Drowning. She knew the feeling. Knew of the sensations that came with the experience, of the panic and helplessness that took over even the tiniest of muscle fibers, and knew of the strength of will it took to refuse to succumb to the gasping, gaping, jaws of water. They had told her she must not panic. Had then tied her hands together in a neat knot and placed a splintered cement block on her feet. It wasn't a pool they dropped her in. She could not see the light from the sun above. The water was murky, dark, as though she had been hooded and placed in a car trunk. She could see the outline of her feet, the outline of the block securing her to the floor of the lake, but both had little true definition.
The knot they had tied was tight, precise and she needed her hands. Against the instinct to stretch up, against the yearning for air that rested only above her head and firmly against the desire to live, she had been taught to reach down. To plunge herself even closer to the watery resting place her corpse would soon bare, to utterly defy every instinctual movement in her body and employ the correct tactical technique. Still the water pressed down upon her. It condensed her bones, shrunk her hair, shriveled and stretched her skin, and she fought with everything within her to resist the tempting pull of its fingers.
The lulling nature of drowning was the one thing no one mentioned. The helplessness would come, the panic and the animalistic desire to live, but then those would pass, and on their heals would come a new specter. Something that was far more dangerous. Peace would rear its head, and insist that the easiest, the simplest and the only correct way to end this tenuous ordeal was to give in. The battle would be won in surrendering for once. Yet she knew better. Knew that no battles were ever won in surrender. It was always such a tempting offer though. The drowning feeling would dissipate, the water would clear, the block on her ankles would disintegrate, her bindings would evaporate, and she would swim to the top of the swimming pool she had been in after all.
Yes, she knew the feeling of drowning, and realized that she was pressing against those ropes and that block with a feeling of trepidation and outright exhaustion. How often would she be pressed into this corner? Perhaps a better question remained even. How often would he press her here without even realizing that he was doing it? And his question had been innocuous enough, at first. But she found herself clawing, gasping and thrashing as she fought her way towards the top of the water. Trying so very desperately to keep from drowning in the pool of her memories.
"Ziva?"
"Yes, Tony," what she had meant to be a question was lost when her voice failed to press the needed inflection into the words.
"Ziva? Are you okay?" She blinked then. She was not under water. She was not in a cell. She was not drowning or being hit or abused or screamed at. She was simply standing. In an elevator that had ceased to move. It was not dark. It was light. And she was not alone. Tony was with her. Tony was with her and standing as far from her as the small metal box would allow. A frown creased her forehead. That was unusual. Tony usually stood near her, he enjoyed being near her, liked being in her space, and yet he was very distant now. She knew that that would not be his instinct if the box had truly stopped on accident.
He would have moved towards her, not away. Yet still. He exhaled and lifted his hands towards her, palms up and she realized why he was physically distant. She was cowering in the corner. Pressing her spine into the metal as hard as she could. Crouching down with her hands up in front of her face. A fetal possession meant to protect herself when she had no other options. Her muscles were so tense they were aching. Screaming at her to move, to squirm, to do anything to get out of this cramped position.
Her breathing was off. Gasping little puffs of air that left her lungs feeling empty and scorched escaped her mouth unevenly. And Tony, Tony looked very, very, very worried.
"I am-"
"No. No, you're not fine," he bit out, taking a hesitant step towards her, "that," a palm waved up and down, "this is not fine Ziva. This is very much not fine. This is-" He apparently couldn't decide what this was. He broke off, shoved a hand through his hair that defeated all of the styling he had done at once, and then exhaled slowly. He was attempting to control his emotions, she recognized the pattern as she watched him. Her mind was much more accepting of observing than thinking.
"This is-" he started again, approaching her with a more determined look on his face. "Hell Ziva, why didn't you tell someone?"
"Tell someone what?"
"About this- this reaction."
"What would I tell them Tony? That there are times when I do not remember where I am? That I sometimes feel as though I am drowning, or being screamed at, or being-" She broke off and something flickered in his eyes. Yes, he knew what she had been about to say.
"Raped," he whispered the word, much less fiercely than she would have.
"Yes. It cannot be fixed. I cannot be fixed, and so there is no reason to tell someone about it." Her legs screamed at her as she pushed herself to her feet. Methodically she smoothed the creases in her pants out and reached up to check that her hair was still in place. He was closer now, and his breathing was as uneven as hers.
"Ziva. There is nothing about you broken you hear me?" Her chuckle sounded brittle even to her own ears.
"You are correct Tony. Everything … about me is broken." The phrase tasted foreign on her tongue and had she been the girl of two years ago she would have asked how things about her could be broken. That girl hadn't slunk into the corner of an elevator when it stopped though. She bore little resemblance to that girl.
"God, you know what? If you want to pretend that everything is fine, and that you aren't hurt or upset or whatever the hell you want to call it, then that's great and good and fan-freaking-tastic. But could you please just try and do a little bit of a better job? Cause seeing you in pieces like this when you won't let me help pick up is killing me. And I swear Ziva, if you don't stop being 'fine' and start being hurt we may both end up 'fine'. And although it looks like a real ball of giggles, I think I'd rather not end up in an elevator corner. My body just doesn't contort like yours Sweetcheeks."
He grinned at her then, his normal Dinozzo grin with only the barest hint of strain around the corners of his mouth and she tried to laugh at his joke. The sound came out as half a sob, and caught in her throat before it could really form anyways. He sighed and swept his hand over his face this time, his eyes sliding shut. And the disappearance of those piercing green eyes made something inside of her panic. The action made her heart speed up and her breathing turn into little pants that didn't get enough oxygen to anywhere in her body and she felt like she was drowning again. Her body screaming for air and her head telling her to just surrender so that she could win.
"I do not know how." It was a whisper, broken and cracking like a dirty piece of glass, but it still brought the green color of his eyes back and that made some of the panic fall back down the slope.
"Then let someone help you figure it out. Want me to go get a shrink for you? I will, just say the word and we'll have you set up with Doc Ock-"
"Tony," she mumbled and he stopped his rambling. Dropped the mask of brevity and humor he hid behind and yanked the serious Tony out from his hiding place again.
"Sorry," his face softened as she continued to breathe in and out and he brought his hand up to touch her cheek. "Ziva, I don't care who you let in, I'm not gonna say I won't be a little jealous if you choose McGee over me, but I really don't care. Just let someone help."
"It is difficult."
"I know, life's rough I don't have to tell you that. But life can be great too and I want you to know that. So please, let someone in." His fingers dropped from her cheek to grasp her hand. Carefully he intertwined their fingers and she felt his thumb brush over the skin of her knuckles. "Let me help you Zi." The words were whispered and she whimpered.
She wanted to. So badly, she wanted him to make it all better. To relieve her of her cinder blocks and ropes. To remove her bindings and strip away her murky water. She wanted him to leave her with a clear pool; no more threatening or ominous than the incredibly soft look he was giving her right now. A look that made her want to do silly, soft things like curl into his chest which just seemed so broad all of a sudden. That look changed then and morphed into something that made her frown. He reached up, her palm still trapped against his, and swept his thumb across her cheek. Moisture glinted on his skin, opalescent in the fluorescent lights. She was crying.
And for some reason that tiny fact made the others that had been piling upon each other like bodies strewn in a bombing seem inconsequential. Something broke inside her, some string was snapped and she fell forwards, her head colliding with his collarbone. The pain radiated down to the base of her skull but she didn't move, didn't breath, waited for the feeling of peace to creep up on her. The peace that always came just as she was convinced she would finally drown, the peace that offered a different pathway than the one she had previously taken.
Tony tentatively reached up then and pressed her cheek into his chest, and gently dropped his head on top of hers. It wasn't until he began whispering to her though that she really felt that peace. And only when she fully understood his words did she surrender to it.
"We will be okay, we will be okay," a mantra he kept repeating, over and over as she cried. And in those broken words, in the broken elevator with her walls crumbling and the water lapping at her eyelids she realized that victory was possible in surrender. And that victory tasted like tears and smelled like Tony.