She is curled up on her side in the corner of the stone room when he finds her. The room is cold— not in the physical sense, but in the emotionally drab and cruel tone of the place. Her naked body is shivering; she must feel it too. Having been stripped of the protection of clothing, she has over the past few weeks gradually migrated to the corner of the room, where the walls on either side give her at least some sense of security.
When he throws open the door, gun drawn, this is how he finds her— naked, shivering, and lying in a pool of dried blood much too large in diameter for his comfort. She is facing away from him, and he thinks that she jumped ever so slightly when he threw open the door.
The shivering escalates more and more each second that passes. Time stops when his eyes register what he is seeing. Despite how emaciated she is, despite how dull her once-shiny hair has become, despite the fact that all he can see is her posterior side, he knows it is her. He can feel it.
His steps towards her changed from hesitant to urgent with this realization.
The jump and whimper that he elicits from her as he lays a gentle hand on her left, upward facing shoulder shatters his heart and pierces the deepest confines of his lonely soul.
"Shh, Ziva, don't be scared. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you," he tries to console her. He sees one of her hands clench into a fist.
She is afraid. It doesn't matter how long she's had to prepare for this; she's terrified of the prospect of death. No matter that she had resigned herself to the Scythe a long time ago— now that the Grim Reaper is upon her, a fear and desperate longing for prolonged life fill her.
Somehow, she had always imagined the Grim Reaper's voice to be crueler, more evil than the voice trying to soothe her. The voice was too perfect, too angelic, to be the voice of Death coming to collect.
"It's okay. Don't be afraid, I'm going to take you away from here. It's time to go now."
What she had done to deserve an angel is beyond her. However, there is no doubt in her mind that it is an angel. Was that not what the angels always said? Do not be afraid. In all the stories, that is how angels preface their visit.
Maybe death isn't such a bad option. Life now, would be bleak, tortuous, arduous. She has no home to go back to, and even if she did, it is doubtful that they would want her back in her current… state. No, the thought of living is as painful as the prospect of death, especially after what they have done to her. She will never be the same.
She scoffed internally. As if I have a choice in the matter!
The Angel has turned her over onto her back, and her eyes are squeezed shut immediately. Despite what he may say on the contrary, she is quite afraid of this Angel of Death. She does not thing that she has the courage to look Death in the face.
"Open your eyes, Ziva, it's okay. You're safe now. I've got you."
Suddenly, the realization hits her that the Angel of Death sounds suspiciously like Tony. Her eyes slowly creep open, letting light in, and the picture of his smiling face fills her vision. It takes over every aspect of her being, creeping into every pore and nook and cranny of her existence. He is here.
"There we go. Now I can see your beautiful eyes. God, I've missed you. Thank the Lord you're okay. I was so afraid that we wouldn't find you in time."
Her heart breaks with these words. I may be alive, but I am not okay, she longs to say, but she can't, and such a prospect pains her greatly. However, the idea of living no longer seems to terrible.
"Please, Ziva, say something. Please," he begs, "I need to know that you don't still hate me."
Silence.
"Saleem is dead, if that's what you're worried about. They're all dead, or detained. He can't hurt you anymore. You don't have to be afraid."
It's not that! she longed to cry out. I forgive you! I was never really mad. Please, take me home. Get me out of here. The rest we can deal with later… if you choose to stick around. I would not fault you if you sent me back on the first flight to Tel Aviv, but I think I know you well enough to say that you will not do that. Right?
Silence.
"I can get you some clothes, if that's the problem. I'm just saying, I've seen you naked before, so it's not really a big deal, but if that's the issue…" he trails off, reading in her ever-expressive eyes that that wasn't the answer either. When more silence follows, frustrated tears come to his eyes. They do not fall— DiNozzo men don't cry— but he can't stop his voice from coming out thick and broken. "Please, Ziva, don't shut me out. Talk to me! You're really worrying me here."
A whimper escapes her throat along with a garbled attempt at a reply. It is impossible for Tony to decipher her words, but judging by the adamant shaking of her head that went along with it, he could tell that she can't reply.
Panic floods through him as he realizes this. She is physically incapable of forming a reply.
What did those bastards do to her?
The question echoes through his head as he gently leans down and cradles her bloody, tearstained face. Her eyes hold a strange mixture of terror and incredible sadness. His hands ever so carefully take hold of her bruised jaw, attempting to open it. What he finds, however, is that she has clenched it tightly so as to prevent access.
"Zee-VAH, it's okay. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you," Tony assures her.
I am not afraid of you hurting me! I am afraid of what you will think of me, now that things have changed so…
Her jaw goes slack and he peers inside her mouth, and he is immediately able to diagnose the problem. Where her tongue once attached to the back of her throat, there was only a bloody stump. A desperate and fearful whimper escaped her as he drew his hands back as if burned. Her eyes communicate one message, clear as day.
I am sorry.
"Hey, rule six. But especially don't apologize for something that isn't your fault, okay?" he comforts her, hiding his immediate astonishment. "I'm here for you. We're all here for you."
An idea strikes Ziva, and she, limiting herself to as little movement as possible, writes nearly illegibly in the nearly-dried blood on the ground below her the one question that matters.
What now?
"Now? Now I—we— take you home to D.C., where you belong, and we take care of you. We help you heal, and… we can come to terms with this together, okay?" he told her, stroking her hair, "Gibbs and Abby and teach us sign language, and we'll get by just fine."
It takes nearly all the energy that she can muster, and also pains her injured and abused body greatly, but she manages to wrap her arms around his neck and cling to him for dear life. Her decreased body weight made it easy for him to use this as an excuse to pick her up off of the floor, and out of the pool of her own blood. He places his arms under her, carrying her bridal style.
"Let's get out of here, huh? It's time to go home."
It is after carries her out of the compound and into the rays of the life giving sun that she finally releases her choke hold around his neck. As he carries her towards the vehicle that would take her away from this hell, she brings her hand to her mouth and pulls it away.
Tony has been around Abby and Gibbs long enough to know that she is saying thank you.
A/N: So this little plot bunny was brought to you by Lavinia, the Avox Girl.
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