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.