That Friday evening, Gibbs prepared to leave for the night; he had put all the mementos back in the box Chava had given him, which he then put on the mahogany desk that stood against the wall. He was just picking up his sport coat—which he rarely kept on during the day—and was heading for the door when a sound made him freeze. At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but when he heard the words a second time, he knew he wasn't imagining it.
"Why are you here?"
The voice was soft and raspy from disuse, but all Gibbs could comprehend was that it was hers. He turned back towards her. She had not shifted her position, but her head had turned to the side—her cheek was now resting on her knees as she directed her question at him. Gibbs returned to her where she sat, slowly and carefully, as if any sudden movements would cause her to retreat back behind her walls. He reached out to touch her as he knelt to her level, but then thought better of it.
"Gibbs."
It was barely more than a whisper, but Gibbs latched hold of it as if it were the most beautiful music in the world, fighting to keep his emotions in check.
"Ziva—"
"Why are you here?" she asked again. Looking into her eyes, Gibbs saw life in them; they tracked his movements as he had come closer, and in their newfound depths he saw confusion, hurt, guilt, and despair. It pained Gibbs to see it, but at the same time, the change was the most welcome sight.
"Officer Bashan came to me," he said, his voice low. "He told me what happened. He asked for help, and provided a cover—"
As he spoke, Gibbs saw disappointment cloud her expression, and she looked away. Her features started to slacken, and when he saw her start to relax, he realized that he was seconds away from losing her again. She didn't care about his cover—she didn't ask how he was there. When her eyes began to lose their focus once more, panic gripped him.
"Ziva! Don't—" He scooted closer to her, and reached out, framing her face with his hands. "Please, don't disappear again. Stay here, stay right here with me."
After a moment that seemed to last for hours, recognition returned to her gaze. Relief flooded him, but Gibbs wasted no time in celebrating before continuing.
"I'm sorry, Ziva, I am so sorry." Words he had been waiting to say for months began to pour from him, and he didn't even try to stop them. "I'm here because I love you. I shouldn't have let you go, not last spring and not at the Navy Yard. I'm here because I was an idiot and I'm not going to make the same mistake a third time. I am not losing you again."
Silence fell, but Gibbs didn't move away or remove his hands from her cheeks. For several long moments, Ziva gazed at him, eyes wide, but thankfully they remained alert.
"You watched me go," she whispered finally. "You wanted me to leave. You do not trust me—"
"Ziva, no—" Gibbs tried to contradict her, but Ziva continued as she didn't, or couldn't, hear him.
"I lied about how the Damocles sank. I withheld information from your investigation. You think I am like my father. I—I am damaged goods." Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice became even more strained. "I am broken—"
The tears spilled over, and Ziva's voice gave out. Gibbs moved on instinct, wrapping her frail form in an enveloping hug. She struggled against his embrace, a small whimper escaping her as she tried to push him away. But Gibbs refused to budge, stubbornly providing the comfort he knew she needed as he murmured softly to her. Her energy waned quickly, and she sagged against him as she continued to weep. Gibbs felt her tears dampen the shoulder of his polo as she shook silently in his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, holding her tight. "I'm so sorry." He said the words over and over, never once releasing his hold on her. Eventually her quiet sobs faded away, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake. Gibbs didn't let go until Ziva shifted away, settling back against the wall behind. Gibbs settled as well, but maintained contact with her by resting his hand on her knee. He was reluctant to let her go, as if she would drift away if he did release her. When she relaxed a little more, his hand shifted to grip hers—though her fingers remained lax, he took comfort from the fact that she was no longer pulling away.
"You are here."
Her words were so soft, Gibbs almost missed them entirely.
"What?"
"You are here."
"Yes." Gibbs mentally cursed himself. For all the tips that Ducky gave, the Marine had absolutely no idea how to proceed. He knew that the old Ziva would not appreciate any coddling or condescension on his part, but Gibbs quickly realized he no longer knew if this was the old Ziva or not.
"I did not think you were real. I waited for you to leave again, but you never did. You stayed."
"I stayed," Gibbs reassured her, attempting to keep the guilt and confusion from his voice. He could understand how she could expect him to disappear again—after all, it was his abandonment that had allowed of this to transpire. But her weakened voice was wistful, and slightly detached. He worried that her grasp of reality was just as fragile as her voice.
"You should not be here," she continued breathlessly. "It is too dangerous. They will kill you."
"I'm not going anywhere, Ziva."
"It does not matter," she remarked. "You will go when they come. You always do."
"Ziva." Concern flooded Gibbs. "Who are they?" He tilted her chin so that he could look into her eyes once more.
"You know who they are," she answered. Her words were gaining coherence, but they were also losing what little sense they made. "At least, you probably know better than I." A smile crossed her tear-stained face. "It is not like they bother to introduce themselves." Panic welled within Gibbs' gut. He swallowed it down though, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Ziva," he said slowly, carefully, "do you know where you are?" Her eyes scanned the room, taking stock of her surroundings.
"We are in my bedroom," she said finally, "from when I was a child." She shifted her gaze back to his. "Welcome to Tel Aviv." The brief relief Gibbs felt at her recognition was struck down by her next words. "I wonder why this place…"
"What?"
"It has been years since I have been here," she elaborated. "It holds very little for me anymore." Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It is different from how I remember it." She sighed. "I must be tired." Suddenly, her gaze saddened. To Gibbs she seemed to be on the verge of tears once more.
"What's wrong" he asked, panic rising dangerously in his throat.
"Our last meeting," she whispered. "It was so real. I thought it was real."
"Last meeting?"
"I did not believe it at first. I kept waiting to wake up, but I did not." She paused. "It was so detailed… you had saved me, again. But this time Tony—" Suddenly she stopped, then scoffed. "What am I telling you for? You were there…" She fell silent for a moment, then continued. "Thank you," she whispered, "for letting me have that."
"Realization hit Gibbs like a kick in the gut. She was responsive, coherent… her voice gained strength with every word, but it did nothing to disguise the fact that she could no longer distinguish reality from hallucination.
Gibbs felt despair creep over him, all of the hopes of the past weeks crumbling. The anguish of her pain had passed, replaced by a calm acceptance of her situation. She saw him plain as day, which in and of itself was a relief, but it was eclipsed by the fact she thought him to be a figment of her imagination. He was her coping mechanism, an escape from the horrors of Somalia. Gibbs now understood her catatonic state and her reserved nature after her return. He had chalked it up to PTSD at the time, but now he knew it had gone much, much deeper.
She hadn't been sullen and withdrawn simply because she had forgotten what it had meant to be social. She hadn't not told him about the Damocles to hide it from them—some part of her thought they, he, already knew. She had been waiting for Saleem to storm back into her cell and wake her from her dream. She had simply been trapped in a state of semi-existence, unwilling to invest herself in a fantasy that she was sure would never last.
Gibbs was certain that if given enough time, she would have snapped out of it. She would have realized that no fantasy could ever be so elaborate. But the arrival of Ben-Gidon had preempted that, and her deportation had only reinforced her analysis of the situation. Perhaps, if she had been treated right once arriving in Tel Aviv, she still would have been able to grasp the truth of reality. But instead she had been locked up like an animal, a restriction that had most likely triggered a flashback, sending her back into Saleem's clutches. And now she believed that to be real, and this to be nothing more than a hallucination.
And yet, here she was, talking to him as if he had never let Ben-Gidon take her away. Suddenly, he wondered just how many hours she had spent talking to him during the summer, imagining his presence to give herself a respite from the pain and isolation. He wondered how many different ways she had envisioned Saleem dying, and her being rescued—if she had ever pictured her tormentor being sniped by Gibbs. He wondered how many times she had dreamed of receiving Abby's warm embrace, of finally confronting Dinozzo again about what had occurred between them after Rivkin's death.
About two weeks before Cryer's body had been found, Ziva had told Gibbs about how she had spoken to Tony in the men's room. Gibbs now knew that the interaction had been much more profound than he had initially realized—her reconciliation with her partner had had more to do with her own guilt than with his. Her acceptance of the events surrounding Michael's death and her capture had been a confession to herself, through the fabricated guise of one very special agent Dinozzo.
The concept made his head ache as he tried to wrap his mind around it. It was little wonder that Ziva was having difficulty remembering what was real. And it broke Gibbs' heart to realize it was easier for Ziva to believe she was still in Somalia than it was for her to believe she was safe.
Gibbs felt tears slide down his cheeks as he took in Ziva's peaceful, though exhausted, countenance. He hated his weakness, when his lover seemed strong despite her broken mind. With a gentle hand he reached out to caress her cheek, ignoring the tears that clouded both his vision and his voice. Ziva leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she took comfort from the phantom brush of his fingers.
"Ziver," he said, choking the words out past the lump in his throat, "that was real. It was all real. You were home, and now you're in Israel. You're not in Somalia anymore." Ziva's eyes flew open, and her head straightened as she scrutinized him. For a moment, hope flared within him, but his heart fell again as she responded.
"You are not going to try to explain the mind-over-matter theory, are you?" she asked. "Because McGee tried to talk me through it the first time he came, and all it did was give me a headache. And the whole point of me seeing you all is so that I do not have to hurt anymore, yes?"
She gave him a gentle smirk, but it did not hide the shadows in her eyes that hinted at an ever-present pain. Her gaze was starkly unguarded, and it took Gibbs by surprise before he comprehended its cause—she had no reason to hide anything from a figment of her own imagination.
"No, Ziva. This," he waved towards the room around them, "this is real. The walls are bare because your father ordered everything to be removed, not because you were too tired to add details." Ziva's eyes lit up, giving Gibbs a surge of hope, but it quickly died again as he heard her reply.
"Well, I did tell you my father no longer wanted me around. I even told you I would not be surprised if he turned my bedroom into a workspace." She looked around her once more. "It is not quite an office, but it is not bad, considering the circumstances."
Gibbs realized that Ziva could very easily explain away every claim he tried to make in an effort to convince her she was not in Somalia. He decided to attempt a different track.
"Ziva," he said softly. She looked at him. "What is happening now? What are they doing?"
Her eyes darkened.
"You do not need to hear it from me. You already know."
"Ziva…"
"No, Gibbs! I did not ask you to come, not this time—if you cannot let me rest in peace, then you can go." She glared at him. "Go on! Go!" Gibbs did not let go of her hand, but Ziva tore away from his touch. He shifted closer.
"Ziver…."
"Do not Ziver me here, Jethro. I am in charge of own head! And I said no!"
Her outburst came swift and fierce, taking Gibbs by surprise. He froze, unprepared to encounter her sudden wrath. Her eyes burned, shooting him a smoldering gaze that turned her features into an impenetrable mask of stone. But as quickly as it came, her anger dissipated. He watched peace reclaim her once more, and a small knowing smile curled her lips.
"But you will either disappear or nag me until I do tell you," she stated. She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "But you only leave when I do not want you to, which means you will nag." She sighed. "Even here, after everything that is happening, I cannot fully let go…"
"Ziva…" Gibbs' voice was soft, tender. "Tell me."
Her gaze drifted to her lap, where her hands twisted each other nervously. Her breathing hitched slightly but she did not lose her focus.
"It is not so bad," she revealed softly. She looked towards the window. "It is afternoon, see?"
Gibbs stared at her in confusion.
"I don't—"
"You know it is always worse at night," she said brusquely. But then her expression turned into one of fear. "Please, do not make me say it." Tears filled her eyes, which she swiped at angrily with the heel of her hand.
Gibbs' gut filled with lead as his mind tried to fill in the blanks. He had always suspected that Saleem, or his men, or both, had… Gibbs shook his head. He hadn't wanted to think about it in DC, and he certainly did not want to consider it now. But Ziva's returning anguish forced him to acknowledge it as a near-certainty. Gibbs had heard of using sex to obtain information—he and Ziva had both used the tactic on more than one occasion. It was not too far a stretch to imagine someone using rape to do the same thing with an unwilling prisoner.
No, Gibbs thought, not quite the same. Rape in and of itself would not be an effective way to draw out secrets, especially with hardened operatives like Ziva. No, it was part of the psychological torture—take away someone's control, pride, and hope through something so cruelly intimate as rape, and violate them often enough, they were sure to break. The only variation is what gets broken. Saleem, if Gibbs was correct, obviously hoped it would break her spirit, her will. But in Ziva's case, it had broken her grip on reality. She'd had to cope somehow, and the safest way had been to simply detach—completely.
"Ziva, please—"
"I think he is using his belt now," she continued, sending a jolt of rage down Gibbs' spine. She grinned again, that same twisted, mirthless, pained smile she had given a few moments ago. "Someone should tell him that my father hits harder than him." And then she laughed, an ugly hollow sound that froze Gibbs' blood.
"Ziva, stop," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Please, you're safe, this is real."
"Jethro, you are sounding like a broken tape again."
"Record," he corrected automatically.
"And now you sound like Dinozzo. First McGee, now Tony… When are you going to sound like you Gibbs?"
Gibbs regarded her for a long moment. He needed to be careful of how he proceeded. It was obvious he could not simply force the truth on her—apparently, she had already been lectured by 'McGee' about some philosophical horsecrap that had twisted her perception. No, he needed to help her come to the realization on her own. That would be the only way it would stick, and if he continued his current approach, it was possible that she would lose interest in him entirely and withdraw once more.
"And how am I supposed to sound?" he returned finally, settling back in an effort to look non-confrontational; he would have to play along, at least for the time being. He was rewarded with a twinkling gaze.
"Like that," she replied. "Relaxed, calm… smug. I am surprised you have not asked me about where we are."
"Anything special about this room, David?"
"Not in particular. I never spent much time here…" Her brow furrowed. "Or maybe that is what I am trying to tell myself. Maybe I should have spent more time here, like other children, instead of trying to please my father."
"You didn't dance to please your father," Gibbs observed. To his surprise, Ziva didn't even blink at his insight into her past. "That was all you."
"It was not all me," she corrected. "I took ballet at his insistence. I did not want to do it originally." She grinned mischievously. "But I did continue it to get under his skin. To piss him off, as you Americans would say."
"Nah, it was more than that, Ziver," Gibbs drawled, allowing himself to be drawn into the casual nature of their conversation. "You wouldn't have entered that national dance competition if it was."
Ziva paused, before a nostalgic grin crossed her features.
"I had almost forgotten about that," she confessed. "It was a long time ago."
"Kinda hard to forget something like that, Ziva. Lost to a future prima ballerina. That's pretty impressive."
"Actually," she responded, "they offered it to me first."
"Offered what?"
"Prima ballerina."
Gibbs felt a jolt of surprise, his brow arching. Chava and Benjamin hadn't mentioned that.
"I never told anyone," she continued, as if she had read his thoughts. "But they offered me the spot in the company, private tutoring so that I would be able to travel with them. I would have gone all over the world to dance… I would not have had to be in Tel Aviv except for maybe one or two months out of the year. But even then I would have my own place, courtesy of the company." She paused thoughtfully. "I had a way out. I could have prevented all of this."
"Why didn't you take it?" Gibbs asked.
"Take what?"
"The way out."
"Oh. A sense of duty, I suppose."
"You had your eye on Mossad even then?"
"No," she responded, her tone reproachful. "Of course not." She sighed. "I knew I was headed in that direction, but I did not want it."
"Then why? Why not jump at the chance to get away?"
Ziva sighed.
"Tali was only twelve. Ari was in England by then, studying at Edinburgh. If I left, she would not have had any one there for her. I could not leave her all alone." She leaned her head back against the wall behind her. "I wanted to bring her with me, if I accepted, but they were already taking too big a risk with me as it was. The company had never taken on a dancer so young before. So I declined, and never told anyone about the offer."
"Why not?"
"Tali would have hated me if she knew. She always dreamed of getting away from all the violence—if she had found out I had the chance to do so but had stayed behind from her…" Ziva smiled as her voice trailed off. "For a pacifist she had an impressive temper."
"Do you wish you had gone?"
Ziva paused before answering Gibbs' query.
"Sometimes," she said bluntly. "I try not to think about that. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I did join the company. Maybe Ari and his mother would have been watching me perform that day the Gaza strip was bombed. Maybe on the day the jihadist targeted the café, the company was in town, and Tali would have been visiting me at the theater. Maybe I would be in Russia right now, instead of in the desert." She then turned her head to look at Gibbs, who took a moment to consider her words.
"Would you have accepted, if you had known then what you know now?"
"No." Her answer came swift and sure. "I would have made the exact same choice."
"Why?"
"Because I wonder what might have happened if I had accepted."
Gibbs felt confusion flood him once more. Was she losing coherence again? He kept his expression still, but she still seemed to sense his perplexion.
"Maybe Tali would not have died at the café, but if I had accepted the position as prima ballerina, I would not have been there when Hamas tried to abduct her a month after her fourteenth birthday. If I had not been there to protect her that day, she would have been killed within hours. And maybe I would not have killed Ari, but maybe he would have been discovered as a mole by his Hamas cell… It would have been his head sent overnight express. And maybe I would not be in Somalia right now, but then maybe someone would have discovered who I was, who my father was, and decided to make an example of me. And maybe some of my fellow dancers would have been caught in the crossfire." She shrugged.
"Or maybe I would have torn a ligament in my ankle, or the cartilage in my knee within months of joining the company. And I would now be limping around Tel Aviv as a schoolteacher or librarian. There is no way to know what would have happened, or if anything would have been better." She smirked. "I do know one thing though."
"Yeah?"
"I would not have met you." Gibbs blinked, taken slightly aback by her revelation. He hadn't considered that possibility, and the concept left him cold. She turned away once more, her features again thoughtful. "I guess I have come to accept the past. And the present too."
"You're okay with being in Somalia?"
"You mean tortured," she said, correctly reading the thoughts behind his question. "And no. No one would be, Jethro—that is the whole point of torture. But I know that I would not have changed anything that led to my being here. And I know that it will come to an end, one way or another." He arched an eyebrow, as if silently daring her to elaborate. She did.
"Either I will be rescued, or Saleem will kill me." She looked at him. "And if I had money, I would put it on the second option."
"We're closer than you think, Ziver." Gibbs' voice was as heavy as his heart felt. He did not want to hear her talk this way, but knew that he had to go along with it, if he wanted to help her. Tony had told him of how she had acted on the day of her rescue, and Gibbs quickly realized that he was now experiencing her uncharacteristic behavior firsthand.
Get over yourself, Tony had said.
I have.
The words echoed in his head and Gibbs returned his attention to Ziva, who was gazing at him bemusedly.
"What?" he asked.
"You always say that," she said. When his eyebrow arched inquisitively, she elaborated. "That you are close to finding me. But to be fair, it is not just you. Abby, Ducky, McGee, even Tony sometimes—you all tell me that you are 'close'. But you have been saying it for months now, and I am still here."
Gibbs found himself at a loss, unable to respond to her honesty. He decided to not press the matter further when he noticed that her exhaustion beginning to overcome her. Her eyes were beginning to blink heavily, only to jerk open again each they closed. Though Gibbs was apprehensive of potentially losing her as she slept, he knew she needed to rest—perhaps now she would even get a full night's sleep.
He shifted closer to her, running a hand over her hair affectionately. Her eyes remained closed for a moment before they blinked heavily as she looked up at him.
"Hey," he said softly. She hmmmed back at him in response. Gibbs draped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "Get some sleep," he urged quietly. She murmured a protest, and though her words were unintelligible, he could sense her hesitation. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?" Her voice was small, and in her weakened state, Gibbs could hear the girl behind the woman, fearful of being alone.
"I promise."
The honesty of his vow lit a determined fire in his gut—he would not be leaving her side this evening, that much was certain. Ziva seemed to sense his intentions, as within moments her breathing had evened out and her body relaxed against him.
Gibbs remained motionless for several minutes, taking the time to appreciate the situation. It was the first time since his arrival in Israel that he had able to see her sleep. She had always slept long after he left for the day, if she slept at all. Her position against him prevented Gibbs from seeing her face, but he could tell that the tension had left her, leaving her limbs slack with utter exhaustion.
After a few minutes he shifted, getting his leg under him as he gathered her in his arms. He then stood, carrying her limp form to the bed. He hesitated for a moment upon getting to his feet, looking for signs that he had woken her. But Ziva remained dead to the world, not even stirring until Gibbs gently deposited her on the plush mattress. He didn't bother with turning down the duvet, instead simply laying her directly on top of the covers.
She turned slightly onto her side, curling up a little as Gibbs took the blanket resting at the foot of the bed and draped it carefully over her thin frame. He gently tucked her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He now had a chance to take a long look at her. Her expression was peaceful, more peaceful than he had seen her since Michael Rivkin showed up in DC. Gibbs pulled a chair closer to the bedside and settled in for a long wait. At least, he hoped it would be long—she needed the rest.
It also gave him a chance to finally get an unobstructed view of her features. Ziva sighed as Gibbs brushed away the hair that had fallen into her face. He was immediately struck by how peaceful she appeared. It was not the first time he had seen her sleeping, not by a long shot, but in all of the nights they had shared a bed, Ziva always seemed to sleep with one eye open. There was always an underlying tension that gripped her as she slept, and she was always ready to snap awake at a moment's notice. And she always kept her hand gripped around the butt of her gun.
But her exhaustion prevented all of that from being present now. She had effectively passed out, and that realization worried Gibbs. She had had limited physical activity since he had been there, which meant that her exhaustion stemmed from whatever had kept her trapped within her own mind. If their conversation had been any indication, she had been back in the desert—meaning that for all intents and purposes, she had been tortured for the past four months.
She may not believe it yet, but she was safe, freed from Saleem. That faceless bastard was dead, unable to get his hands on her again. And though it pained Gibbs to see her trapped in what she thought was a hallucination, he came to the realization that she was not truly broken. She was still strong. Thinking back to their conversation, Gibbs was able to see that even the parts that still made no sense to him were not quite as jumbled as they seemed. In fact, if Gibbs shifted his perception to see it as Ziva had, it made perfect sense.
She saw him as an extension of her own mind, an embodiment of the loss she felt and the comfort she craved. And as such, the parts that he could not make sense of, she expected him to know of what she referred to. They shared an existence, in her eyes, and it was that bond he needed to exploit in order to bring her back into reality. He would have to confront her with something she could not explain away, something that she could deny. But he had to ensure that he tread softly; he could not risk frightening her or angering her, or else she could disappear once more behind her defenses. And if that happened, there was no guarantee that she would come back to him a second time.
But there would be time to work out a plan of action later, Gibbs decided. Right now, her needs were simple. She needed support, acceptance, and comfort. She needed to know that she was still loved, still wanted. And Gibbs was willing to give her all that and more.
Watching her sleep, Gibbs too felt exhausted. He felt as though he had run through the whole spectrum of emotions in the space of only an hour. Despair, hurt, guilt, regret, hope, elation… all of it had assaulted his consciousness, and he was now finally feeling their physical impact. He felt as he had in the days following the death of his family, when he had often passed out each night after being unable to stem the flow of tears that had poured continuously from his eyes. And though he had not shed nearly as many tears, he now felt sleep creeping up on him.
Looking once more at Ziva, Gibbs decided that she would be asleep for at least several hours. Which meant that he had that long to replenish his energy, which he was certain he would need in the coming morning. He had his work cut out for him, but that knowledge did little to dampen the happiness that accompanied his growing fatigue. Ziva had trusted him, and ultimately herself, enough to make the first step towards her recovery.
And Gibbs would be there to help her the rest of the way.
