A/N: Another chapter! *gasp* This is turning into one of my longest stories to date…

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine…fail.

Chapter 4

"Ziva," he says softly. She winces at the tone his voice carries. It reminds her of something. What? He has no idea. So, he shuts his mouth and gives his vocal chords a break. He needs to let her decide if she wants to talk. It's easier said than done.

"What changed, Ziva?" he asks again. He can't sit there with her and have her not talk. She turns to face him. His eyes meet sad brown ones. Her eyes have always been the window to her soul. He doesn't know if anyone else has the ability to read her the way he does. What he sees behind her rapidly crashing façade scares him more than anything else.

She is confused. She is distraught. He wants to stop questioning her; to stop pushing all her buttons correctly, but he can't. Deep down somewhere she needs this. Her energy has nowhere to go anymore. Walking is her way of dissipating unwanted energy. Her morning run serves the same purpose, but walking at night is much more dangerous. If she is walking she can't get whatever is bothering her out of her head.

Coming to him happened by accident. He had been taking an evening jog through the park when he had passed her. The look on her face had him slowing down and matching her stride. They didn't speak, but she calmed slowly. He offered to take her back to his place once she admitted she had walked the twenty blocks to the park. Once inside she had told him the first phase of a story from her childhood. It wasn't until days later that she told him the second part and spent the night on his floor and he on his couch. He had slowly learned how to gain the answers he seeks. Pushing her too far results in anger, but not pushing her enough yields nothing.

"Everything? Nothing? I do not know, Tony. One day I just felt…different," she tries to explain. Usually, they are on the same page. Today they are in different books. He half-heartedly attempts to hide the fact that he is confused. Even in the state that she is in he knows that she can see it. Irritation is written all over her face. He just wants to know what or who she is irritated with. He can better defend her if he knows what she is up against. Protecting her from her own demons is the only way he can protect her.

She withdraws into herself more. It shows in the way she curls slightly into the couch. Her eyes will no longer meet his. He sighs and leans back. His back thanks him as it comes to rest against the soft material of the couch. He keeps his eyes focused on her. She only withdraws further. He grits his teeth to keep from screaming his frustration to the rooftops.

"What else," he asks once he has calmed significantly. His head makes contact with the top of the couch. It is better to look at the ceiling rather than her. The silence stretches for what feels like eons. He begins to get irritated again. Why did he bother forcing her up here anyway?

He hears the rustle of the cushions as she shifts her weight. He expects to hear the door open. Instead, he feels her sit next to him. Her breathing has returned to its normal steady pace. He ignores it all. He can't ignore her when he feels her palm make contact with his thigh. That one gesture forces him to raise his head and meet her eyes. They have not changed. This distresses him more than he wants to admit.

"It is hard to explain, Tony," she says. They take in each other for a moment before her head finds its resting spot on his chest. He doesn't move. He can't. She is being elusive. She shifts closer to him in a movement that begs him to return her touch. He holds back for another moment. He hears her breathing become shaky and nervous. Then, and only then, does he allow her a taste of what she so desperately craves. He puts one arm around her shoulders to hold her in place.

"Try, Ziva," he pleads. Her head moves in the telltale sign that she is weighing her options. He tenses, which tightens his grip on her shoulders. She accepts it with a familiarity that stuns him. He moves slightly toward the arm of the couch away from her. She fluidly follows his movement so she is able to stay in place. He isn't quite sure what he should think about it.

She murmurs something, but it is muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He moves his arm to draw small circles on her back. He has to keep them light or they will irritate her scars. Learning the motion was easy. Hearing the story why he had to do it that way was much more difficult, but it was worth it. She has always preferred physical contact to reassuring words.

"I have changed, Tony," she whispers louder. His head snaps up. Shock and surprise are written all over his face. His eyes search for hers. She can't seem to bring her head up. Her face is firmly buried in his shirt. This small form is a stark contrast to the large presence she exhibited a mere half hour before.

"What'd you say, Ziva?"