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Content warning: Yes. Please read carefully.

Chapter 7

They looked at each other for a long time; much longer than their pre-desert selves would have thought necessary. It was a necessity now, if only to convince themselves that this was real, that they were real. Ziva had often thought about what to say to Tony. In the late hours of the night when she could not sleep she had scripted her approach, her apology, her way of thanking him although she could not entirely appreciate his reckless attempt at vengeance. If it had not been for him, she would be dead now. It was an option altogether preferable. Her anger, however unwarranted, was real. She blamed him for nothing but having to live. It was because of him that she was forced to speak about all that she had hoped to, quite literally, take to the grave. It was because of him that she had to continue the fight when all she desired was to give into the fate she had resigned herself to in the desert, when all she wanted was to give into death. It was because of him that she had to heal.

Tony sure knew this.

In his mind still lived the image of her, bruised and battered, terrified, willing, no, craving to die. He remembered her face, her eyes, the single tear that had escaped her fortress, alone in the scarred land that was her skin, carving its way through dirt and blood, only to die on this forsaken ground they sat upon. He remembered, 'Kill me! You will need the Americans for leverage,' as if she believed Saleem Ulman was capable of mercy, as if she believed he would give her up into the arms of death, as if, Tony contemplated, this was a race to either die or live. And Ziva had set her mind upon the former.

He understood, sympathized even. Tony had come into the desert with a desire much like Ziva's, for he too had gone through months of terrible suffering and ultimately made himself ready for the end. The difference was that his wounds were easily remedied by her presence, the raft in his heart that her death had caused closed at the sound of her voice, the sight of her breathing, walking.

His salvation was her burden.

He knew she did not sleep. After years of all-nighters fueled by coffee and cheap take-out, he recognized the darkness in her eyes, the struggle to keep them open. He saw that she had cried very recently and wondered if he too was responsible for her tears. Tony ached at the sight of her, ached to reach out, to tell her just how hard the months without her had been. But it was entirely unlike him to give into sentimentals. And so he resorted to what he knew he could always rely on, to what had saved him in the desert, to what had saved her in the desert: humor.

"I wasn't standing," he corrected her, his statement underlined by a class-A paper towel toss.

"No, you weren't," Ziva sighed, keeping herself contained for she knew he did not deserve her anger, her frustration, her resentment. He did not know what she saw at night. He did not know that the desert still lived inside of her head. He did not know how hard it was to live, to breathe, to emerge from a place of total devastation and not give into her pain. He would never know. "You were lying on the ground without adequate back-up, completely violating protocol…"

"And I double parked."

"Yes, I noticed."

Her voice was refreshing, so unlike the pathetic whimpers he dreamed of at night, far from the bitter resignation that informed him just how far she had drifted. He was glad to push her buttons, to inspire frustration in her, to still know how after such a long time. It meant that she was not dead, that somewhere inside of her still lived the woman that he knew, the woman he had gone into the desert for.

She took in her breath, "But that does not matter now; just like it does not matter how it worked out for Michael."

Tony almost smiled at the irony. It had not worked out for Michael; was this not the point? Rivkin was dead, his murder being the root of everything that has happened since. Tony was to blame, for his over-protectiveness, his instincts, his love for this woman had taken over his heart and mind. He had pulled the trigger to end his best friend's lover's life to make sure he would never again hurt Ziva. This had spiraled into the most terrible hurt of all. If he took this thought further he would realize that he too was responsible for what had ultimately happened to her, that he had been the one to send her into the desert. He had made her this shell of a person; with a gentle toss of snow he had unleashed an avalanche of pain and regret underneath which they now lay buried. Tony steadied himself against the counter, unsure of what to say.

"So what does," he finally managed.

She came into his space, her eyes traveling over him like a gentle caress, the all to distant touch he had longed for ever since he dragged her out of the desert. "That you had my back," she said, her voice soft, tender, soothing to his soul. "That you have always had my back, and that I was wrong to question your motives."

He glanced at her profile in the mirror, unable to look at her directly, afraid that if he did he would be taken by the anger he knew he was not entitled to, the anger that was entirely inappropriate in this moment of honestly, unjustified in the face of his own hypocrisy. He too had done a number of foolish things in the name of love; taking himself into the desert being only the latest on a list of hopeful attempts to make himself mean something in her life, or in her death. He swallowed, "So why did you?"

"I could not afford to trust you."

And perhaps herein lay the secret. She was used to being betrayed by the men that she loved, used to being played, used to being used. Ari, Eli, Michael; they had all contributed to a by now habitual tendency to shut the people out, including him. A part of Tony flattered himself with the thought that this entailed she loved him too, somewhere, somehow. But this was not the time to be selfish, and so he dismissed every impulse to reach out and instead contented himself with a simple, "I thought you weren't sure what to say."

"I guess I had a long time to think about things." In the desert she had made peace with herself, had come to terms with the crimes she had committed, had accepted what would ultimately await her. In the desert she had forgiven him, had come to understand his intentions, his actions, his love for which she was completely undeserving for. But Ziva could not yet forgive him for saving her, for prolonging her torture, for expecting her to heal, for throwing her into this life that she was so entirely unable to master. She now battled nightmares and ghosts, things she could not kill. She battled her bitter shame. She battled her mind and soul, a lone soldier at war with herself.

The image of Ziva tied to a chair, bloody and bruised, resurfaced in his mind. She'd had three months to think about things; three brutal, violent, lonely months which he would, if given the power to turn back time, take upon himself. Tony looked at her, taking in the tan of her skin, the slight tinge of purple that she had attempted to cover up with make-up, her eyes, oh those eyes so full of pain. He felt a swell of regret inside of his chest, a terrible sadness for all that she had lived through, all that he hadn't been able to protect her from, all that he was still not able to protect her from. "I'm sorry, Ziva."

"No," she insisted, taking him by surprise. "It is I who am sorry," sorry for disbelieving him, for blaming him, for not appreciating and trusting him, for luring him into the desert, for all that he had endured because of her.

And there it was: physical, tangible evidence of her being alive, the proof that he needed to convince himself that he had not risked his life for nothing, that he had not risked McGee's life for nothing, that he had come out of the desert with something to show. She was alive. She was breathing. Her heart beat steadily in her chest and if he listened closely he imagined that he could hear it; or perhaps it was his own? She kissed him, her lips setting his skin ablaze, sending his mind reeling, his instincts into a frenzy. Her hands; he could feel the pain they had endured when she brushed her calloused fingers over his cheeks with a tenderness he had always known she was capable of but never before experienced.

"Your instincts were right," she said finally. "You were a cop and I should have never faulted you for thinking like one."

Her words were caught somewhere between her mouth and his ears, delayed by a rush of blood, a surge of emotions, a foolish impulse that would have him head-slapped by Gibbs if he knew. When they finally registered in his brain an epiphany dawned. "I am a cop!" Tony did not think as he took her by the shoulders, subconsciously satisfying his desire to touch her. "I think like one." His right hand found her neck, he was just that much closer, before he pulled himself away. "Genius."

Ziva shook for several moments after Tony left. His touch, although unintentionally, had inspired terror in her, and fear. In the early days of her capture they had often taken her by the shoulders and shaken her until her vision spun. It was a distant memory of gentle torture, the beginning of what had quickly evolved into a cruel game. Ziva closed her eyes against the images that surfaced in her mind and clung to the counter to steady herself. She started to breathe, in, out, until her heart evened. Only then was she able to look back onto the conversation that had ended so abruptly and realize that, although not everything, enough had been said to put her mind at ease.

It was liberating to have spoken to everybody, to have reached her initial objective, to be back on the job as soon as her status was sorted out. Ziva felt oddly proud but knew better than to fool herself into thinking that it was over. There was a part of her still yearning to give into the darkness, the pain. It was this part that usually dominated her spirit, that raged a violent storm inside of her, that reminded her that she was not alone, that she was still owned, that she was still tortured by thirty filthy men at night. That made sixty hands altogether; sixty roaming, exploring, violent hands. It was the part of her that when she looked down upon herself lost all hope. It was this part that continued to long for death, her good old friend.

But there was another part of her slumbering in the depths of her being that very much wanted the opposite. It was this part that still battled with teeth and claws until everything lay in shreds, until her demons were slayed, until she merged a winner. It was this part that longed for the life she had once had, the woman she had once been. This part of her was not willing to give in easily. This part of her was the strong, unwavering soldier that she was raised to be.

They clashed every thirty-two seconds.

The thunder, when these vastly different parts of her being collided, roared with doubt and sorrow for all that she had lost, all that she longed for, all that stood in her way. The journey to recovery was a battle; like Sisyphus she was doomed to push a boulder uphill. This stone was as heavy as her burden, her grief, her suffering. It was her fate to carry it, but as Dr Bracco had told her, 'It is in your hands, Ziva. Everything is up to you,' it was her decision to either carry this burden forever, or to bury it at the summit of the mountain and press on with only the calloused hands and muscled shoulders of someone who had achieved the impossible, a survivor.

There was a pride in that, Ziva contemplated. There was a pride in coming out of something so terrible, so traumatic, and being able to say, 'yes, it was hard and I made it.' There was a pride in accepting the horrors, of turning them into a lesson, into something she could grow upon. The desert would forever be a part of her, burned into her skin, tangled with her bones, etched into her memory, into her very soul. But as a wise man had once said, 'the most massive characters are seared with scars.'

If only for today, Ziva chose to believe this.

It was a belief that got her through the rest of the day with a semi-positive attitude, a kind of hope that was unlike any hope she had felt since the desert, a courage that empowered her to take greater leaps, greater risks. Even her smile came easy as she waved at Abby on her way out, and the pleasantries flowed from her mouth like honey when she returned the visitor's tag to Chris. "Thank you, I will have it back tomorrow." Soon she would not need this tag anymore. Soon she would belong to them again and be allowed through these doors without the hassle of singing in and out.

But she had not yet reclaimed her position on Gibbs' team. There was one person still to convince.

Despite the courage that had swelled inside of her chest, Ziva did not seek him out immediately. She needed a moment to contemplate, to script coherent and logical arguments, to ready herself for a conversation that might disappoint her again. The memory of their previous chat still tasted bitter in her mouth, but Ziva was determined to set whatever was wrong between them right. She would not rest until she knew her relationship with Gibbs at peace.

She found herself in his basement by early afternoon. The door was never locked and Ziva was not shy about making herself at home here. This morning had given her back courage and confidence, success and a sense of self, and so she felt secure in her invasion. But this morning had also been stressful, emotionally challenging and altogether exhausting. Here she was able to recharge.

The sun shone through the dirty windows, chasing away the shadows, the demons that lived inside of them, the men of the desert, thus providing her with a safe environment to unwind. She watched the sawdust dance in the air. For many minutes she was mesmerized, distracted, in another world, miles away. Then she began to pace. She took to the stairs first, up, down, up. The repetitive motion put her at ease, helped her settle into herself and fashion an adequate speech. Eventually she walked a circular motion around the boat that she had conjured up in her mind; rinse, repeat.

Gibbs came home late into the evening. Ziva heard the door open and close, the sound of footsteps across the creaky floor heading towards the basement, and finally she pushed herself up from where she had ended up lying on the floor. She leaned against the wall as if she had not spent the last few hours in his home, as if she had calculated the time of his return and arrived just in time to meet him, as if she had not delighted in a stolen scoop of ice cream earlier this afternoon when she had gotten hungry, as if she had not practiced exactly what she would say to him. As if she believed Gibbs could not tell by the way dust had caught on her blouse and hair, as if she could fool him.

"We need to talk."

Gibbs did not seem surprised, and Ziva resigned to the fact that he had probably smelled her from a mile away; know-it-all that he was. She felt unsure and fumbled with her hands. He offered her a chair, "Sit down."

She began to speak as she crossed the room, unable to keep the words contained, afraid that if she hesitated she would forget about them as she had forgotten all that she wanted to say to Tony. "When I came to see you and said I wanted back, you said it was the Director's call." Her bitterness was in her voice; her disappointment, too. She tried to hide it with a weak smile and forced herself to continue, "But I sensed your hesitation. I sense it now."

Ziva was restless. Never having been particularly talented at heart-things, she felt a nervous agitation latch onto her and she pushed herself out of her chair, taking again to pacing, the only thing that seemed to help her mind these days. "Even though I thought I made myself clear. I understand what you did in Israel…"

"Your brother Ari."

There was nothing that could have prepared her for this. At the mention of her brother's name her arms dropped. Confusion replaced the speech she had prepared so meticulously. Her anxiety made room for regret, a terrible, unexpected sadness as her eyes drifted upon the dark spot on the floor where Ari's life had poured from him at her hands, under her watch. Ziva shuddered at the memory. "You know what happened. It was here."

"I want to hear it from you."