A/N: This is…my first ever M-rated fic. I'm a little nervous. M for rape, eating disorders, implied (?) violence.
Her throat burns raw with each explosion, but she can't stop.
"Tell…me…everything you know about NCIS!"
Her back aches as she hunches over, but she can't stop.
She's shoved against a wall, she can't fight it, he punches her, he takes her again—and again—
Her eyes blur as she loses control, but she can't stop.
Night falls, he leaves, shaking, shaking, she can't stop it, screaming, resisting herself—and then day breaks again, and the cycle repeats, over, again, again—
The one thing she had control over is controlling her now, just like everything else. Every fucking little thing, she thinks bitterly, and then she shoves her fingers in her mouth again.
The taste of sugary caffeine on her lips—it isn't hers, but what is? The blood flows from the back of her head, a battle wound, pretending it isn't there, pretending she isn't—
It hits the toilet again and she shudders, weakly lifting her fingers and flushing it away. Tears burn hot against her skin and she attempts to get up, to wash herself clean and forget it ever happened, but for once she doesn't have the strength.
She falls back against the plastic excuse for a stall separator and allows the tears to fall without sobbing. Silence, except for the voices in her head, and those hardly count.
The door opens but she can't bring herself to care. She hears a step, a pause. "Ziva?" asks his voice.
She doesn't respond, refuses to acknowledge.
The floor is hot, like everything in Somalia, but she can't care. Noise, outside, but she can't care, she won't care—
"Ziva? I know you're in here."
That's a bit voyeuristic, she thinks briefly, and then the voices are screaming again.
He sighs and bends over, checking under the first stall. And then the second. He continues until he finds her in the last stall.
"Ziva, are you alright?" he asks, the worry seeping into his voice.
"Please," she says finally, and her voice is quiet and broken. "Leave."
Voices are yelling, fighting; she thinks maybe she hears Tony, but she's hearing a lot of things and she doesn't trust anyone anymore, not even herself—
He sighs again. "I'd warn you that I'm coming in but you won't take me seriously, so we'll just skip that part." With a small feeling of distaste at the thought of the amount of germs on the floor, he hits his stomach and inches his way slowly under the door. Eventually he pulls his feet in and gets a good look at her, face turned away from him stubbornly. He sits against the opposite wall. "Are you going to tell me what's going on or do you expect me to guess?"
"Neither," answers Ziva. "You are going to get up, leave the stall, leave the restroom, and leave me alone."
"I'm not," he says. "I'm not leaving you."
He returns, an odd desperation evident as he throws her down, forces away her clothing, thrusts himself inside her—
"You should be ashamed of me," she mutters under her breath, hoping he doesn't hear, and he doesn't, really, just enough to know she's talking to him. She speaks a little louder. "You should not want to be here."
"I'll decide where I want to be," he says, equally obstinate. "If you're sick…"
"I am not," she answers quickly. On second thought, that may have been a good cover-up.
"Pregnant?" asks Tony warily—that would mean…
"No," answers Ziva—although that might be simpler.
Tony is quiet and looks away, and Ziva shuts her eyes. There's the judgment, she can feel it creeping already, seeping into her, overtaking her—
"Tell me," he whispers into her ear—seduction, now?—and she struggles against his weight.
"I will not," she answers, equally as quiet.
"You will!" Harder, faster—the pain builds, she can't, she can't—
"For how long?" he says in a whisper.
"Since Africa," she answers quietly, and she's surprised he hasn't judged yet, hasn't abandoned her. She opens her eyes again and meets his, brown against brown.
When he speaks again, his voice is broken, his eyes questioning. "Why?"
Ziva's eyes fill with tears—one more thing she can't control. She shakes her head and looks away, suddenly feeling the urge to vomit again. She stops herself, barely, but she's bent over the toilet and she can't move, she can't breathe—
"You will tell me!" The screaming, the fighting, his nails—are they hers?—draw blood from her wrists, she cries out, fights, resists—
"Stop!" she screams, shaking, crying. Hoping he'll leave, praying he'll stop—
But then he wraps his arms around her, and suddenly she remembers she's home.
"Tony," she breathes, and before she realizes what she's doing, she's burying her head in his chest, letting her tears fall. "Tony, Tony, Tony…"
"You'll be okay," says Tony quietly. He runs his fingers through her hair, smoothes it against her head, anything to comfort her. "You're going to be okay."
Ziva's breathing finally returns to normal and her tears slow. She lifts her head and meets his eyes, and he wipes an errant tear from her cheek.
"Couldn't live without you, I guess."
"You'll be okay," he says again, and she nods, trying to believe.
That night, she sleeps without dreaming, and all he can do is dream.