It was easy to tell how hard a case was on the MCRT team by Gibb's mood. A short temper usually meant they had a clock; a shot temper and yelling meant they had a clock and a child was involved or a psycho was on the loose. Quite brooding was typical for cases involving Marines--at least innocent Marines. And, when he was tossing out empty coffee cups every thirty minutes, and generally hating the world, it was a case that raised too many moral questions.
Like now.
Their killer was a young marine, released with an honorable discharge after spending two years in uniform and two months as a POW. At 26, he'd been recruited out of the gang he ran with, and was the ideal soldier until he'd been captured. He'd been discharged from a VA hospital four months ago, with weekly appointments to see a psychiatrist for his PTSD. Four weeks ago, PFC Cameron Diaz missed his appointment for the first time, followed by the next three. Four days ago, he'd killed two of the men he'd been in combat with.
The four of them stood in observation, watching Diaz hum with nervous energy. His fingers twitched around a glass of water, and he licked his lips for the dozenth time in the twenty minutes they'd been watching. He had bulked up since the photograph in his file had been taken, apparently convinced the fight against his demons was a physical one.
"Are you going in, Boss?" Tony turned away from the glass to face Gibbs, McGee and Ziva mirroring his actions, looking to their leader as always.
"Haven't decided yet." Gibbs kept his eyes on the PFC, searching for a solution to a lose-lose situation.
"Let me talk to him."
Now he looked away, to his youngest and only female agent. Ziva met his eyes without a trace unease, but also without the cocky bravado Mossad had instilled in her. That was abandoned in a Somalian desert with so much of her. Gibbs noted that McGee was wearing wide concerned eyes, and Tony, who looked much calmer, also appeared ready to object.
"You want to do the interview?" He asked.
"I can get him to talk." Ziva offered no hint to any of them what she was feeling, her face as blank as they'd ever seen.
Gibbs watched her silently, before nodding. He'd turned back to the glass before she'd even left the room. He was concerned, but he trusted her and could tell this was something she needed to do.
Ziva walked into the interrogation room, her poker face set, and sat before Private Diaz. His eyes darted from her face to her hands, and up again, bypassing the little cleavage her sweater allowed.
Four months discharged or not, he kept the standard Marine cut and clean shaven face. Though the little nicks on his chin suggested his skill with a razor was suffering. The nervous tension so built up in his body that he couldn't keep his hands steady. She could relate to that.
Laying a folder down on the table, Ziva sat silently several minutes before posing a question. "What did you see?"
"What?" The soldier's face screwed up in confusion.
"The night Privates Comb and Donaldson were murdered, what did you see?" She said.
"Nothing. I wasn't there."
Ziva leaned forward, so her face was mere inches from his. "Do not lie to me, Private. They were your friends, you went drinking with them that night, several different bars. But, the night ended with them practically eviscerated in an alley downtown. Now tell me, what did you see?"
"They were friends, yeah, but I wasn't there then." His cold stare might have been more effective without the nervous twitching.
"Stop lying, Private."
"I'm not."
Ziva sat back in her seat then, and opened the folder, yanking out full color 8x10s of the crime scene. Two men slashed up so badly from their collarbones down to their pubic bones that Palmer spent two hours scooping intestines into containers.
"Who did this, Private?"
He jerked back in his seat, turning away from the photos, strain evident in his face.
"Our ME suggested it was the work of a psychotic."
He nodded then, and licked his lips again. "A maniac with a knife ran at them. I had no chance to react."
"You are lying to me again."
"No! That's what I saw!"
"No, it is not!" Ziva jumped up, and stormed around the table, leaning close to him. "You were very far away in your mind, Private...yes?"
He shook his head desperately, but the slight tremble in his wet lips betrayed him.
"You did not see your friends die, did you? In the moment you pulled your knife from your belt, they were not men you fought side by side with! They were the same dark faces that came to you again and again, pulling you out of your cage for more abuse than you ever imagined you could take! It was their faces that you saw that night! It was them you were viciously attacking, it was them you had to destroy! Because it would not stop, even only in your head, you could not make the torture stop!" Her breath was labored, her heart racing as she yelled and demanded.
Diaz inhaled a shaky breath, and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his face into his large hands. A soft sob escaped from his throat.
Ziva leaned against the table, dropping the aggressive stance she'd adopted. She spoke quietly now. "You did not mean to hurt them."
He looked up, tears falling slowly down his cheeks. "You can't understand what it's like, to live with it everyday. To be standing in DC one minute, and in that godforsaken desert the next. I can't get it out of my head!"
He reared up in anger, and Ziva, careful not to touch, lifted her hands up in the air, a sign that she wouldn't harm him. She nodded him back into his chair, and looked at the floor before speaking. "A few weeks ago, I was in our bullpen standing at a file cabinet, looking for a case record. Agent McGee walked up to me, just to say hello--this is a man who could not hurt someone for anything less than the utmost necessity. He tapped me on the shoulder when I did not respond to him, I had been...lost in my head. I had my hand on my weapon, flicking the safety off, before I realized it was him in front of me, and not one of the terrorists who'd imprisoned me for months...He still does not know how close he came to being shot."
Diaz shook his head. "You say what you want, but you can't know what it was like over there, you can't know what I went through."
"You are right. I do not know your experience. But, I do know my own. And, I know that it is worse for a woman to be in that situation."
"Yeah, how do you figure that?" He demanded with broken, watery eyes.
Ziva looked away, staring toward the mirror, into her own haunted eyes. "Because, you have something they want, and they will take it. By force if necessary...and you can not stop them."
"They raped you."
"Yes."
He gave a bitter sigh. "You say that as if it doesn't bother you."
Ziva pulled her gaze away from the mirror, and the men that were her family on the other side of it. She glared at Diaz. "Of course, it bothers me, but I do not let it destroy me. If I did that, surviving it would mean nothing."
"You're saying I let it destroy me?"
"No...you stopped seeing your therapist. Why?"
He shrugged. "He wasn't helping. I still can't sleep, not much anyway. Flashbacks never stopped. Why go if it isn't working?"
"Switch therapists. Try a support group. Why just give up?" She was back in interrogation mode, standing beside him, with her arms crossed.
"I guess I just got to that point where it felt like nothing would help."
"But drinking with your friends?"
"Stupid idea."
"Yes, it was."
"This is the part where you tell me I'm going to prison for a long time, right?" He wiped at his eyes, tears falling anew.
"Did you kill Private Comb and Private Donaldson?" Ziva asked.
"Yes."
"Then yes, you are going to prison." She pulled herself away from the table, and walked out the door, not once looking behind herself.
She walked like it was any other day, any other time, but Ziva very much did not want to enter the observation room. She had just admitted more about her capture than she ever intended too, and she did not want to see the results of that in their eyes. With her throat thick and her pulse pounding all the way down to her fingertips, Ziva didn't hesitate opening the door. She closed it behind her, and looked at Gibbs.
"He confessed."
"I heard..." He looked like he was about to ask if she was okay, but thought better of it. Instead, he said, "Good work, Ziver."
She nodded, and stepped aside as he strode out the door. McGee made to follow him out, but stopped when he got close to Ziva. He spoke quietly to her "That took guts...to talk about it."
He disappeared, and left her alone with Tony and the equipment techs. He didn't say anything, but opened the door, and gestured her to proceed him out. Once in the hallway, Tony glanced around, and grabbed her hand as she took a step to follow their colleagues. He opened the door to the observation room across the hall, and pulled her in with him.
Ziva's heart-rate took an erratic jump in speed, fearing that he'd actually want to talk about it. She'd hit her maximum for sharing feelings for the day, and didn't think she could manage anymore without breaking down. She did not want to do that with Tony. Ziva couldn't afford to let her colleagues see her as anything but the Ziva they knew. Without that, her denials and careful veneer of mental health would crumble.
Instead of starting with 20 Questions, in one fluid motion, Tony shut the door, and pulled her tightly against him. She released a peep of surprise when she landed against his chest, but hand little time to think as he wrapped his arms around her.
After her a minute she was able to speak. "I am alright, Tony."
He said simply, "I'm not."
Two days later
Ziva felt distinctly uncomfortable. This was not her kind of scene; she was not one to share her feelings--with friends or the strangers she sat with now. Abby would probably do well here, she was much more open. Fortunately, the goth scientist had no reason to be part of this group.
A support group for female survivors of torture.
The Victim's Assistance representative she'd be forced to talk to--after Gibbs glared her into submission--when she'd first gotten back home had given her a card for the woman who led the group. Ziva had stuck it in a folder full of paperwork and pamphlets, and happily forgotten about it. Sitting in a circle and crying over her misery was the last thing Ziva David could ever see herself doing. She was Mossad. She was stoic. At least, she used to be Mossad. She was pretty sure she'd always be stoic.
It takes a lot to undo thirty years of training. And, with her father being the man he was, it may as well be a full thirty years. She was bred by birth as a killer and a spy.
She was not an innocent victim as most of these women were; one way or another, she'd earned her suffering. Ziva had killed, threatened and tortured other human beings. She'd killed her brother. Betrayed the only family she had left to her. Oh, she had earned it. She had no doubts about that. That was why part of why she'd resisted. Resisted discussion, resisted compassion, resisted sympathy.
Until she'd almost killed McGee.
And now, after speaking with a man who hadn't 'almost', but actually 'had', Ziva knew a different plan was needed. One that would ease the constant coil of tension in her belly that had the ability to drag her back to Africa. She could not let it destroy her. She would not.
So she sat in this circle of scarred women, most with names as exotic as her own. Darya from Russia, Qiao from China, Saeedeh from Iran, Laleh from Afghanistan, and Nnenia, Dembe and Keyah from the Sudan in Africa. Then there was Graciela Flores, who'd become one of Argentina's disappeared in 1980, when she was barely twenty. She had reappeared two years later, broken and bruised, and was smuggled with a few other political prisoners into the US. Her first group was accidental, in 1991, when she'd sat with three other women, who'd been detained with her, and simply talked.
Gracie had welcomed Ziva with open arms, promising her that she would find understanding and support in the circle of women. She did not have to say anything tonight, only her name. All she had to do was listen.
The women didn't start with a formal beginning, just talked about whatever was bothering them. Ziva studied them, noting each of their personalities was quickly evident,
Qiao was the most vocal, and very, very angry. She supported an independent Tibet, and suffered for her activism. Nnenia and Keyah were older and outspoken, joked often, but had both lost children in the Sudan conflict, and were both almost maternal toward Dembe. She was maybe old enough to buy herself a drink, and rather shy, looking to the older women for guidance. Saeedeh and Laleh were almost weary of each other, from different, conflicting branches of the same religion, and raised not to trust each other, but still looked to each other more than the other group members. Darya was blond and beautiful, even with the jagged scar that traveled down the left side of her face. She came to group with her hair down, but within ten minutes, had pulled it up. Her scar was not strange here, not to women who had their own,
Gracie watched them all like the mother hen she was, and Ziva had no doubts that she'd fight to protect her flock of wounded. She let the women lead the group, only speaking if their was a lull or tension. She looked at Ziva a few times, for any indication she wanted to speak, but made no effort to force her.
Her pulse steadily beating in her throat, Ziva ached for a gun to clean. The stories of these women, their fears, their hopes, the secrets that they harbored, were so similar and yet so different from her own. Their words pounded her brain with memories, and her chest constricted with them. She breathed deeply, as the NCIS shrink had suggested--something else Gibbs forced on her--and let the motion soothe her. She transferred her full awareness to the action in her lungs, feeling the breaths from her collarbone down to her abdomen.
She caught Gracie looking at her, her head cocked forward slightly. Ziva nodded that she was okay. Gracie's head moved slightly to the left in a question. Ziva looked around at the women, before focusing back on Gracie with a nod.
"Alright ladies, I'm going to interrupt for a minute. We have a new member tonight, and I want to give her a chance to introduce herself." She gestured to Ziva, not that it was actually necessary with such a small group.
Ziva stood slowly, mindful of the slow, steady breaths in her body, and looked to at the group. Not a single pair of eyes in the room held even a trace of judgment, only open acceptance, and the coil in her chest loosened just a tiny bit.
"Hello," she said, "my name is Ziva."
A very big thank you to everyone who read and favorited my first story, I may not have replied to all of you, but each one meant a lot to me. I will continue writing NCIS fic, so thank you again for all your encouragement. Hope I didn't disappoint with this one.