic. I'm not really sure if you could call it angst, I was in a, reflective shall we say, mood when I wrote it.

Hope you all like it. Feedback would be lovely!

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He likes it when she wears her hair up.

His eyes can follow the curve of her graceful neck, the line of her jaw and the path of her deceptively delicate collarbone. His fingers twitch and he has to curl them into his palm, making a fist, just to stop himself from reaching out brushing them along her skin.

He doesn't get to touch her. He only gets to look and only from a distance.

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His touch his light, barely there, teasing them both. He wants to hold her close, but he wants her to give in first.

She doesn't, so he does.

He feels the material of her dress, cool and soft, bunch together under his hand as he moves it from the curve of her hip to the dip of her waist. His other hand is at the base of her neck. She has her hair up. The skin there is smooth and his index finger rhythmically moves up and down. He pulls her closer, and tightens his grip as though he fears she will disappear, like smoke through his fingers.

Her eyes are darker than normal, he muses.

She stands on her toes slightly, and his eyes fall to her lips. She moves her hands against his chest and over his shoulders, she's talking but he doesn't hear as her words are followed by a light nip of her teeth and then the gentle caress of her lips against his bottom lip.

It's over too quickly for him to react.

He looks at her lips once again; they're curved in a challenging smirk. He accepts her challenge and dips his head so their lips meet once again. It's slow at first; she's following his lead for once. He brushes his lips over hers once, twice, before his need consumes him and his grip tightens and his kiss hardens.

But it's not real. They've been here before, the exact same situation, except this time it's different, because he's different. He feels differently.

It will all be over when they catch the bad guy and wrap up the case.

He doesn't get to hold her. He only gets to dream about the fullness of her lips, the darkness of her eyes and only when he's alone.

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The rain has plastered her hair to her head and seeped through her clothes to her skin, making her shiver. She wraps her arms around herself, it's instinctive she knows it will not help to stave off the cold. Her teeth begin to chatter and half of her silently pleads with him to hurry up and open the door, whilst the other half prays that he is not there so she can go home and berate herself for acting so impulsively.

She feels foolish. She does not know what brought her to his door. She saw him not four hours ago, but the need she felt to see him again blindly drove her to walk out her door and into the storm.

She is ready to turn, her driving force waning with each splash of cold rain on her skin, but his door opens and she finds herself inside his apartment.

She notices he is in his pyjamas, his hair is sticking up at odd angles and his expression is confused.

He takes a step towards her and she inhales sharply, his arm brushes against hers and his breath flutters against her neck as pulls a blanket from the back of the sofa and wraps it around her shoulders.

He doesn't ask why she is there. He takes a step back from her and waits. She holds the edges of the blankets close and looks into his eyes; she gets a steady gaze back. She steps closer, her need from before once again takes over her thoughts and makes her decisions for her.

This time it is also joined by a small spark deep inside. It warms her more than the blanket.

He raises an eyebrow and she takes another step towards him, the spark building to a fire in her stomach, as she is surrounded by the smell of him.

His gaze is still steady.

The blanket drops to the floor as she places her hand on his chest, directly over his heart. It's beating wildly. She watches her hand as it feels the imprint his heart leaves on his chest, leaves against her skin.

The backs of his fingers brush against her cheek.

"Do I get to touch?"

She nods her head.

His other hand curves around her hip and pulls her fully to him.

"Do I get to hold?"

She nods her head once again.

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He likes it when she wears her hair up.

His eyes can follow the curve of her graceful neck, the line of her jaw and the path of her deceptively delicate collarbone. His fingers twitch and he stands and walks over to her. He leans over the back of chair, one hand braced on her desk and the other ghosts over that smooth spot at the base of her neck before he pulls it away and moves to sit back at his own desk.

It's OK, he has her to touch, and he has her to hold. He only has to wait a few more hours to do so completely and only he knows she feels the same.

Fin