Sitting there, her eyes unfocused, she could feel it; the dark, pressing on her, surrounding her from the inside, waiting, waiting, patient as the moon, unchanging as the sun.
'Ziva.'
She heard a voice. His voice. She raised her head, slowly, painfully. He was there, standing in the corner. Walking towards her. Reaching out to her. But she didn't deserve it. She looked down again. She had hated him, left him. Forced the one man she fully respected to choose between them.
Hate. It was such a strong word, but it was how she had felt. In the weeks since Tel Aviv, she had softened, lessened. She was no longer who she was; months of torture had proved too much to bear as her former self. She had changed; no emotions, no words. She had said nothing, not since – not since –
She looked up again. He was gone. Just like last time. Just like every time before that. He wasn't real. She knew that now. And yet, every single time, deep down, she felt a glimmer of hope, strong at first, but growing weaker with each hallucination. Now, there was not a sparkle, not a gleam. A single, solitary, fading spark of hope inside her, growing dimmer as the darkness, the inner darkness grew nearer and nearer, surrounding, enclosing.
Gunfire sounded. He looked up. The guard was there, standing outside the doorway.
Bang.
And he was there no longer. Walking to the door, he looked through the glass window. Another prisoner. Another female; bound to a chair, looking like hell. The same hair, the same skin. But the face.... It couldn't be her. No one could hurt her that much. No human could – but of course. These bastards were far from human.
The door opened. Looking up, she saw him. Tony. Coming through the door. Her door. He was going to – no. He wasn't real. He wasn't real. Hadn't she learned that by now? It was never him. The pain clawed at her insides; the darkness, pushing against her.
She had never fainted in her life. Not ever. But now, after weeks of starvation, with only the tiniest bit of water to keep her alive, the pain was too much. She couldn't stand it. And the living skeleton that was Ziva David fainted. It was a momentous occasion, a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, but the only one to witness it was too preoccupied to notice.
As he untied her, he was horrified. Not at her, but with himself. He didn't want to touch her. He was ashamed to admit it, but he had caused this. He had shot Michael, and driven her off. And now look at her. At death's door, filthy, beaten; and it was his fault. No, he didn't want to touch her.
On the plane back, Gibbs said nothing. He wasn't ready to talk. And when that happened, he wouldn't. Not a word would escape his lips. Ask the ex-wives. They could all attest. He wasn't one to wallow in pity, for self or otherwise; but a deep sense of guilt lay heavily upon him. Upon everyone. They could all feel it, the sense that they had failed her.
When Ziva woke, she glanced around; her eyes open only a fraction, hiding her consciousness from her captors. She was getting worse. Now they were all here, every one of them. She could almost smell them; Gibbs with his aroma of sawdust, McGee and his… unique aftershave, Tony…
She had to stop this. She was going crazy. Davids did not go crazy. They remained strong till the very end, unto death.
Shutting her eyes again, she kept repeating, over and over. I must stay strong. I must stay strong. I must stay strong.
Hours later, she opened her eyes. She would almost swear she was in Bethesda. Almost. But that was not possible. She was still in her cell, still in Somalia. Her mind was playing games with her.
She closed her eyes.
And opened them again. And there she was again. Tied to her chair, hungry, tired, and aching. The shaft of light that was her only indicator of time gleamed on the dust, she heat penetrating her very soul.
She was safe. Well, not safe; but not crazy.
Looking down at the scrawny figure on the bed, Anthony DiNozzo sighed. They didn't know if she would ever recover. Much damage, not just physical, but mental and emotional, had been done to her. Even of she woke, there was only a slim chance that she would ever fully recover. And it was all his fault.