NCIS 1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Not often has Ziva's capture been mentioned and so (in honor of current re-runs) I have decided to write the process of her recovery as I imagine it. I am trying to fill in the blanks as accurately as possible, but I am taking the liberty to tweak canon-events as they suit me in future chapters._  
_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS and I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators._  
_Content warning: This story deals with mature subjects. Reader discretion is advised._

**The sun dies like an animal**

She knew what was going to come; in her exhausted, tired and beaten head, she knew. Not the pain in her ribcage helped her forget, not the taste of blood and sweat in her mouth – not even the sound of metal against metal which came with every sudden jolt of the cargo airplane chased the thoughts away. Gibbs' hand upon her arm reminded her: soon more hands would touch her. They would be caring hands for a change, but hands nonetheless. Ziva shuddered at the thought and Gibbs tightened his hold protectively. "We're home soon," he promised, but the words were lost in the rattling of the airborne machine.

Hours have passed; three, four, nine perhaps and a pressing in her ears woke her from a restless slumber. In her hollow bones she could feel the change of pressure; they were approaching the airport but Ziva found no relief in the thought. She was returning to uncertainty, fear, and a seemingly endless journey to recovery from something she had not meant to live through. They wanted to help her. She could see it in their eyes. They were longing to touch her, to shake her, to speak to her. She hadn't said a word since the team dragged her out of the camp; hadn't as much as made a sound bar the coughing and choking when the first sip of water in days washed down all the desert sand. She still couldn't breathe. She still couldn't swallow. She still couldn't look at Tony without a twinge of guilt in her heart.

He had tried to speak to her many times during the first hour. He had hoped to coax her into giving them insight, to explain – _Ziva, please explain how are you still alive?_ But she remained unresponsive and so utterly fragile that Tony was afraid she would crumble under the weight of his demands. Eventually he had opted to give up altogether and watched as she fell into a much needed sleep. She had come in and out of it often during the flight; every time their eyes met and every time she looked away first.

It was much easier to look at McGee. He smiled at her, but despite his greatest efforts he could not hide his pain. Ziva could not decipher whether it was pain brought upon him by his injuries or pain that came from looking back at her. Perhaps it was a different kind of pain altogether. She was too tired to ask, too exhausted to care. He nodded when they saw each other again; he nodded as if to say, 'Don't worry, you are safe.'

The concept was surreal and Ziva couldn't quite comprehend what _being safe_ meant. Even thirty-thousand feet above the ground she could feel their hands on her. She could feel them holding her down, shackling her to this chair and that, to this pole and that. She could feel them taking shattered glass to her skin and rusted knives and hot iron. She could feel them strip her of not only her clothes but her dignity and worth too. This was not the epitome of being safe. This was a nightmare and one she could not escape from at that because the hands that she felt were supernatural hands, dead hands, but in her head they very much lived.

Time did not allow her to conclude the thought. They touched down violently. The airplane shook and it felt somewhat like being hit in the abdomen with a boot – a heavy, dirty and blood-stained boot. Instinctively she winced and clung tight onto whatever her hands found first. In this case: Gibbs' knee upon which she also rested her head, and the side of the bench.

Gibbs gave her time to sit up. He aided her whenever necessary but otherwise left her to her own. She needed no coddling; she needed people who trusted her strength. She needed friends who were patient with her and allowed her to climb this mountain alone if she so desired. While Gibbs hoped to provide a solid foundation for her, it was entirely up to Ziva to accept or deny a helping hand.

She accepted McGee's and allowed him to help her down the ramp. But as quickly as she had taken his hand, she removed it. To the car she wanted to walk by herself.

The driver made no comment about their dirty and pungent bodies; one look at the team was enough to come to the conclusion that no one was particularly comfortable in their skin. The desert was etched into their sunburned faces and many weeks of hardship ached in their bones. Blood and dirt stained the seats and the air smelled of sweat. Fatigue and exhaustion were the dominant features. Ziva especially had not an ounce of energy left.

Small enclosed spaces, while they had never been a problem, now overwhelmed her with a mild case of claustrophobia. The darkened windows made the mid-afternoon sky look like twilight and Ziva no longer enjoyed twilight. She let down the window and leaned into the breeze. The cool air of Washington DC was like a breath of life to her sand-clogged lungs. Tony, who initially wanted to complain about how the wind would give him pneumonia, decided to remain silent upon seeing a significant amount color return to her cheeks.

They arrived at the navy yard shortly after four o'clock. No one spared them a glance as they walked the short distance towards the entrance. Ziva was glad to pass without drawing attention and relished in the familiar routine. They had replaced the gerberas in the front with white roses, she noted duly. And the lobby as she knew it did no longer exist. The security had doubled and agents were now required to pass through metal-detectors. None of these changes affected the team. They went through security unquestioned.

"Just another day at the office," Tony said.

The relief Ziva felt upon entering the elevator was soon taken away by a party of clappers. It was a gesture inspired by Director Vance. It was a gesture of appreciation and respect, of relief and congratulations. The sound echoed in her ears; it came from every direction and when Abby pulled her into a by her standards gentle hug Ziva opted to focus on the scent of Ghost's Deep Night perfume instead. It made her head hurt, but so did the applause.

It was Ducky who took to Ziva before anyone else could. Once Abby removed herself and showered McGee in all the excess love she knew would be too much for Ziva, he invited her to come along. Tony watched as they left.

Cold; cold metal against skin was a feeling so new and different from everything she had known these recent months that it did not evoke a reaction but the very natural response of goose-bumps. "I apologize, my dear," Ducky said as he came around the table. "My guests don't usually mind the lack of comfortable bedding." His care was merely a favor to get the worst over with before the appropriate practitioner could take a look at her more private injuries. If he could ease her into the examination and help her through it, the trouble of organizing a complete first-aid kit would have been worth it.

Ducky had met many victims of torture – most of them in their death – and shuddered at the sight of Ziva's bare body. She was skin and bone. They had starved her, which he concluded was yet the kindest thing they had done. Respecting her innate resistance to show weakness he chose to ignore her tears as he measured and photographed her wounds for the medical file. He would try and be as thorough as possible so she would not have to go through the examination again with a stranger. There were things he could not bring himself to do, however; things he would much rather leave to a dearly entrusted lady-doctor which he had personally asked to make time tomorrow morning.

"We are almost done, Ziva," he assured her once she became impatient. Surely being touched and probed and pressed would inspire reactions regardless of how gentle he hoped to be. A slight nudge into the ribs had her cry out in pain; a trace down her spine had her bend forward with nausea. Ducky no longer wanted to violate her nude body with measuring templates and camera flashes, so he concluded the examination for now.

"Here," he said and helped her into a robe. "Take a shower," he ordered gently, "And I would like to see you again when you are finished to take a last look at your injuries. Please." Ducky led her towards the door which he had locked for her privacy's sake. Outside they met Jimmy in his usual grace and a showered Agent DiNozzo.

"Ziva," Jimmy said. His eyes were wide and full of relief. "It is so good to see you!"

She forced a smile, "Thanks, Jimmy."

He did not know of his honor to receive Ziva's first words back on American soil as he proceeded into the autopsy and stumbled over his own feet in the process. Tony chuckled, "Come on."

Inside the elevator and away from, prying, curious and happy-to-see-you eyes, Ziva allowed herself to breathe. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. The sound of the elevator soothed her nerves. It was a monotone sound; lulling, reassuring and familiar. The gentle motion rocked her into comfort.

Tony watched her for a moment or two; the way she held herself, the way she kept her arms around her as if she was afraid the robe would fall from her body and reveal all that she had suffered. Many times in the past had he longed to see her skin, to see all of it for his sexual satisfaction and hers too. Now he wanted to see her skin to understand. But Ziva was not ready and upon second thought, neither was he.

The walk to the showers was silent. The sound of Tony's heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway while the soft pitter-patter of Ziva's bare feet went unheard. Before she entered the lady's room, he stopped her. "Here," he said and handed her a set of navy issued sweats. "I'll wait here."

Then, for the first time in a long time, Ziva was alone. The silence was disconcerting, for her ears were used to the sound of bullet rain and siren bells. Her eyes were used to darkness and the fluorescent lights above her stung. Her skin was used to filthy water if any water at all; when she was denied the luxury she would use sand to rub herself clean. Her feet were used to uneven grounds littered with rocks and broken glass and her so-called sixth sense was used to the prying eyes of men who had not touched a woman in far too long. She did not entirely trust her reality and so hesitated to take off her robe.

It took nearly half an hour before Ziva had worked through all the knots in her hair and another twenty minutes to get out the sand. She was bleeding and her skin was raw from the violent scrubbing, but she did not stop until the bottle of soap was empty and the water was cold. Ziva felt altogether uncomfortable when she got out of the shower. Her injuries burned after her savage attack and she patched them up with paper towels as best as she could before slipping into the navy sweats.

When Ziva first passed her reflection she for all the world believed a stranger was in the room with her. She recoiled. From across the room she approached herself slowly; like a young animal upon first discovering its reflection she wasn't quite certain about what she saw and if she felt threatened or relieved. Ziva did not recognize herself. Hollow cheeks and tired eyes, bruises and cuts, and an utter lack of color; she looked like one of Ducky's regular guests. The irony, when she remembered where she was expected next, brought a sickened smile to her lips.

Trust Tony to keep his word. Although she expected him to wait for her she hadn't hoped to find him right by the door. "Tony," she said as she barely avoided him by an inch or two. He took a step back.

"You've taken your sweet time in there. I was beginning to think I'm gonna have to send a search party for you."

"You are the search party, Tony," Ziva reminded him. They walked alongside each other towards the elevator and said not a word until Ziva hit autopsy. Tony raised a questioning eyebrow. "Ducky asked to see me again," she explained.

It shouldn't have taken Tony so long to take the hint, but after an incessantly long stare from Ziva he finally left. Ducky turned the locks after him, providing them with as much privacy as possible considering…

"I hope you don't mind this fellow here," Ducky said and gestured to the far-away table. "He just arrived from Bethesda. Mr Palmer and I haven't had a chance to look at him yet, but pretend he's only sleeping; it should make it easier."

"He's not the first dead man I see, Doctor," Ziva said and reluctantly took off her sweater. Her body wasn't as severely damaged as it had appeared upon first sight. He carefully took to her injuries at front. She was most vulnerable there and he hoped to patch her up quickly before she lost patience. She was badly bruised and scarred. A rib or two were fractured and he took note of it in the medical file. He became especially worried about her bruised sternum. It was relatively fresh and Ducky's heart ached for his friend when he realized that this morning local time she was still being tortured. He trusted that she would fully recover, however, and this was at last a relief.

"You may dress," Ducky said finally and Ziva wiggled into her sweats. The fabric now tugged uncomfortably at the bandages and the impatience she felt when the sweater got caught up with the sticky part of a band-aid was altogether terrifying. Ducky did not notice her struggle as he was searching for something inside his drawer.

When he returned, Ziva was fully dressed and ready to leave. Before he released her, he gave her a card. "This is a good friend of mine, Ziva," he announced. "She made time for you tomorrow morning. I want you to see her." In her eyes he discovered uncertainty and so he dared to lay a hand upon her cheek, "We are not finished, my dear. We—"

"I know," Ziva interrupted and saved him the trouble. She knew the procedure; she had gone through it before. "Thanks, Duck,"

He helped her off the table and gave her a meaningful look, "Let us help you come home, Ziva" he said, referring to her insatiable strive for fierce independence. "We have missed you."

"Goodnight."

Tony and Ziva did not speak as they headed upstairs. The silence between them had become today's norm. It was comforting, and Tony contented himself with her presence alone. Her attention and voice he would demand later. They wore matching sweats, only Ziva had kept barefoot. With the bold letters of NCIS written across her chest she almost felt comfortable. He glanced at her often and had the impulse to ruffle her hair – sometimes it made her smile. But touch was something he felt was entirely inappropriate at the moment; besides, there would be enough time for it later. Tony allowed her to exit the elevator first.

Gibbs hung up the phone as they entered the squad room. He took a good look at his youngest and only when he was satisfied that she was – considering the circumstances – all right, he spoke: "We're going home." Ziva did not have the courage, much less the energy to worry about her nightly arrangement. Frankly, in comparison to where she had slept these recent few months she decided the floor underneath her desk would be a comfortable option.

Gibbs must have noticed her concern because when he came around the desk with a duffle-bag over each of his shoulders he took a brief moment to search her eyes in a fatherly fashion. "You're with me," he ordered in a tone which left no room for discussion. Ziva thought she saw something, a shadow of some kind, in his eyes when she searched them. She had no name for it but she struggled with words by default and so opted to ignore a sudden feeling of dread.

She went with him and Tony and finally settled for the first peaceful night in three months.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews and follows! Here is part 2, enjoy!  
__Content warning: Please remember to read with caution._

**Chapter 2**

She awoke to sweat and tears and utter silence.

The desert had a way of telling time. It was in how the sun burned the skin, and in how many beads of sweat ran down her forehead – one for every hour. It was in the brutal white light of noon and in the unforgiving blackness of night. It was in the desert storms; the winds whispered to her sometimes.

_You have an hour until dawn, Ziva._

Here, there was no telling. The sky was black but the air shone a strange fluorescent blue. Her room was neither light nor dark, but a peculiar in-between which confused her and scared her. It was too late for nightly terrors, too early for dawn.

There was no clock in the room. Ziva had ripped out the batteries at five to midnight for she could no longer stand its mocking tune, tick-tock. It reminded her of heartbeats and footsteps. It reminded her of doors being slammed and the sound of machine guns. From a distance Ziva swore they sounded the same. Perhaps, she concluded, time passed differently in the desert. The incessant firing of a machine gun sounded like the ticking of a clock, the beating of a heart slowed in its terror, and an hour felt like a lifetime to which the end could not arrive soon enough.

Ziva was very skilled at keeping things to herself. She was capable of a smile which left no doubt that only joy lived in her eyes. She was able to fool anyone into believing that she did not hurt. Pity was wasted effort and she did not want it. This registered on a level so deep that even in her sleep she did not scream. Thoughts and images tormented her from the inside; they ate away at her bones and sucked the blood out of her veins; she suffered in absolute silence. And so when she began to wander the room she wandered with soft feet. Gibbs did not need to hear her. He did not need to worry.

Downstairs, Gibbs lay awake. He had not fallen asleep but spent the night tossing and turning restlessly. The couch felt uncomfortable, as if someone had stuffed it with rocks while he was gone. He watched as the time went. Eight o'clock became eleven, eleven became one, and suddenly it was 4:28. He listened to Ziva's gentle footsteps. He knew in what corner of the room she was at any time. He could visually imagine her as she paced – back, forth, back, forth, back – and he waited, hoping, perhaps she would come to him.

Ziva stood in front of the door many times. She traced the texture of the wood with her calloused hand and became familiar with every crease and every splinter; but she did not open it. It was a strange feeling, she contemplated. It was a feeling that closely resembled homesickness, but what she was longing for exactly she did not know. It was not Israel. It was not Washington. There had been a time when she felt comfortable here; a time when she would have carelessly stomped down the stairs to microwave herself a glass of milk at three in the morning. But this was no longer the case. She felt different about these walls, these floors, these ceilings, these people living and breathing inside.

She woke again to a summer storm. Through the window came a lovely breeze. It tickled her awake gently and for the first time in months she opened her eyes without fear. The second time she had gone to sleep she slept without dreams. At the foot of her bed she had collapsed when she could no longer keep herself up. Thunder roared in the far distance. It had not yet started to rain. Ziva pushed herself out of the bed. She was drawn to the open window and sucked in the fresh air. She could not breathe as deeply as she might have wanted, though. Her bruised ribs ached and she coughed up sand.

When she came downstairs she found Gibbs hunched over his breakfast. He squinted at the small print of the morning newspaper and moved it back and forth in front of his eyes as if it would somehow improve his sight. Why he did not make use of his glasses she could not understand. "Good morning," he said before she had even entered the room.

"Good morning."

"How did you sleep?"

"Better than I have in a long time."

He accepted this. Gibbs understood that _better _was worse by anyone's standards, but to Ziva David it meant that she was breathing, and this meant she was doing all right. He poured her a cup of coffee.

Ziva curled up on the chair opposite of him and studied his features. She expected another question, a look of disbelief perhaps or something else that would inspire her to elaborate. But Gibbs was not a talker and she had never appreciated this more than today. They continued their breakfast in silence. Ziva forced down a bowl of stale cereal. It settled into her stomach like lead. She was able to keep it down, however; unlike last night's dinner.

It was devastating to lose control over her own body, to have it taken away from her by a reflex. She could hardly fight it; she could not kill it. Her body had betrayed her. It had taken over last night and sent her to the bathroom in a nauseous frenzy. Gibbs had held her hair and stroked her back and took her to bed, and she had cried because she felt humiliated. Every ounce of pride had vanished. Ziva shuddered at the memory. Gibbs did not say a word about what had happened. It was a mutual understanding between the two; an agreement that last night had never occurred.

Eventually, once he had finished his coffee, Gibbs folded his hands and leaned forward on the table. She knew this posture, this way of towering over her. He did not try to impose on her fragile state, nor did he attempt to intimidate her. It was his way to gently probe a suspect for information. There was a look in his eyes that suggested he knew something she did not. "Were you going to tell me that you have an appointment today?" Ziva looked at him questioningly. It took her a moment too long to understand what he was talking about and so he continued, "Ducky called. I will take you to Bethesda in twenty minutes. You should get ready."

The memory dawned on her. All of yesterday had become a blur in her head; words were all but sounds and images were distorted and surreal. But she recalled Ducky's request, his insistence to see his lady-doctor friend. Ziva felt mildly guilty about troubling Gibbs with this, so she gave a defeated nod and pushed herself out of the chair. "Hey," he called before she left the room, "That's yours." Gibbs pointed to one of the duffles he had carried home last night. It was only upon closer inspection of the bag that she realized it was indeed hers. What a comforting thought, she concluded; Gibbs had kept it although he believed she was dead.

The selection was sparse. Ziva has always been a minimalist and her ready-to-go-bag was packed in accordance to this. Now she wished she had the luxury of owning more than two tank-tops, an army-jacket and a set of jeans. At least, she thought as she wiggled into the pants, they were not navy issued and they were _hers. _They fit loosely and Ziva knew she had lost weight.

It began to rain when they left the driveway. It was a soft, gentle drizzle against the windshield. Ziva let down the window to feel it. In the desert rain did not fall. The harsh air burned her lungs with every breath. It stole from her courage and strength, every desire to live. She withered away in the sand until the bones inside of her body shook like a rattle. The desert was unforgiving; a reflection of the people who kept her there.

The Washington air promised something else entirely. It promised people she could trust to fill in the scars of the desert. It promised recovery; it promised a home. But Ziva was unable to see it. She was blinded by the sun which had taken such pleasure in the burning of her skin. And she could not breathe the air; the desert clogged her lungs and would not let her. Her spirit remained shackled to the walls of the camp, so Ziva reached for the rain. Nothing – _nothing! – _kept her from touching the rain.

"I will be back in an hour," Gibbs announced once he had brought her to the doctor's office. Ziva nodded and turned away. He saw fear in her eyes, terror and shame. His heart ached at the sight of her; curled up into a chair and so utterly uncooperative. Gibbs leaned in to kiss the top of her head before he left.

The wait was excruciating. Magazines did not satisfy her and a restless child in the corner stole the last ounce of patience she had in her. "It will be just a little while longer," the nurse promised her for the third time, hiding her frustration with a polite smile and an unnatural upward inflection. Ziva resumed to pacing the waiting room.

When her name was finally called, "Ziva Day-vid," she passed the nurse with a stern look.

"It is Da-veed."

The woman led her into an examination room. It was sterile, blindingly white, impersonal and altogether unsettling. The dead had it more comfortable in autopsy than the living had it here. "The doctor will be right with you," the nurse said and left the room. Ziva continued to pace. It provided her with just enough comfort to keep her from ripping out her hair.

"Miss David," someone said, using the right pronunciation of her name. Ziva was startled out of her drifting and turned to a woman of around forty, with blond hair and a smile as comforting as her mother's had been. "Please, have a seat." The doctor gestured towards a chair and introduced herself as Mary White, "But you can call me Mary," and continued to explain how she had read the medical file Ducky sent her. There was not a trace of pity in the woman's voice, not a single _'I am sorry for what you went through' _and this allowed Ziva to ease the tension in her shoulders. She decided that she liked Mary White.

"I understand you have returned yesterday," Mary inquired. Ziva nodded. "I trust your external injuries have been taken care of by Dr Mallard. I will merely look over them to make sure nothing has been missed before we go on to the gynecological examination. Is that all right with you?"

"Do I have an option?"

She did not.

"If you could take off your clothes and move to the table, please." Ziva did as she was told. She endured the examination with as much grace as she could muster. She had learned long ago how to step outside of herself; when the situation was out of her control, when there was only pain and grief and shame and fear, when she laid back and spread her legs for the doctor, when she wanted to disappear she took her mind elsewhere. It came as easy as breathing.

The images were ever changing; sometimes she took herself to France. She would dream of the southern coast and fields of barley and wine. Sometimes she thought of the mountains; the snow covered mountains of Israel in the winter. Sometimes she dreamt of her sister, her beautiful sister. In her head Tali would sing and Ziva would dance, _but then!_ Then the sirens would rip through the melody and disturb their peace. All images evaporated like smoke into air as panic overtook her thoughts. Ziva found no comfort in the images of her sister, their childhood together, not even in memories of her time with the tzahal. All troubled her deeply and she struggled to contain her grief.

All that she felt were hands where there should be no hands; coldness where there should be none and pain, oh so much pain. Ziva cried out and the doctor withdrew her hands. She had seen enough.

"You may dress," Mary said. Ziva did not need to hear this twice. "You have sustained a number of injuries which are reasons for concern, Miss David—"

She cut in, "Ziva."

"Ziva. Nothing requires immediate attention, but I would like it if you handled yourself gently. We will have the test results in a couple of days. In the meantime I ask you to take these once every day to a meal of your choice," – she handed Ziva a number of prescriptions – "Are you comfortable if I forward the results to Dr Mallard or would you like to see me again in a week?"

Ziva considered this and decided that she would prefer to hear whatever horrible news awaited her next Tuesday from a stranger. "I would like to see you again."

"Very well," Mary concluded. She jotted down one last note and then stood up from her desk to address Ziva more personally and directly, "It would be wise to see a professional about what you went through. I—"

"That is all right. Thank you, Dr White."

Ziva waited outside. The rain fell heavier than before and she stood without shelter; there was nothing in between her and the sky. The rain washed away her terrors, momentarily leaving her in a comfortable void. She thought she could stand like this forever, or at least until the water molded her into a different person; a person _they _had never touched.

Gibbs found her when the hour was up. She did not know it, but he had watched her for several minutes, observing her new habit to hold herself. Then, before she would catch a cold, he approached her. "How did it go?"

"It went all right," Ziva said, not willing to give away much more. It went as expected; there was nothing she felt she needed to add.

By the time they arrived at Gibbs' house, she was shivering. Naturally she would not admit to being cold; she would not admit to anything else, either. She felt violated and embarrassed, ashamed for what had happened last night and the visit to the doctor had stirred a whole new set of emotions altogether. She went upstairs and began rummaging through her bag although she knew very well that she did not own a second sweater. Ziva did not want to wear the army-jacket. Its rigid fabric provoked reactions in her that she would rather not add to her already boiling state of being. She sunk to the bed in defeat.

Gibbs came to the room. She had not closed the door and he considered this an invitation. He knocked regardless and stayed beyond the threshold. "Take a sweater from the closet," he offered. "Then pack up; I'm driving you to the navy lodge." Ziva had not hoped to stay with Gibbs permanently; _one night at most!_ she had promised herself and it seemed like something should go her way after all.

She chose a navy blue sweater. It had the letters NIS written on it and Ziva became confused as to why anyone would keep a sweater on which NCIS was spelled incorrectly. She stole a flannel shirt too. She never saw him wear them and so she audaciously decided that he could spare one. This would also not be permanently; she would give it back.

The navy lodge was surprisingly comfortable. The room that she was given was bright and open, with a lovely view over the Potomac. It was a good twenty minutes from the yard (although she had no reason to be there) and a couple of minutes from a number of sights she had never bothered to visit in her four years of living in Washington. They would keep her entertained for at least a few days; at least until her situation was settled.

"I will be fine," she promised as looked around the room. The interior was simply decorated, accommodating to Ziva's minimalist lifestyle. The bed was beautifully made, although she would have to ask for a second set of pillows; clearly two weren't enough! There was a television, but what delighted Ziva more was the small collection of books above it. A kitchenette provided just enough space for makeshift dinners; perhaps she would rediscover her culinary talents. She imagined she could be comfortable here, if only temporarily.

Gibbs approached her and pressed into her hand a phone and a knife. "Rule three and nine."

"Thank you, Gibbs."

Once the door had closed behind him Ziva remained standing in the center of the room for a couple of minutes. Subconsciously she studied the emergency evacuation plan. It was by far the most interesting thing in the room (besides the books, of course) and she had an inclination that it might come in handy.

Finally, when a door slammed at the end of the hall, she came out of her drifting. Ziva dropped her sparse belongings onto the floor and then began to wash away all remnants of hands on her.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I was not expecting such wonderful responses; thank you so much for taking the time to review! In this chapter I hoped to explore the week in between 701 and 702 during which Ziva did not talk to anybody. It is a very casual chapter without much dialogue, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!_

**Chapter 3**

Ziva was familiar with the restless spirit that plagued her today. It drove her into rearranging the room, scouring the floor and the cupboards and searching the books for any sign of previous use. She tested the locks from the inside and from the outside and showered twice. She opened the windows to let the fresh air in and allowed the wind to dry her hair. By late afternoon the streets became busy with the after-work hustle. People came out to chat and shop, motorcycles roared and children laughed. Life poured from the walls and the ground shook with the energies of the people.

But Ziva felt utterly distant.

Like a caged bird she looked upon the street below her. It was a beautiful late summer evening and she wanted so much to be a part of the life that she saw. At the same time she longed to disappear into the darkness that loomed above her and never return. Ziva David was a woman of contradiction, storm and desert skin, iron fists and sharp words. She was also a gentle heart and you would not know about it unless you caught her in a private moment. Such private moments usually occurred in the bathroom where the water drowned her tears and the cold tiles pressed into her skin; that was when she let her heart show under the scrutiny of her own eyes.

It was not easy; it has never been easy for Ziva to show emotion. She had been taught that it was a weakness, something that should be done in secret if it had to be done at all. Tali never experienced this sort of pressure, Ziva contemplated as she stood in front of the mirror with empty eyes and tightened lips. Her younger sister had spent much more time with their Ima and never became acquainted with their father's strict rule. Tali was a loving character, kind and generous and as beautiful as the sun and the stars. Ziva was the dark night sky by comparison, black above the desert, an unwavering blanket, a steady foundation against which Tali could shine. But the sky adored the stars and so it became Ziva's responsibility to make sure her sister's natural radiance never went unseen. This meant, in Ziva's mind, to never sway. Her sister enjoyed a careless childhood, free of war and bloodshed, oblivious to their father's cruelty. This was all Ziva's doing, for the sky had the ability to hide the stars and whenever life became ugly Ziva would draw a curtain of clouds over her baby sister, hiding her away from the evils of this world.

She could not keep her safe forever, though.

Reality had first knocked on their door when their mother died. Ziva had not been able to hide her sister then. When it came again it ripped Tali herself out of her innocent life. With her sweet sister gone, all light had gone as well and Ziva realized that she had not failed once but twice! And she would not fail a third time. So she became her own shelter, her own hardened fortress, her own desert sky. From the moment Tali was lowered into the earth, her sky forever darkened. Her own tears, her own soft heart was all that she had left of her sister, and Ziva knew she had to protect her weakness at all cost. To show it was no longer an option; it was never again an option.

And so she wiped her tears, straightened her posture and strutted out of the lodge with as much confidence as she could muster. Her face was as hard as stone as it had been at her sister's funeral. Not a trace of emotion was found in her eyes, not a muscle twitched. In that moment she allowed herself and others to believe that the desert had not just spat her out, that she hadn't suffered twelve terrible weeks of brutal torture and that she was a perfectly balanced individual. Ziva was not weak. She was not afraid.

_I am fine._

Ziva was unable to maintain this farce for very long, however, and once she came around the block she was wandering again slowly, cautiously. She was not a participant; this became painfully obvious. She was given the role of an observer. _(Look, but do not touch!)_ What used to delight her – the ice cream truck, the sound of jazz music on a summer night, the gentle breeze carrying with it the scent of rain – now only filled her with dread. Ziva did not allow herself to wallow however and willed herself to approach the truck regardless of the foaming nausea in her stomach. "Vanilla, please," – her favorite – "one scoop." She put down a dollar and in turn received a treat that would have inspired so much joy in her a couple of months ago. Now she knew her stomach would not be able to handle the sugar, the cold, the creamy texture that melted oh so sweetly on her tongue.

She barely made it back to her room that evening before the ice cream came up, and tears along with it. Although Ziva would not admit it, having had someone to help her through this pitiful ordeal the previous night was something she missed as she hung over the sink that night. Briefly she considered phoning Gibbs, but then she remembered that she was no longer a child and she had troubled the team enough with her being alive.

Independence, indeed, was a blessing to those living with the illusion that it was permanent; a curse to the unfortunate few who had lost it. Ziva now knew what it meant to be stripped of every sense of self, to have control taken away, to be at the mercy of others. She felt bare, exposed and imprisoned not only inside of this room but inside of herself too. This, by far, made her feel worse than a spoiled scoop of vanilla ice cream.

She vividly remembered the day her father had led her into the forest, eyes bound and only half-dressed. He expected to see her back by dinner. During the day the desert was comfortably warm. Ziva had not worried her little head; she would be back in time! But night had come sooner than expected and she'd lost her way. Bitter cold she was when she finally arrived home sometime after midnight with blue fingers and toes and a mild case of pneumonia. Her father announced that he was proud of her but that she could have done better and Ziva found no fault in him but instead became angry at herself – _she should have done better!_

It was only a couple of weeks into nursing her illness in bed that she came to the conclusion that she could not even rely on her father, the mighty Eliahu David, for he would let the lions eat her if he believed it taught her a lesson. Now her fate was in his hands yet again; she was the prey and he was the predator that lurked in the shadows.

It was early in the evening when Ziva found herself in bed. It was still beautiful and light out, the sun casting a golden glow over the city. But she shut the blinds against the light and retreated into a dark corner of her room. Nestled into a heap of pillows and blankets Ziva twisted and turned restlessly, unable to find comfort.

She began to wander late into the night. She did not worry about waking up Gibbs this time but remained silent regardless. It was hard to be alone, Ziva realized bitterly. In recent months she had not been allowed to take a single breath without the supervision of a man and it felt strangely disconcerting to have no one watch her. Silence was her new torturer and this very silence coaxed her into a terrible void; a void that had no walls or floors or ceilings – a place where no one heard her scream.

Ziva, when looked upon in this very moment, resembled calm waters. Her steps came like waves, steadfastly, even. You would not know of the storm that was raging inside of her; inside of her the waves crashed against the cliffs with frightening force. The water retreated only to hit again, harder, higher, trying to throw her off her feet and into the darkness of the ocean. It took a substantial amount of control to uphold this outer calm. Her attention was entirely on the rhythm of her breathing, in, out, in, out, in.

She did not sleep that night, or the night after that.

It was Thursday when the concierge called for her to wait as she walked by, "Agent David!" Ziva approached the front desk tentatively. "Someone left this for you." The man did not notice her concern and handed to her an envelope upon which her name was written in familiar chicken-scratch letters. Inside the envelope she found a credit card and a note.

_'Insurance paid for your old apartment. This is for emergencies and a good movie. Tony.'_

There it was: the whiff of independence. Although Ziva did not know just how much money she now owned she trusted it would be enough for a basic set of clothes. The fact that Tony had stopped by and left a note for her did not register; not yet anyway.

Shopping was not something that she enjoyed anymore. The act of stripping herself was one she did not fancy and so Ziva bought shirts and tops she was confident would fit her petite figure. She did go through the ordeal of trying on the pants, though, struggling to find the right size. What used to fit her now hung loosely around her waist. She knew this would be temporary; she'd grow back into her size once she learned to eat again and so opted to buy a belt with what she usually wore.

By mid-afternoon she had purchased all that she needed for the simple lodge-living. Clothes, toiletries, the coconut shampoo that she had missed while in Israel, and desperately longed for during her time in the desert. She had bought hairpins and make-up.

The latter was necessary.

The people's curious glances did not go past her. A child had even pointed at her, _'Mommy, what happened to that woman?' _The mother had been polite enough to shush her child, but Ziva's confidence had crumbled into a heap of rubble on the floor. And so she decided to cover the bruises with make-up. She did so in the washroom of the shopping mall, not having the patience to wait until she was back at the lodge. She continued to walk with her head bowed, imagining that the people could see right through her skin and into her battered soul.

Later that same evening she came across a flea market. Ziva was still carrying all that she had bought, but tonight she would enjoy the sun and evening air and so ventured through the many stalls and stands. No one regarded her strangely; she went completely unseen, blending into the crowd easily. A smile came to her lips as she wandered. There used to be a time when she did not understand the delight of yard sales.

_'Trash is trash,'_ she had once said to Tony. It was many years ago, during her first year at NCIS. The two had been good friends then. This was one of the many things that had changed since.

It was then a chisel that caught her attention. It was a beautiful piece. Ziva knew very little of woodwork, but this tool in particular reminded her of her uncle. He used a chisel much like this one to carve wonderful images into the wooden walls of his stables. The horses would not care for the art, but people from all of Be'er Sheva came to see his work. It reminded her of someone else, too; Gibbs would appreciate this, and although Ziva was confident he had an abundance of tools in his basement, she spared the seven dollars as a gift to him.

A routine was established in the following few days. She woke up early, swallowed her prescriptions along with the cereal that she knew she would be able to keep down; she even became used to the trips to the bathroom after especially adventurous meals. There was progress, though: by Sunday she was able to eat more than cereal and crackers, but fruits and vegetables too. She even tried herself on rice and pasta and although it was a struggle at first, and pesto a mistake in its entirety, she enjoyed the process of preparing the food almost as much as she used to. The eating itself, however, remained difficult.

Often she pondered over freshly prepared plates, the smell of cooked vegetables inspiring in her craving and nausea alike. She was torn between forcing herself to eat and giving up altogether. Crackers, however bland, became more attractive with every time she was forced to empty her stomach in an ugly reflex. Every night she would sit at the foot of her bed, nibbling at goldfish to still the grumbling inside of her belly.

She cried, too, but she never allowed herself to wallow for very long. Usually, when the tears came, the anger came too. It was always directed at herself, at her lack of control, at this awful feeling of loneliness that began to eat away at her by Monday.

It was late into the night when she found the phone Gibbs had given to her. Ziva had stashed it into the back of her bedside drawer and not looked at it for most of the week. But tonight she could not fight the silence and the thoughts that overwhelmed her. She longed for the normality that she once knew and it was through her tears that she realized that nothing would come easy to her, that she needed to fight.

It was the fight that she had given up upon first. It was impossible to fight the men of the desert. They understood the art of torture, but they did not understand a woman who had resigned to her ultimate death, who would embrace it and welcome it, would beg for it when she believed she was alone at night. To restore this very fight in her would take time, patience and often Ziva contemplated if it was worth it. Giving up had been so easy; her resignation had come with the intention of protecting the people that she loved. Not a word had passed her lips in the three months she was shackled to chairs and walls and floors and then Tony came and spilled all of what Ziva had hoped to keep inside in a day.

The desire to be back on the team stirred in her by the time she was in McGee's and Tony's arms. But bureaucracy and legalities had her altogether step away from pursuing this desire; now that she had a week to gather her thoughts, to slowly begin to find her way back to being a semi-functional person, she knew it was time.

Ziva gave herself no time to second-guess and dialed Gibbs' number with sure fingers. He answered after the first ring but said nothing; both dwelled in silence for a couple of moments.

"Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

"Ziva."

"I would like to speak to you."

"I am working," – when was he not? – "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"Yes," she promised, "Tomorrow would be fine."

"Meet me at ten."

Ziva slept that night. She carefully let herself drift into a comforting slumber, always sure to pull herself out of it before the dreams came. She would fall into them a couple of times during the night, however. She would see their faces and feel their hands and these sensations tortured her until it was again morning. In the darkness she could not tell the difference between her comfortable room and the desert; the shadows were the same everywhere and inside of them lived Saleem and his men. Their hands were like smoke on her skin, hot and penetrating, scorching, inflicting the worst kind of pain. With the sun they evaporated; only a faint memory remained.

The sirens came when she was in the shower, washing away the filth, the sweat and the tears. Panic flared in her stomach as she stumbled out of the tub and slipped into her robe. Ziva heard footsteps coming down the hallway; everybody was evacuating, and so was she. She had barely enough time to collect her keys and the phone before heavy fists banged against her door, "everybody out!"

Although she was not the only one, Ziva felt unspeakably uncomfortable as she stood in front of the lodge with only a robe hiding her body and the many bruises and injuries that still littered her skin. All the pain that she had suffered was covered by a thin layer of satin. She prayed that this was only a drill.

It was, and in addition to the shame she felt at being out naked, she also became frustrated and stressed upon realizing that she would be late; and Ziva David was _never _late.

Finally they were let back into the lodge and Ziva scrambled to get ready. The stress, she would realize later, was a natural remedy to the ever present anxiety. She had no time to think about the make-up or her hair. She did not worry about what Gibbs would say, or what the director had in store for her. She did not think about Tony and McGee but instead searched for the chisel she knew was somewhere in her room.

It was shortly after ten when Ziva arrived at Gibbs' house. She knocked and went in when he did not answer.

"Hello Gibbs," she announced, "Your door was open."

"It usually is," he replied nonchalantly.

"I, uh, apologize for being late. The navy lodge I am staying at ran a surprise drill this morning so I just – it's not important."

There was a beat. They looked at each other expectantly, a dog barked in the distance, the air conditioning roared. Ziva did not know what to say.

"How are you?"

"I am fine, Gibbs."

She told herself this every day, and with every day it sounded more convincing. She almost believed herself.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Did you change your username? Why, yes I did! Please don't be confused! Also, please don't be surprised when you find that I skip or skip through canon scenes. I only elaborate on what I feel is important. Enjoy!  
__Disclaimer: I think it is time to mention once again that I do not own NCIS and that I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators.  
__Content warning: This one is a bit gritty, so proceed with caution._

**Chapter 4**

This house was full of demons. Shannon and Kelly haunted every corner, and Ziva herself had contributed to the ghosts that lived in these walls. Ari had died here. She tried not to look at the spot on the floor where a circle of crimson still reminded of his death at her hands. It was here that she had sought refugee when it seemed the world was out to get her, when she was accused of treason and today she had come to make amends, to start righting her wrongs, to apologize, to find closure. The basement, despite its shadows, had always been a token for new beginnings. It was Ari's death that had made her realize that family did not mean blood and that sometimes bourbon was a good way to silence the mind.

Over the years this basement had become a source of comfort. It was the smell of wood, she contemplated, or the ever present question of how did he get the boat out. It was the mystery that kept her mind busy.

And so when she was blatantly disregarded and left alone, the disappointment did not sink in until a couple of moments later when she heard the door slam and silence again overwhelmed her. She had expected a little more out of this conversation, had hoped for it to mark a new beginning, the first step towards recovery and the life she'd once had. But instead of the blessing she had come for, she'd received doubt and hesitancy. If it was not for Gibbs' telling Vance to expect her she would have believed he did not want her back at all.

This was a terrible thought. Would Gibbs have come all the way to Africa to safe her if he did not want her back? No, he wouldn't have. Then what was it, Ziva wondered, that made the tension between them nearly palpable?

She opted to walk to the navy yard. It would be an hour or two, less if she ran. She was ordered to handle herself gently, however, and she had the bitter inclination that she would not make it three blocks with these lungs. The longing to exhaust herself itched under her skin, though. She wanted to sweat and bleed and scream and release the pressure that allowed her to find no comfort.

But there was no time for it now.

The hour walk gave her time to prepare herself, to think of what she would say to Vance if given the opportunity to speak at all. He had probably fashioned himself an idea as to what to do with her already and Ziva knew she had to make a stand for herself and emphasize what it was that _she _wanted, and that was being back on the team. She did not want to return to Israel, to Mossad, to Eli. The irony when she realized that her father had indeed fed her to the lions brought a bitter smile to her lips. Her features then twisted into something of a grin and her eyebrows kitted together as she tried not to cry.

It was one thing to cry in secret. Ziva handled her own scrutiny well, enjoyed it when she felt especially bitter. It was another thing entirely to cry in public. The latter was altogether unacceptable. She had been shamed by the men of the desert for a lifetime but refused to carry this burden in her face. Her shame lived in the scars on her skin and in the bruises that had taken the shade of deep purple and in the way she kept herself covered. It lived in her new habit to avoid physical contact which stemmed not from the fear of being hurt but instead was rooted in her innate belief that she would stain whatever she touched with filth and death.

Her expression, however, was carefully crafted and maintained.

And so when she walked into the lobby later that day she was met with excitement, not pity. The people were happy to see her, taking note only of her bright smile and remaining altogether oblivious to what monsters lived underneath her skin. "Ziva," one of the security guards said, "Welcome home."

"Thanks, Chris," she said to him and smiled. "Director Vance is expecting me. Can you let me in?"

Chris nodded, "I will just give him a call." This stirred a feeling inside of her; a feeling that had her almost sprint to the bathroom. Nausea fumed inside of her stomach as she watched Chris, someone who was a good friend, dial the Director's number; she no longer belonged here. She was no longer at home here. She has frankly never been a part of them, Ziva realized bitterly. A slip of the tongue had her forget this often in the past. She would introduce herself or be introduced as Agent David, but in truth she had never been an agent. Officer David had always been her title, a liaison, the property of her father. Chris disturbed her thoughts, "You can go right up."

Ziva had twenty seconds to collect her thoughts and composure before the elevator opened to Tony and McGee. At first she did not hear them. Their words registered on a subconscious level, her mind trained to ignore their childlike banter. A remark slipped past her lips regardless, "Actually I find McGee to be the more handsome," she said nonchalantly, "Nothing personal."

"Hi," Tony said. His tone implied that he was both surprised and offended and Ziva, who initially took pleasure in this, was soon taken by guilt. He had gone to the desert for her, had thrown himself into danger for her, and she had not one kind word for him.

Ziva swallowed, "Hello."

"So, what are you doing here?"

She opened her mouth to speak but did not have the chance to answer as Vance came around the corner just in time. "David, with me," he ordered and Ziva was admittedly thankful for his near perfect timing.

She pressed a smile, "I have to go."

Since the conversation with Gibbs this morning Ziva has lowered her expectations substantially. Not again would she allow herself to become so disappointed. Vance was not a friend, she reminded herself as she took one step after another towards his office. He would not help her unless it suited him. He was a politician, not a man of heart.

"Have I not been a valuable asset to NCIS?" Ziva argued.

"Without question," Vance said.

"Then what is the problem?"

All that she had hoped to avoid has not only been noted by Vance, but emphasized. There was no fooling men of power; she could only bow to them. The decision as to whether or not she would be reinstated has been postponed and the responsibility given to a stranger. Ziva would see Janice Bracco first thing tomorrow morning.

The team was not yet back when Ziva came down the stairs, but her attempt to slip out undetected was fruitless. Nothing happened inside of this building that Abigail Sciuto did not know about, and so Ziva should not find herself surprised when the goth awaited her in the squad room.

Abigail – a father's joy – was nobody's joy at the moment, least Ziva's. The two women looked at each other for a long time before either of them spoke.

"Abby," Ziva said, unsure of their silence. "How are you?"

"How am I? How are _you_? You haven't stopped by in a week, you haven't called, you—" She sucked in her breath and Ziva took the chance to speak.

"I am sorry, Abby. I… I will visit you tomorrow." This did not satisfy the scientist entirely, but whatever Ziva decided to show in her expression coaxed her into giving in.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Ziva left the building with a sense of defeat. Against the wall she leaned for a long time before she could will herself to walk home. _Home. _She was strangely looking forward to her little room, her cave, her hiding place. She had become acquainted with the demons there; the shadows were no longer scary. She now knew what lived in them, what would come out in the night.

This was not to say that the nightmares had become any less torturing. Ziva woke many times that night and at three-thirty in the morning she finally lost patience. Insufferable anxiety drove her out of the bed. She began to pace but tonight this did not content her. She ached to exhaust herself, to run until her lungs burned and her bones shook with adrenaline. She wanted to scream out the pain and climb the walls. She wanted to stop feeling altogether.

_Handle yourself gently._

The doctor's words echoed in her head. They reminded her of the pain she was in. Her ribs ached with every breath and her wounds stung every time she took off the bandages to shower herself in cold water. It was easy enough to ignore the pain when she was distracted, but during the night it was all that she knew.

There had been a time when Ziva could locate the source of her pain and ease it with a good stretch, but she was no longer familiar with her body and so when she twisted and turned in hopes to find comfort she only made it worse. Ziva had grown sensitive to touch, physical and imaginary alike. Her own hands prompted disgust in her; she was not able to touch herself easily. Some places were altogether unreachable.

Ziva lay awake for the rest of the night. There was a remedy for tiredness, but none for a nightmare-plagued spirit.

The morning came with the sound of thunder. The sky was beautifully overcast, the air humid. Ziva rolled out of bed early; there was no time to be wasted. Janice Bracco was not the only one who expected her today; she was to see Mary White as well.

The latter was her primary source of anxiety. Ziva was fairly confident that she would pass the psych evaluation with swimming colors. Her façade was pristine and had fooled many psychologists in the past. But she could not deny the hard science; numbers on paper rarely lied. Ziva would not admit it to anybody, but she was terrified of her results.

In an attempt to distract herself she arrived at the navy yard early. Chris let her in right away this time, only took a moment to clip the visitor-tag onto her shirt. Ziva had mixed feelings about this tag but opted not to dwell on them as she went up to the squad room. Tony and McGee were already there.

She listened to them briefly, longing to be a part of this conversation. Her sensory memory tempted her to steal the clicker from Tony's hand and provide a few facts of her own. But she was no longer entitled to this and so opted to give helpful advice instead.

"You could try to recreate your victim's daily route by using his cell's GPS history. Then see if there is if there are any other cell phones consistently in the same area. If so—"

"We've got Jurel's tail!"

"I'm sorry. I overheard you two talking."

Both men looked evidently surprised at her contribution. McGee seemed somewhat stunned actually; her idea was so painfully obvious. Why hadn't he thought of this? Tony on the other hand lost all thoughts regarding the case at the sight of her. Neither he nor Ziva paid any further attention to McGee.

Tony was comfortable maintaining eye contact while Ziva struggled to look at him. She let her eyes wander and took in the healthy color of his skin instead. His hair was a shade lighter than she remembered, but she attributed this to the desert. Lines were etched into his forehead, his smile was weak. Ziva concluded that he hadn't smiled much recently.

She could not blame him; neither had she.

Their eyes met again and Ziva realized just why she hadn't called in a week. These sea green eyes of his had a way of looking right into her, of drawing out the truth she so desperately wanted to hide. The truth was that she felt ashamed. The truth was that she had wanted to die and that she was angry at him for not letting her. She had given up, had resigned life, had been ready to bow out. But Tony – stubborn, childish, and foolish Tony – hadn't let her. Of course she was thankful too, but this feeling was overshadowed by all that she dealt with. Surviving entailed a long journey to recovery that she had to master all by herself. Had Tony considered this when he came to the desert? Not likely, but Ziva chose to give him the benefit of doubt. He had no way of knowing what had happened to her at the camp. He did not know what came to her at night, and she had needed this long to make sure he never would.

"Taking the tour?"

"I have my first psych evaluation."

"Oh yeah, I always love those."

"I'm sure. You get to talk about yourself the entire time." And then there was guilt. "I'm sorry, I meant, um..."

"No, no, that's okay. No one's ever accused you of having tact." This was sadly true. Ziva's expression sunk.

Should she ever be grateful to an intrusive Abby, then it was now. Although she was not ready for a twenty-one gun salute, she was much less prepared for a conversation with Tony. Her mask had begun to crumble and so she excused herself.

"I will see you later."

Ziva expected fire and hailstorm when she came down to the lab, and for the first time she did not find herself disappointed. What she had seen of Abby yesterday was merely a tremor; now Ziva experienced the whole of her eruption. Only two people in this world had the ability to make her feel small; that was Gibbs and her father. But Abby and her habit to call it as she saw it managed to talk her into the ground today.

Ziva resolved to listen.

To have all that has happened laid out in front of her, to be so blatantly reminded of her wrongs and lectured loudly sent a shiver up her spine. Abby did not allow Ziva a chance to defend herself, but she did not need to defend herself as her friend was very capable of playing out both sides of the story. Needless to say Abby was a lot more vocal with her own.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Oh, Ziva was. As she stood here in front of Abby all that she had pushed away in preparation for today's evaluation came bubbling to the surface. Her guilt, her shame, her fear, the nightmares; like a group of muzzled dogs the emotions threatened to take over, but Ziva managed to contain herself.

She remained silent even after Abby had finished. For a seemingly endless moment she wallowed in this feeling of uncertainty. Before she fell off the metaphorical cliff and into an ocean of raging emotion, however, Abby's demeanor changed remarkably and two surprisingly strong arms came up around her.

"God, I was so worried about you!"

"I know."

Ziva found herself in front of Janice Bracco's door twenty minutes later. She was already late by so much. Abby has caused a storm inside of her and it was necessary to calm the waves before going into the evaluation. She knocked.

"It is open!" Ziva went in. "Miss David, I am glad you have found the time."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Your reviews mean a lot to me, so I just want to thank everyone who takes the time to share their thoughts with me. I appreciate them immensely! This is the fifth chapter, enjoy!  
__Content warning: Yes. Please read with caution._

**Chapter 5**

They sat in silence.

Minutes passed and not a word was said. Ziva wondered how much longer they could avoid the hippo in the room and continued to let her eyes wander. The sky had cleared she noticed duly and the sun illuminated the doctor's bright office. The walls were the NCIS standard orange, but Janice Bracco had added a touch of dark blue and mahogany brown. If the circumstances were any different, Ziva decided, she would feel comfortable here.

The couch on which she was seated upon was surprisingly soft. It suited the curve of her body and momentarily allowed her to forget the physical pain that she was in. A Newton's cradle sat on top of a desk across the room – how cliché – and provided a rhythmical tune that eased Ziva further into a comforting void.

She watched the momentum of the spheres; they distracted her and five minutes into the evaluation she had already forgotten all about why she was here. Ziva was hypnotized, subconsciously grateful for the calm that she felt within her. She now understood the purpose of these things.

"Do you sleep?"

The voice did not startle her. In fact it blended in with the sound of waves that Ziva imagined licking at her wounds and soothing the fire. "Yes," she said, her eyes not wavering from the cradle. The fact that sleep came in short and irregular intervals and that it left her exhausted rather than rested was not mentioned.

"Do you eat?"

"Not much," Ziva confessed. She thought of her inability to eat as a temporary handicap. Soon enough her body would again become used to the food and the amount she was supposed to eat in a day. There was no harm in admitting that she struggled; it made her seem honest in the eyes of the doctor, cooperative, _human._ But it was a scheme. Ziva would confess only to what she knew was temporary, to what was entirely in her control, to what she could change.

"Tell me about your routine," Janice Bracco prompted. "You have been back for a week. Tell me about it."

Finally Ziva averted her gaze to the woman in front of her. Dr Bracco was young, not much older than Ziva herself with hair as dark as the desert sky. But her eyes were a piercing blue and Ziva had no doubt that they would bore into her soul if she was not careful. Her presence was altogether pleasant. Were they to meet inside of a bar or a movie theatre Ziva thought she would enjoy chatting with her. But here was not the place for a blossoming friendship.

Ziva swallowed and shifted in her seat. She felt the doctor's eyes on her and tried hard not to show the pain that she was feeling at every twist and turn. "I get up early," she began. "I like to watch the sunrise."

"Is there a particular reason for that?"

The sun was brutal in the desert. When Ziva had not been kept inside of a darkened room they left her out in the sun to burn; for hours she laid there until blisters rose on her skin. It was the easiest form of torture, for the sun would kill her while the men lodged in the shade. Sometimes she watched them as they played poker; the winner would have her first. Ziva had every reason to despise the sun. It reminded her of the many hours during which she felt like an animal, tied to a pole, a tree, a fence; it reminded her of the fire that would not cease to burn even after she was brought back inside.

Yet she found herself in awe every time dawn broke.

The sun was a constant in a time when nothing was sacred and her life did not mean very much. She could rely on it. If not anything else, it was sure to come up in the morning. It whispered the time to her and even the blisters helped her keep track of the days as she watched them heal.

Now the sunrise marked the end of darkness. When the sun came, the demons of the night disappeared, falling to ashes as a ghost might. Although they waited for her again in the night, recharged and ready to bite, during the day it was _them _that burned, not her.

The sun was on Ziva's side.

"It means I get to live another day."

Janice Bracco decided to write this down and Ziva wondered why. She watched as the doctor's hands which did not fit the rest of the body for their size and form moved across the paper with ease. It were these very words that would determine as to whether or not Ziva would be reinstated. She tried to read them from across the room but failed.

"Is that important to you, Ziva? That you get to live another day?"

"It wasn't for a long time," she said, her voice a whisper. Ziva was glancing at the sky and tilted her head to the sun so it would shine into her face. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to enjoy its warmth.

"What about now?" Janice asked when Ziva did not continue.

She considered this. The sun might no longer burn her and knives might no longer cut her, and hungry men might no longer take her, but in the night this changed. Her dreams were brutal, far worse than the reality had been. She could not escape her subconscious. During the night she was at the mercy of her demons, of the men of the desert although they no longer lived. In her dreams they haunted her, mocked her for her weakness and took pleasure in the fact that they had marked her. Their hands were forever imprinted on her skin.

Ziva came to the conclusion that not much had changed at all. At night she still slept in the desert.

Dr Bracco leaned forward, "Ziva?"

"I—I have a second appointment today; how much longer will this take?"

Janice's penetrating gaze did not waver when she answered, "We have another ten minutes." There was a pause. "Tell me about your family."

A laugh suddenly echoed in the room and Ziva shook her head, "Ten minutes will hardly suffice." As quickly as the laugh had come, it disappeared and she settled back into uneasy waters. "They are dead."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

Ziva's answer had come so quickly it took the doctor aback. There was a long moment of silence and Ziva hoped it would amount to ten minutes altogether. She wanted to leave this office, no longer able to fool herself into comfort or feel distracted by the cradle that had long since stopped swinging.

"That is not quite true, is it?" Janice asked, gently probing at the topic which had thus far inspired the harshest reaction.

"It is true to me."

Eli was no longer relevant. Unlike the men of the desert he did not come to her in the night. She did not see her father's face when she closed her eyes or heard his commands in the silence and she did not recognize his signature on the form that sealed her fate.

He made himself known differently, subtly, in unexpected waves of sorrow and inexplicable longing. When Ziva woke up during the night it was the absence of his fatherly care that made her shiver and yearn for someone of her blood to hold her. She never wished for him, though, but her sister or mother, even Ari to help her through the night.

Once in the desert she had dreamt of her mother. In this dream they did not speak but instead her mother sang a lullaby as she wrapped her arms around Ziva's brittle frame and rocked her pains and fears away. By that time, however, she had grown so disgusted by touch that even her mother's comforting embrace was too much to handle. She had shaken herself out of her dream and wept.

Now when Ziva remembered this dream she wondered what would have happened if she allowed her mother to continue to hold her. Would she have taken her away and saved her from this fate? Ziva imagined it would have been a nice way to go, in the arms of her beloved Ima, embraced by her like the child she had once been.

The thought came to an end and Ziva returned to the reality in front of her. This reality included tears and embarrassment. She quickly wiped her cheeks as if she believed it would make them unseen. They had laughed at her tears in the desert; in her head she could hear them.

"What did just happen?" Janice asked. The doctor had watched closely and noticed the change in Ziva, the sudden swell of emotion, her tears and the pain that was written clearly in her features. Ziva tried so hard to hide her tears, to show no sign of weakness for someone might take pleasure in it. Her father – he had returned to her thoughts – whispered to her, _'Do not cry, Zivaleh. We do not cry.'_

"It is important to me that I live," Ziva said finally, if only to spite her father.

Today was a journey from one waiting room into the next. Once out of Janice Bracco's office, she found herself in Mary White's. Again Ziva paced, again a restless child stole her patience and again the assistant mispronounced her name. Ziva did not bother to correct her this time. Her mind was elsewhere.

She sat fidgety in the chair, waiting, watching the door and listening for the doctor's footsteps. Mary's office was entirely unlike Janice's. It was kept in white (appropriate to the woman's name) and sterile. It was cold. Ziva shivered as she waited, goose bumps rising on her skin.

Although she had not glanced away from the door, when Dr White entered she felt startled. Ziva realized then that if she had been afraid of this appointment before, now she was terrified. Anxiety flared in her stomach and she shifted uncomfortably. "Ziva," the woman greeted her and took her seat on the other side of the desk. "How are you?"

"I am fine." The answer was monotone, practiced, _a lie._

"I would like to take a look at your injuries and see how they are healing. Then we will talk about your test results. Is that all right?"

_No. _"Yes."

"Please."

Although done only once before, Ziva knew the routine. It shamed her to take off her clothes, to reveal her skin that had either scabbed or scarred. She found herself on top of the examination table regardless of her inner struggle, despite the urge to cover herself, unwavering even in the face of her bitter shame.

Mary's hands were cold, but Ziva's skin burned as it had in the desert sun. Every touch sent a shock wave through her body and triggered a memory that she had so desperately wanted to forget. She bit into her lip so hard she drew blood, but she did not cry or wail or wince, her father's voice still in her mind, _we do not cry, Zivaleh._

She hated to think of him as Mary continued to probe and press her, hated to think of anyone in fear she might taint them, and she especially hated to think of the men responsible for her pain. She wanted to scream at Mary to stop, to take her hands away but instead she sank her teeth deeper into her own flesh, biting away the urge to cry when hands touched where it hurt the most.

Ziva felt no relief when it was over. Her skin remained on fire and this fire burned down the forest in which she sought shelter. It left a scarred wasteland, her heart exposed like that of a small animal, there for anyone to take and murder. All that Ziva had left was her silence, for silence saved the mouse from being caught by its prey.

Silence was her friend as well as her torturer.

"Ziva," Mary placed a cold hand on her shoulder to get her attention. "You may dress."

Unlike the last time Ziva was patient to dress, careful not to wake the wildcats that lived inside of her and that would devour her if she accidentally tugged on their tails; she no longer had a forest to hide behind. Ziva oozed with anxiety as she slipped into her clothes, her hands shook like rattles, her face was pale. Mary noticed with great concern that although Ziva was physically healing remarkably well, the emotional damage seemed to heal not at all. She was worried for her patient.

Ziva settled into the chair uncomfortably. She kept her hands folded in her lap to hide them and continued to bite down into her lip to keep the emotions under control. She was no longer patient; now she wanted to leave.

Mary could see this and decided to keep herself short: "All tests have come back negative. Ziva, there is nothing you need to worry about in terms of your health. All the discomforts you feel at the moment will pass. Should they not, I ask you to come and see me again."

There was an air about the doctor, an attitude that reminded Ziva so much of her mother. Her tone was stern and serious but it radiated a kindness Ziva had not often come across since her mother passed. This, if not anything else, comforted her.

"I am frankly worried about your emotional state," Mary continued, and it was for the simple fact that Ziva again detected not an ounce of pity in the woman's voice that she continued to listen. "Have you been seeing somebody about what happened to you?"

"This morning," she explained, "It went all right."

"I am very glad to hear that. Nobody expects you to do this alone."

_Nobody, but Ziva._

It was not until she found herself at home, hovering over a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine, that the relief finally sank in. During the day Mary White's words have continued to echo in her head, replacing her father's entirely: _Ziva, there is nothing you need to worry about._ Even many hours later the combination of her name and these words was surreal. For so many days she had feared the outcome of the results, had wondered what of the desert still lived inside of her, had despised herself because of it.

It was over now. The physical strings to the desert had been cut, severed, the men falling into darkness while Ziva had the chance to emerge from the ashes that she had become. She could rise stronger and more beautiful than before.

Perhaps, she considered, her life began to matter a little more today.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I am so sorry for the wait! Writer's block is a bitch, but I have forced myself past it and I hope you can enjoy this chapter. Thank you everybody for taking the time to read and review! Your thoughts and encouragements are infinitely appreciated!  
__Content warning: As usual, please read carefully._

**Chapter 6**

The Newton's cradle was as comforting as it had been the first time she was here. It was perhaps the only thing she liked about this room besides the stunning view over the Potomac. Ziva fumbled with the hem of her shirt as she watched the spheres, their calming and steady rhythm lulling her into a kind of comfort, into easy waters so that she might let her guard down. She knew this was a trick; one designed for solely this purpose. But she allowed herself to fall for it, allowed herself to wallow in this false sense of security for it was a significant change to what usually raged inside.

"Have your tests results come back?" Janice's voice was soft, a gentle inquiry.

"They have," Ziva mused, her mind distracted by the cradle, her thoughts a thousand miles away. "I have nothing to worry about in terms of my health." She recited Mary White's exact words for she couldn't have said it better herself. Ziva was healing, her injuries slowly but surely fading. "All discomforts I have will pass." There was nothing else to say.

Janice begged to differ. "How do you feel about that?"

This question was so predictable, Ziva almost smiled. Any amusement, however, dulled when she came to think of an answer. She was glad, relieved at the very least, to know that she would make a full recovery, that soon all that remained of the desert were thin, white lines that would one day fade with the sun. But with the prospect of recovery came a whole new set of expectations. People would soon forget what had happened to her. Their excitement about her return would fade like the scars on her skin. And when there were no more injuries to show, no more wounds to present, she would expect herself to fall back into a routine, to again function like she had before, unburdened, unaffected, unchanged. She would expect herself to spin with the rest of the world, to forget.

But Ziva would never forget. There were experiences she believed stayed with a person forever, memories that would never die. Perhaps they would become altered, changed by time and denial and infrequent visits. But _he_ would forever live in her head. He came to her every night and made sure that she remembered his face, his ugly grin, his filthy, roaming hands. He strode into her room as if he lived there with her, as if he shared the bed with her, as if she belonged to him, his own, personal play-toy.

"I feel patient," she said finally, careful with her words. "I know it will take time."

Janice pursed her lips, "Patient is not an emotion. How do you _feel _about the prospect of healing?"

Ziva felt so much. The emotions that lived inside of her were too many to count; she could hardly identify them. Sometimes terror reigned and sometimes anxiety conquered the fortress that was her heart and rendered her useless, the shivering, quivering husk of a woman. The worst phantom was that of hope. It led her to believe that she could win this battle, that she could fight her demons, that she could slay them with one swift roundhouse kick, that she could surpass herself. But it was also hope that silently ate away at her, weakening her and therefore making her more susceptible to the infection of fear.

"I feel," she began, taking in her breath to buy some time, "scared."

This was an audacious confession, a truth her father would shake his head at. Fear was something no one in her family admitted to easily, something that was felt collectively but never spoken about. It existed somewhere underneath hardened skin and years of experience, controlled by iron shackles and fed with the promise of death tasting sweet. The word fear had been erased from her vocabulary and replaced with determination, honor and perseverance.

Ziva admitted to her fear on purpose. At any other time it would slander her, disgrace her, shame her to the bones. But today it benefited her. She would admit to a truth that she could control, a truth that would make her appear human in the eyes of the doctor, a truth that would make her farce believable.

"Why do you feel scared, Ziva?"

She could live with her demons; she was not afraid of them. She could live with the nightmares, the face of Saleem Ulman floating above her like a balloon that was tied to her wrist. She could live with the scars and the utter destruction of her soul. She could live with the hallucinations and her own twisted head. But she could not live with the humiliation of people knowing; of people knowing what had been done to her, of being seen as a victim, of being looked at with pity, _damn, wasted effort._

And so she diverted.

"Sometimes when it is quiet you start to imagine things," she explained. "You know that what you hear is not real, but you cannot help yourself. You listen. When there is nothing else, a voice gives you comfort."

"Whose voice did you hear, Ziva?"

"I heard my sister's voice."

Ziva had heard other things too, things that weren't figments of her imagination but bitter reality. They were filthy words whispered into her ear by equally as filthy men, grunts of sick pleasure coupled with her near silent whimpers of agony, the sound of bare skin against gravel, blasphemous words of praise when they had finished with her, and a humiliation that roared in her ears like the brutal desert storm. It was in her silence that she could still hear them, and it was in her sleep that she could still feel them. But she spoke about none of this to Janice Bracco.

"What would she tell you if she saw you like this?"

"She would tell me that I am not alone." In her mind she could hear her, _'Aht lo l'vad, Zivaleh.' _These words had always been a source of comfort, something she allowed herself to rely on when nothing else was certain. She had trusted that she would always return to her sister, that she would always find her embrace again, that she was not alone even when it seemed like there was no god and no hope. As long as Tali waited for her every evening with a kiss and a kind word, she knew that she would be all right.

And then everything changed. Ziva no longer had her sister, only a crater where Tali had once been.

"And you think you are alone?" Janice asked.

"I am."

"Have you spoken to your friends, Ziva?"

Guilt flared inside of her stomach; mixed with regret and a terrible longing it made for a sickening combination. She had spoken briefly to McGee and Tony, but the once carefree and at times flirtatious conversations had become awkward and sour. The visit to Gibbs' had been altogether disappointing and her bones still shook from Abby's clamorous outburst. Ziva felt discouraged, fearful even, to approach them.

"I would not know what to say," she confessed.

"How about a 'thank you' to start with?"

Nervous; so dreadfully nervous she felt as she waited for McGee the next day. She knew it was irrational to feel this way. She knew it was silly. He was _McGee _for heaven's sake, a man who was pure in his heart and mind, a kind soul, a beloved friend. But a nervous agitation had latched itself onto her and she trembled with anticipation and guilt.

McGee approached her as she knew he would. Ziva had situated herself in a way that he would see her. She trusted her would not pass her by and her patience was rewarded by the light sound of his footsteps and a friendly, "Hey!" The sight of him put her at ease. He had a way of smiling at her, of coaxing her into comfort, of making her forget if only for a moment that she was still a prisoner of the desert.

She smiled at him, "McGee." It was easy to speak with McGee. There was no judgment, no spoiled trust, no ashen debris where a friendship had once lived. There was only a mutual appreciation, a shared love for each other, an understanding. Ziva tilted her head to the side and studied his features. His brief time in the desert had aged him, altered him, left him with an austere crease in his forehead that Ziva ached to soothe. She took in her breath, "I was actually coming to look for you. I wanted to say thank you."

The words fell like stones from her heart, relieving her of so much weight, so much guilt once they were said. Despite her twisted desire to give into the darkness that loomed above her it was a delight to sit next to McGee, to hear his voice, to know that life went on. She cherished the moment as one that was normal and not burdened by her demons.

"So, how's it going?"

Ziva understood the intention behind his casual inquiry. He was worried; they all were. And it had been her blatant boycott of rule number three that had driven them into such worry. She tried to make do, "I will not deny that these past three months have been a challenge. But that was all in the past and the past is the past."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

Ziva did not wholly believe herself. Doubt lived in her eyes and in her mind. It crawled under her skin like a parasite, making her aware of the lies that she spewed and the guilt that she knew she deserved. But when she looked into McGee's eyes she believed in the possibility that the past might one day become the past, that eventually she would be able to forget about the desert and the men that came to her in the night, that she would prevail.

"So, why are you avoiding Tony?"

She had no answer for him, and she had no answer for Janice Bracco when she asked the same question an hour later. "It has been almost two weeks, Ziva. Don't you think he deserves to know how you are doing?"

Tony deserved so much more. He had gone into the desert to avenge her death, to kill the man who had taken her from him. He had put his life on the line for her, a foolish, dead woman. He had survived only because she did, and had emerged from the desert as a hero of war. He deserved her forever gratitude, but Ziva felt only anger.

He had saved her life when she wanted to die.

"What is going on in your mind right now?" Janice implored, her voice gentle and soft as to lure her into comfort.

Ziva opened her mouth to speak but disregarded all that she would have said in favor of silence. It was her silence that had saved her, that kept her alive for so many weeks she had become unfamiliar with the sound of her own voice. Silence was her only weapon.

It was also her enemy.

"I can only help you if you talk to me," Janice tried again.

Ziva did not waver. Her secrets were too dark and too terrible. The demons lived inside of her head; there she was able to keep them at bay. But just like Pandora's Box, once opened, once spoken about, they would consume her, overcome her, take her, and she did not know if she possessed the strength to tame them.

Janice insisted, "This is your last evaluation, Ziva. You must speak to me."

This demand for answers, this demand for the truth, this incessant questioning; it all left a bitter taste in her mouth. Janice no longer allowed her an escape. Just like in her dream she was stripped of her defenses and caught bare in those large man-hands. Ziva felt as naked, as violated, as exposed as she had under the tight grasp of Saleem and his men. She wanted to scream at Dr Bracco. She itched to scratch at those bitter blue eyes and deliver the final blow so that she might rest easy. But Ziva would not shoot herself in the foot and so she continued to sit through the evaluation in a stoic, unaffected manner.

"Allow me to be frank, Ziva. I do not think you are fit for duty."

At this, a sudden feeling of dread overcame her, swallowed her like the ocean that raged within. It spread throughout her entire body until it settled in the area around her heart. Ziva's eyes shot up with a questioning uncertainty, a kind of raw terror. She shook her head, "No, no, I am ready!"

"You are not coping, Ziva."

"Perhaps I cope by working," she insisted.

"Perhaps you suppress by working," Janice argued.

Ziva aimed for that lethal, kind of poisonous look that made most men recoil from her, that made them take a step back and reconsider questioning her. The attempt was pathetic, however, and conveyed an embarrassing desperation instead of the force she had intended. She tried again.

"I _need_ to work," she pressed through her teeth, insistent, unwavering in her desire to return to the job, the team, her family.

"Then talk to me, Ziva. This is your only option."

Ziva knew that this was her only option, was painfully aware of the fact. Still, she could not bring herself to share her secrets. This was nothing personal. She reminded herself that she would like Janice Bracco if the circumstances were different, if she was not playing with her like an animal played with its prey. She trusted no one with her secrets, least herself.

"What more do you want to know?" she pressed.

"Tell me about the desert."

"You read my medical report. You know all about the desert!"

Anger and bile rose in her throat. This outburst came suddenly and without a warning. In an attempt to contain herself she dug her nails into the soft leather of her seat.

"This is not how it works, Ziva. They will not go away if you don't speak about them." Janice's voice was gentle, a stark contrast to Ziva's near panic.

It became increasingly harder to sit still with this rising fury inside of her. Finally Ziva pushed herself out of her chair. She paced, back, forth, back, forth, until a decision was made. She went for the door.

"Leaving will not aid your reinstatement, Miss David."

A terrible, inhuman, utterly pathetic sound tore itself from Ziva's lips. Two hands met the orange plaster wall with such violence it shook the building. It was a cry of anger and exhaustion, of sadness and the insufferable knowledge that the men of the desert continued to control her, that her life was still in their filthy, dead hands, that she was still at their mercy. This weighed on her shoulders so much her knees gave way and she slowly sunk to the floor.

It was familiar there, oddly comforting, as if here where the people wiped their feet was where she belonged. The tears came uninvited. She fought them at first, battled them like she was taught to do. But soon they tickled down her cheeks, betraying her act and giving away all that she had hoped to hide. She wept for many minutes, burying her face in her hands in shame and embarrassment as her anger slowly morphed into sorrowful resignation.

"Everybody here wants to help you, Ziva. You have to let us."

This was easier said than done. Even if Ziva wanted to confide, even if she wanted someone to know, there was this blatant lack of trust that kept her from speaking the truth, from confessing to all the terrible things she had experienced. She trusted no one, least herself. If someone had told her six months ago that this was going to happen to her she would have laughed at them. Ziva David, the woman who had sworn to never be captured alive, would not let anyone take her, torture her, rape her, much less for three months.

And this was the root of her shame. It was not only that she had been ruined, spoiled, made filthy by the men of the desert; it was that she had _let _it happen. She hadn't stopped them; she hadn't been able to. She had not managed to end her life with the honor and dignity (if there was such a thing) she had planned to.

She had let them destroy her.

"I am not going to go back to work, am I?" Ziva asked, defeated. Through tears and pain her voice sounded awfully fragile, foreign, strange, like it was not hers at all. She let her head fall back against the wall and blinked away the remaining tears. She felt small and helpless.

Janice leaned forward as to not make her patient feel any more inferior. She sighed, "It is in your hands, Ziva. Everything is up to you."

"How is it useful to talk about what happened? How does what happened affect my ability to work?"

"It does not. What matters is how you deal with it, Ziva. Nobody doubts your capability. We doubt your act. You are a terrible liar."

Ziva laughed. It was a bitter laugh, sad, dulled by tears and a threateningly large lump in her throat. But it was also a genuine laugh, and it lifted some of the weight off of her shoulders. "I know."

There was a long moment of silence. It wrapped her up and cradled her like a child. There was a kind of calm that overcame her once the anger and the tears were out, the pressure relieved. It was a calm that was unlike anything she had known before. Her hands settled into her lap and her breathing evened until it was a soft, regular rhythm.

Janice approached her, settled on the floor in front of her and placed a gentle hand on Ziva's forearm. She smiled, "You will return to work once your visa status is sorted out."

Ziva looked up, stunned. "But you said—"

"You are not the only one that knows how to play a game, Ziva." In Janice's eyes Ziva recognized compassion, kindness and a glimmer of mischief. She was impressed, if also mildly bothered by this unconventional approach. Janice became serious again, "There is a lot you have to work out; with yourself and others. It is going to take time and patience, but it is not impossible. There are people here that love you, Ziva. Let them help you." She gave Ziva's arm a gentle squeeze, "I have no other patient come in today; you may stay as long as you need."

Ziva nodded passively, trying to process everything that just happened. Before Janice left her to her thoughts, she stopped her, "Dr Bracco, I…"

Janice nodded understandingly, "I will see you Monday morning at ten."

Ziva stayed inside of the office for half an hour after Janice left, unmoving. She was afraid that if she all but raised a finger the spell would be broken, and she would tumble back into this violent ocean of rage. When she finally detached herself from the wall, however, she was surprised to find that it lasted; the post-outburst magic, undisturbed. In her heart she knew that this calm would not last, that soon her demons would catch up to her, would take her again, would torture her again and find pleasure in it. But for the moment she was in control, and so she let nothing sway her as she hazily wandered through the empty hallways.

That was until the sound of a dying cat ripped her out of her drifting.

Ziva did not think that after such a day, after such a week, such a _year,_ she would find it in her to smile but there it was, subtle and small. The corners of her lips tugged upwards at the horrid sound of his singing, his terrible harmony and awfully off pitch. The song echoed through the air vents, entertaining everyone that passed. She followed it until she stood in the men's room, silently, inconspicuously, for another minute she listened with a questioning raise of her eyebrow until he noticed her.

"How long have you been standing here?"


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thankies to all of you lovely people leaving me thoughts and reviews. I say it every time, but they mean so much to me! Thank you a thousand times over for your support!  
__Content warning: Yes. Please read carefully._

**Chapter 7**

They looked at each other for a long time; much longer than their pre-desert selves would have thought necessary. It was a necessity now, if only to convince themselves that this was real, that _they _were real. Ziva had often thought about what to say to Tony. In the late hours of the night when she could not sleep she had scripted her approach, her apology, her way of thanking him although she could not entirely appreciate his reckless attempt at vengeance. If it had not been for him, she would be dead now. It was an option altogether preferable. Her anger, however unwarranted, was real. She blamed him for nothing but having to live. It was because of him that she was forced to speak about all that she had hoped to, quite literally, take to the grave. It was because of him that she had to continue the fight when all she desired was to give into the fate she had resigned herself to in the desert, when all she wanted was to give into death. It was because of him that she had to heal.

Tony sure knew this.

In his mind still lived the image of her, bruised and battered, terrified, willing, no, _craving_ to die. He remembered her face, her eyes, the single tear that had escaped her fortress, alone in the scarred land that was her skin, carving its way through dirt and blood, only to die on this forsaken ground they sat upon. He remembered, _'Kill me! You will need the Americans for leverage,'_ as if she believed Saleem Ulman was capable of mercy, as if she believed he would give her up into the arms of death, as if, Tony contemplated, this was a race to either die or live. And Ziva had set her mind upon the former.

He understood, sympathized even. Tony had come into the desert with a desire much like Ziva's, for he too had gone through months of terrible suffering and ultimately made himself ready for the end. The difference was that his wounds were easily remedied by her presence, the raft in his heart that her death had caused closed at the sound of her voice, the sight of her breathing, walking.

His salvation was her burden.

He knew she did not sleep. After years of all-nighters fueled by coffee and cheap take-out, he recognized the darkness in her eyes, the struggle to keep them open. He saw that she had cried very recently and wondered if he too was responsible for her tears. Tony ached at the sight of her, ached to reach out, to tell her just how hard the months without her had been. But it was entirely unlike him to give into sentimentals. And so he resorted to what he knew he could always rely on, to what had saved him in the desert, to what had saved _her _in the desert: humor.

"I wasn't standing," he corrected her, his statement underlined by a class-A paper towel toss.

"No, you weren't," Ziva sighed, keeping herself contained for she knew he did not deserve her anger, her frustration, her _resentment_. He did not know what she saw at night. He did not know that the desert still lived inside of her head. He did not know how hard it was to live, to breathe, to emerge from a place of total devastation and not give into her pain. He would never know. "You were lying on the ground without adequate back-up, completely violating protocol…"

"And I double parked."

"Yes, I noticed."

Her voice was refreshing, so unlike the pathetic whimpers he dreamed of at night, far from the bitter resignation that informed him just how far she had drifted. He was glad to push her buttons, to inspire frustration in her, to still know how after such a long time. It meant that she was not dead, that somewhere inside of her still lived the woman that he knew, the woman he had gone into the desert for.

She took in her breath, "But that does not matter now; just like it does not matter how it worked out for Michael."

Tony almost smiled at the irony. It had not worked out for Michael; was this not the point? Rivkin was dead, his murder being the root of everything that has happened since. Tony was to blame, for his over-protectiveness, his instincts, his _love _for this woman had taken over his heart and mind. He had pulled the trigger to end his best friend's lover's life to make sure he would never again hurt Ziva. This had spiraled into the most terrible hurt of all. If he took this thought further he would realize that he too was responsible for what had ultimately happened to her, that he had been the one to send her into the desert. He had made her this shell of a person; with a gentle toss of snow he had unleashed an avalanche of pain and regret underneath which they now lay buried. Tony steadied himself against the counter, unsure of what to say.

"So what does," he finally managed.

She came into his space, her eyes traveling over him like a gentle caress, the all to distant touch he had longed for ever since he dragged her out of the desert. "That you had my back," she said, her voice soft, tender, soothing to his soul. "That you have _always_ had my back, and that I was wrong to question your motives."

He glanced at her profile in the mirror, unable to look at her directly, afraid that if he did he would be taken by the anger he knew he was not entitled to, the anger that was entirely inappropriate in this moment of honestly, unjustified in the face of his own hypocrisy. He too had done a number of foolish things in the name of love; taking himself into the desert being only the latest on a list of hopeful attempts to make himself mean something in her life, or in her death. He swallowed, "So why did you?"

"I could not afford to trust you."

And perhaps herein lay the secret. She was used to being betrayed by the men that she loved, used to being played, used to being used. Ari, Eli, Michael; they had all contributed to a by now habitual tendency to shut the people out, including him. A part of Tony flattered himself with the thought that this entailed she loved him too, somewhere, somehow. But this was not the time to be selfish, and so he dismissed every impulse to reach out and instead contented himself with a simple, "I thought you weren't sure what to say."

"I guess I had a long time to think about things." In the desert she had made peace with herself, had come to terms with the crimes she had committed, had accepted what would ultimately await her. In the desert she had forgiven him, had come to understand his intentions, his actions, his love for which she was completely undeserving for. But Ziva could not yet forgive him for saving her, for prolonging her torture, for expecting her to heal, for throwing her into this life that she was so entirely unable to master. She now battled nightmares and ghosts, things she could not kill. She battled her bitter shame. She battled her mind and soul, a lone soldier at war with herself.

The image of Ziva tied to a chair, bloody and bruised, resurfaced in his mind. She'd had three months to think about things; three brutal, violent, lonely months which he would, if given the power to turn back time, take upon himself. Tony looked at her, taking in the tan of her skin, the slight tinge of purple that she had attempted to cover up with make-up, her eyes, oh those eyes so full of pain. He felt a swell of regret inside of his chest, a terrible sadness for all that she had lived through, all that he hadn't been able to protect her from, all that he was _still _not able to protect her from. "I'm sorry, Ziva."

"No," she insisted, taking him by surprise. "It is I who am sorry," sorry for disbelieving him, for blaming him, for not appreciating and trusting him, for luring him into the desert, for all that he had endured because of her.

And there it was: physical, tangible evidence of her being alive, the proof that he needed to convince himself that he had not risked his life for nothing, that he had not risked McGee's life for nothing, that he had come out of the desert with something to show. She was alive. She was breathing. Her heart beat steadily in her chest and if he listened closely he imagined that he could hear it; _or perhaps it was his own? _She kissed him, her lips setting his skin ablaze, sending his mind reeling, his instincts into a frenzy. Her hands; he could feel the pain they had endured when she brushed her calloused fingers over his cheeks with a tenderness he had always known she was capable of but never before experienced.

"Your instincts were right," she said finally. "You were a cop and I should have never faulted you for thinking like one."

Her words were caught somewhere between her mouth and his ears, delayed by a rush of blood, a surge of emotions, a foolish impulse that would have him head-slapped by Gibbs if he knew. When they finally registered in his brain an epiphany dawned. "I am a cop!" Tony did not think as he took her by the shoulders, subconsciously satisfying his desire to touch her. "I think like one." His right hand found her neck, he was just that much closer, before he pulled himself away. "Genius."

Ziva shook for several moments after Tony left. His touch, although unintentionally, had inspired terror in her, and fear. In the early days of her capture they had often taken her by the shoulders and shaken her until her vision spun. It was a distant memory of gentle torture, the beginning of what had quickly evolved into a cruel game. Ziva closed her eyes against the images that surfaced in her mind and clung to the counter to steady herself. She started to breathe, in, out, until her heart evened. Only then was she able to look back onto the conversation that had ended so abruptly and realize that, although not everything, enough had been said to put her mind at ease.

It was liberating to have spoken to everybody, to have reached her initial objective, to be back on the job as soon as her status was sorted out. Ziva felt oddly proud but knew better than to fool herself into thinking that it was over. There was a part of her still yearning to give into the darkness, the pain. It was this part that usually dominated her spirit, that raged a violent storm inside of her, that reminded her that she was not alone, that she was still owned, that she was still tortured by thirty filthy men at night. That made sixty hands altogether; sixty roaming, exploring, violent hands. It was the part of her that when she looked down upon herself lost all hope. It was this part that continued to long for death, her good old friend.

But there was another part of her slumbering in the depths of her being that very much wanted the opposite. It was this part that still battled with teeth and claws until everything lay in shreds, until her demons were slayed, until she merged a winner. It was this part that longed for the life she had once had, the woman she had once been. This part of her was not willing to give in easily. This part of her was the strong, unwavering soldier that she was raised to be.

They clashed every thirty-two seconds.

The thunder, when these vastly different parts of her being collided, roared with doubt and sorrow for all that she had lost, all that she longed for, all that stood in her way. The journey to recovery was a battle; like Sisyphus she was doomed to push a boulder uphill. This stone was as heavy as her burden, her grief, her suffering. It was her fate to carry it, but as Dr Bracco had told her, _'It is in your hands, Ziva. Everything is up to you,' _it was her decision to either carry this burden forever, or to bury it at the summit of the mountain and press on with only the calloused hands and muscled shoulders of someone who had achieved the impossible, a survivor.

There was a pride in that, Ziva contemplated. There was a pride in coming out of something so terrible, so traumatic, and being able to say, _'yes, it was hard and I made it.'_ There was a pride in accepting the horrors, of turning them into a lesson, into something she could grow upon. The desert would forever be a part of her, burned into her skin, tangled with her bones, etched into her memory, into her very soul. But as a wise man had once said, _'the most massive characters are seared with scars.'_

If only for today, Ziva chose to believe this.

It was a belief that got her through the rest of the day with a semi-positive attitude, a kind of hope that was unlike any hope she had felt since the desert, a courage that empowered her to take greater leaps, greater risks. Even her smile came easy as she waved at Abby on her way out, and the pleasantries flowed from her mouth like honey when she returned the visitor's tag to Chris. "Thank you, I will have it back tomorrow." Soon she would not need this tag anymore. Soon she would belong to them again and be allowed through these doors without the hassle of singing in and out.

But she had not yet reclaimed her position on Gibbs' team. There was one person still to convince.

Despite the courage that had swelled inside of her chest, Ziva did not seek him out immediately. She needed a moment to contemplate, to script coherent and logical arguments, to ready herself for a conversation that might disappoint her again. The memory of their previous chat still tasted bitter in her mouth, but Ziva was determined to set whatever was wrong between them right. She would not rest until she knew her relationship with Gibbs at peace.

She found herself in his basement by early afternoon. The door was never locked and Ziva was not shy about making herself at home here. This morning had given her back courage and confidence, success and a sense of self, and so she felt secure in her invasion. But this morning had also been stressful, emotionally challenging and altogether exhausting. Here she was able to recharge.

The sun shone through the dirty windows, chasing away the shadows, the demons that lived inside of them, the men of the desert, thus providing her with a safe environment to unwind. She watched the sawdust dance in the air. For many minutes she was mesmerized, distracted, in another world, miles away. Then she began to pace. She took to the stairs first, up, down, up. The repetitive motion put her at ease, helped her settle into herself and fashion an adequate speech. Eventually she walked a circular motion around the boat that she had conjured up in her mind; rinse, repeat.

Gibbs came home late into the evening. Ziva heard the door open and close, the sound of footsteps across the creaky floor heading towards the basement, and finally she pushed herself up from where she had ended up lying on the floor. She leaned against the wall as if she had not spent the last few hours in his home, as if she had calculated the time of his return and arrived just in time to meet him, as if she had not delighted in a stolen scoop of ice cream earlier this afternoon when she had gotten hungry, as if she had not practiced exactly what she would say to him. As if she believed Gibbs could not tell by the way dust had caught on her blouse and hair, as if she could fool him.

"We need to talk."

Gibbs did not seem surprised, and Ziva resigned to the fact that he had probably smelled her from a mile away; know-it-all that he was. She felt unsure and fumbled with her hands. He offered her a chair, "Sit down."

She began to speak as she crossed the room, unable to keep the words contained, afraid that if she hesitated she would forget about them as she had forgotten all that she wanted to say to Tony. "When I came to see you and said I wanted back, you said it was the Director's call." Her bitterness was in her voice; her disappointment, too. She tried to hide it with a weak smile and forced herself to continue, "But I sensed your hesitation. I sense it _now._"

Ziva was restless. Never having been particularly talented at heart-things, she felt a nervous agitation latch onto her and she pushed herself out of her chair, taking again to pacing, the only thing that seemed to help her mind these days. "Even though I thought I made myself clear. I understand what you did in Israel…"

"Your brother Ari."

There was nothing that could have prepared her for this. At the mention of her brother's name her arms dropped. Confusion replaced the speech she had prepared so meticulously. Her anxiety made room for regret, a terrible, unexpected sadness as her eyes drifted upon the dark spot on the floor where Ari's life had poured from him at her hands, under her watch. Ziva shuddered at the memory. "You know what happened. It was here."

"I want to hear it from you."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I know I have kept you waiting for a long time and at this point I would like to thank everybody that has reached out to me and asked me to continue/finish this story. Here is the final chapter, which will bring the canon of 702 (Reunion) to an end. Please see my final note at the bottom :)  
__Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS and I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators.  
__Content warning: With this story, always. Please read carefully._

**Chapter 8**

_Ari_. She did not think she would hear his name today, tomorrow, or every again from anyone's mouth but her own. Once a year, when she whispered a blessing for him on the day of his death, his murder, for which she was responsible. She looked up at Gibbs, her expression one of confusion and uncertainty. Ziva did not understand.

She knew he was trying to get at something, but she could by her life not fathom what it was. Her brother had not been the subject of conversation for many, many years. Ziva could not recall the last time anyone had mentioned his name.

And for this she was thankful.

No one on the team felt particularly fond of him. He had killed one of their own after all. But they had learned to care for Ziva, or at least possessed the necessary amount of decency not to remind her of what he had done. Except for Abby, everyone had allowed her to grief quietly, without insults on her person or family.

Ari's actions had never reflected on hers.

All the more startled was she to hear his name today. Gibbs' hesitance was so potent, Ziva had noticed it on the very first day of her return. She hadn't been able to imagine what it was and passed it off as doubt, maybe worry for her. And she had caught glimpses of it ever since: when she spent the night with him, when he took her to the doctor's office, when she first came to see him in his basement. It had been there this entire time. But what was _it_? Ziva swallowed and shook her head helplessly.

Gibbs decided to help her along. "You had orders to kill your brother to earn my trust."

A shiver ran up her spine. With every word that left his mouth it became clearer. It was a clarity that felt much like a dagger in her guts. It began to dawn on her that he knew, although how exactly he had learned about the orders Eli's orders remained a mystery and Ziva did not ask. Instead she nodded, too stunned to say anything but "Yes," for to lie to Gibbs was not an option.

"That is a problem," he said, the simple statement a twist of the metaphorical dagger.

"You don't understand," she pleaded quickly.

"Damn right, I don't understand!"

His approach startled her. Ziva took a step back, shrinking in the face of Gibbs' towering presence. "When I volunteered for that mission I—"

"You killed your own brother, Ziva!"

"I volunteered to protect him, Gibbs," she insisted because she knew he would do the same for someone he loved. He too would question order and authority if he believed in the innocence of that someone. Frankly, he had done exactly that for her two years ago. Ziva remembered with a pang in her heart that they had stood here then, too, questioning loyalty and duty, family and friendship.

She had been just as afraid of losing her little family then as she was now.

Ziva swallowed hard. "He was my brother," she said. The smile on her lips was pathetic, an awful attempt to hide the many feelings that so quickly went to her throat and eyes. But soon any effort to conceal her emotions was too much and Ziva's expression dropped. Her gaze drifted again to where Ari had fallen dead and a new wave of grief tugged painfully at her heart.

"But now he is gone," she said finally. "Eli is all but dead to me. And the closest thing I have to a father," – a strained pause – "is accusing me."

Ziva did not know what went on inside of her. Unexpected grief for her brother, grief for her friendship with Gibbs and her place on his team, a terrible longing for what they had before and a fear of losing it all over again swirled in her stomach, making her mind dizzy with nausea. Tears burned in her eyes and her throat felt thick. She wanted to say something to make Gibbs understand that she had always been on his side, that she had never lied, that she had never unintentionally wronged him.

But the words did not come.

His eyes were difficult to read. She wondered if he believed her, if he knew how much she had missed him, if he understood how much pain she was in, here, in front of him, like a fish caught on the hook, out of water, suffocating and drowning all at the same time.

"Okay," he said. The word was hopeful. It lifted her heart just a little and she perked up. But Gibbs did not give her the answer she had come here for, the blessing she so desperately wanted. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes, for his next move did, finally, convince her that she was still very much wanted.

He wrapped his arms around her carefully and pulled her to his chest. And Ziva, for all her fear of touch, let herself relax into the embrace and buried her face in the neck of the man she had come to love more than she had ever expected, more than her own father. The tears now spilled freely, silently, unseen over her cheeks. Gibbs pressed his lips to the top of her head, an unspoken apology, a promise, and held her there for several moments.

"Welcome home," he whispered.

The relief she felt after the conversation with Gibbs was extraordinary. For the first time since she had come out of the desert there was no pressing issue, no deadline, no appointment she had to prepare for, nothing to be afraid of. Ziva simply allowed herself to _be_, which seemed like a manageable task but turned out to be quite difficult as she sat, alone, in her room at the navy lodge a little while later.

It was Friday.

The sun was beginning to set. The flair of the city was that of a beautiful late summer afternoon. It was still warm. A soft breeze came in through the open window, carrying with it the wonderful scent of Italian food. Pizza and garlic bread made her stomach grumble. Music played in the distance. She recognized it as that of the Jazz-musician. He always played at the corner.

Ziva glanced up the street and spotted the Italian bistro near the intersection. She considered a couple of minutes and decided that she would be a fool if she did not enjoy this moment of temporary peace. And so she found her phone and dialed a number.

"McGee," she said when he answered at the second ring.

"Ziva!" McGee sounded surprised. "How are you?"

She began with the well practiced and usually false promise of "I am fine," but then realized that she was in fact that. _Fine_. Ziva smiled. "I was wondering if you had any plans tonight."

There was a long pause and for a moment she feared he had hung up on her. The anxiety turned in her stomach.

"I am very sorry, Ziva," he said finally, his tone implying that he was indeed sorry. "I actually have a date tonight."

"Oh." Ziva tried to muster an enthusiastic response. She felt disappointed, but she did not expect McGee to change his evening plans because of her. A date was special. "I hope you have a wonderful evening, McGee," she said kindly and hung up.

Before the courage left her entirely, and before she had the chance to question herself and ask if she really wanted to go out into the public and share a meal with someone, she dialed a second number. The telephone rang for a long time and Ziva was about to give up when she heard that familiar click.

"Ziva, how wonderful to hear from you!"

"Ducky," she said, happy to hear his voice. "Will you meet me?"

It felt nice to get ready, to treat herself to a comfortable shower, to pick out a set of clothes for this special occasion. She willed herself to ignore everything that would plunge her back into sorrow – her scars, her anxiety, her pride – and focused on her achievements instead. There was enough time to worry later.

Ziva opted to wear no make-up – she did not want to hide today – and changed into a new shirt and a comfortable pair of jeans. Her hair was a mess of curls and there was a familiar glint in her eyes. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt for the first time satisfied with her appearance. She almost recognized herself in the dark eyes and in that weak attempt at a smile. Ziva took in her breath and when she looked at the clock she was thrilled to find that if she did not hurry she would make Ducky wait.

"Ziva," he greeted her when she exited the navy lodge. Ducky did not fail to notice the freshness in her appearance, the slight bounce in her step and the smile which he was so glad to see. "You look ravishing."

"Thank you, Ducky. You look handsome yourself," Ziva said and nudged his bow-tie so it was even. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Anytime, my dear."

There was a comfortable silence shared between the two as they waited on their food. Ziva felt content, happy. Ducky continued to take note of a healthy flush in her cheeks and a glimmer in her eyes which he had not seen in a very long time. He leaned forward on the table. "Have you heard anything new?"

Ziva looked up at him. Her mind had momentarily wandered and she needed a moment to remember where she was and with whom. Then Ducky's words caught up with her and she nodded, "Yes. I spoke to Dr Bracco this morning. She says I am fit for duty."

Even if Ducky had his doubts he chose to say nothing. He could feel it in her presence. Ziva vibrated in her seat with content. This alone, he decided, was enough to convince him she was ready to go back to work. She still had a lot to work through, he did not fool himself. He felt this too, when her thoughts drifted and she stared blankly down the road. He wondered where her mind was. Nevertheless, he was sure she was more than capable of crime scene work.

The team would be glad to have her back too. It did not function so well without the missing piece.

"That is fantastic news," he said at least, nodding eagerly. But he could not help himself or his worry and he had to ask: "Are you going to continue seeing Dr Bracco?"

Ziva looked down. She had hoped to keep this a secret, to inconspicuously disappear every Monday morning, to only tell Gibbs about this weekly appointment and no one else. But she did not want to lie today, especially not to Ducky, whom she trusted more than anyone else at the moment. "Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "We meet on Monday."

Ducky was pleased. "I think that is very wise of you." It was all he had to say on the subject. He had an answer that satisfied him and there was no use in lingering on the topic when it clearly made Ziva uncomfortable.

Fortunately, their food arrived just in time.

It was a difficult night. Ziva tossed and turned and woke almost every hour. An especially torturous nightmare rattled her awake around one in the morning and made her afraid to go back to sleep. It seemed to her that every day she ended on a positive note was followed by a night that ruined whatever peace she had managed to create.

She wondered if she would ever escape this terrible cycle.

It was now fife-thirty in the morning.

The sun would not rise for another hour and a half, still Ziva pushed herself out of bed and threw open the window. The air was cold and her skin prickled. She leaned over the sill and took a deep breath.

Ziva found herself outside a couple of minutes later. The street was empty, dark but the flashing lights of a twenty-four hour convenient shop. It was the right time for her to run.

Two weeks have passed and Ziva had – surprisingly – followed Mary White's advice to treat herself gently. The pain in her bones had reduced to only a throb, and the bruises have faded nearly completely. It no longer hurt to breathe.

She sprinted the two blocks to the park. Her lungs burned painfully once she arrived and Ziva gasped for air as she held herself over the back of a bench. A few months ago she would have mastered these two blocks easily. Now she needed a few minutes to recover.

_Gently_, she reminded herself. _Treat yourself gently._

The first rays of sun peeked from behind the trees when she started to walk again. It was a slow jog she could sustain for a good fifteen minutes. It was nothing compared to her past routine, but it was a start nonetheless.

The fact that she was free to run at all pleased her.

On the way back to the navy lodge she picked up a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper. The normality of it all was so comforting, Ziva forgot all about the terrors that had woken her earlier this morning.

The city began to wake up. By six o'clock the street was no longer empty. A group of teenagers stumbled down the sidewalk, probably towards home after a night out. A man pushed past her, his phone at his ear. A young woman began to set up flowers in front of her shop. Ziva stopped and watched.

"I know you!" The girl chirped when she realized she had company. "You buy ice-cream every evening and listen to Miles."

Ziva was startled. "Who is Miles?"

"He plays jazz at the corner."

"Oh."

The girl smiled, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Ziva considered this, eyes traveling over the display. "I am looking for something easy to take care of. Something green."

"Everything here is green!" The girl laughed and disappeared into the shop, returned a few moments later with a lovely leafy something in her arms. "This guy will make you happy. Perfect for the balcony or the inside. Not winter-hardy though."

"How much will that be?"

Someone else might have given themselves the weekend, might have enjoyed the last days of summer because they could. But Ziva had never been patient.

She knew they would be at work, finishing reports, sipping coffee, whining about how they would much rather be at home. Home, to her, was the navy yard. Ziva owned nothing else, knew she would not come into the luxury until the formalities were settled.

But this was good enough.

The _bing _of the elevator could be heard from across the office. Perhaps this was due to the hour of morning and the day of week. No one was here. Or perhaps this was due to the fact that it was a sound so unlike anything Ziva had heard these last few months that she could not help but perk up.

"Ziva's here," McGee said, and in her head it sounded a little like _'Ziva's home'_. With her new companion in arms, she settled into her seat as if no time had passed at all. It was the best remedy, Ziva decided and she looked over her desk to Tony and then at McGee.

To continue where she had left off until her wounds closed.

**The end**

_A/N: With this fic I wanted to fill in blanks, to explore canon as accurately as possible and to make sense of it in my head. I wanted to make how the show dealt with Ziva's capture plausible and I may have been successful. There is still more, of course. Ziva's recovery does not end with Reunion and I will probably revisit this theme in one-shots or small fics in the future. Thank you everyone for your amazing reviews and feedback throughout this fic and I hope you enjoyed it even though I made you wait for this last chapter forever! Thank you, thank you, thank you!_


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