Summer disappeared on me, but with the cooler weather came my motivation. Thank you to those to waited, to those to sent messages, and to those to read and commented and beta-read and generally just make me feel like this is a worthy way to spend my time. It's so meaningful. xoxo.

Gracias: girleffect

. . . .

The bathroom lights buzzed, pulsing in time with the throbbing in Ziva's temples. Her mouth was dry, her breathing fast and ragged. She exhaled hard and concentrated on slowing her galloping heart. Her vision blurred.

She was still furious.

And humiliated.

And likely fired.

She washed her hands, then her face. Rinsed her mouth, the sink, dried everything with a paper towel and threw it in the trash.

Had RCMP or VicPD checked the landfills? Maybe she'd give Roberts a call. She grabbed the door handle, but paused, heat creeping up her neck. Could she show her face in the bullpen after-?

A knock. The door opened a few inches and Tony's face appeared. His expression was neutral.

"What?" she growled. He was game-facing her. She hated that.

"Thought I'd check in."

"You thought wrong. Go away." She tried to shut him out, but he stiff-armed her and let the door fall behind him. Her ire flared. "This is the ladies' room."

"I seem to remember you breaking a similar rule, oh, a few years ago…" He smirked, feigning innocence.

Ziva looked down. The heat crept into her face. "That was very different."

"Are you ok?" he asked, and it felt abrupt, incorrect, like she'd studied for the wrong exam.

I am fine shriveled on her tongue. She twisted away from him, considered slipping into one of the stalls just to avoid his knowing gaze. "I am not," she admitted quietly.

"Hafford's an ass," Tony assured her, motioning toward the bullpen with one arm. "Sorry I wasn't there to help. Did I tell you about the time he—"

"It was not him," she interrupted. "Not…just him." Ziva wrung her hands, stopped, tucked them behind her back. The knife in her waistband was small comfort. "I was supposed to see a therapist this morning. The one Ducky recommended."

Tony leaned against the sink, posture soft, hand on his cheek. "And?"

"I called a cab," she said to the floor. "Because there is no public transit option for that area. But it arrived and I could not get in the car. I missed the appointment. And I do not know that I can get another—someone pulled wires to get me in short-notice."

"Pulled strings," he corrected. "Did you call?"

"I left a message."

He nodded. "Ok."

She wanted to be angry. "Is that all you can say?"

"I wish you'd called me to drive you."

Ziva shook her head. "I am not your responsibility."

"I don't blame you for not getting in that taxi." His arms came out. She was there and not-there. Everything slowed, her vision narrowing to pinpoints. Her right hand came down hard on his forearm. Tony recoiled. "Dammit, Ziva!"

She swung again, wild, choppy, and caught him in the throat. He gagged and stepped back. She raised her hands a third time, feet planted, breath fast and ragged. Tony recovered fast, faster than she knew, and lunged. His arms went around her in a bear-hug, her face crushed against his shoulder. Her hands were pinned between them.

She snarled and bucked, but he held fast. "No," he said firmly.

Ziva considered biting him. "Let go!"

"No," he repeated. Not angry. Not afraid. "No, you can't do that, Zee-vah."

What was happening to them? "Let me go."

"Not until I know we're safe."

"Let go of me, Tony."

"No."

Panic, panic, panic. She wrestled free, panting, reached for the knife at the small of her back. She would kill him.

He intercepted her hands—first the right, then the left—and held them both against his chest. "No," he said again. Plain. Simple. Kind? "No, Ziva. Look at me."

She tried to pull away, but he held fast. "Let me go."

"No," he maintained. Steady, steady, steady. She hated him for it. "No, Ziva. Stop. Look at me."

She pursed her mouth, held her breath. The room warped and heaved, red at the edges. "Let go of me." He said nothing. The ventilation system kicked on with a thump. Water ran in the men's room next door. "Let go of me," she repeated. She would say it until he did. "Let go."

Tony's grip loosened. She slid her hands out of his. The only sound was her breathing.

"This isn't right, Ziva," he finally said.

She crossed her arms, imagined her whole body folding up to disappear. Except the knife. Maybe she would use it on him first. "Do not touch me."

"I would never hurt you."

She nodded. The floor was remarkably clean for a government building. A migraine was building, starting behind her brows. "I know."

"Then why—"

"I do not want you to comfort me."

He leaned back, folded his arms. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Then what am I supposed to do, Zee-vah? Watch you implode?"

"I am going to lose my job," she said. Her voice was soft, robotic. "I am fired. Did you see the way I—"

"I didn't, but everyone else did. What the hell, Ziva?"

She picked at her cuticles. They were ragged. Her fingers were tender. "Do you think Hafford will press charges?"

"He's a slimeball," Tony scoffed. "Probably got off on it."

Ziva's throat burned. She would not vomit in front of him. "I will lose my job."

"You need help."

"I tried."

"Can we go downstairs and talk to Duck? Maybe he can call the shrink."

She glanced at the door separating them from the bullpen. "I will be fired the moment I walk out that door, Tony."

"I don't think staying in here will save you."

She swallowed, despairing. "What am I going to do?"

"Get help."

Her head was too heavy to nod. "This is not who I am, Tony." She did not look at his face, but could tell from his posture that he was thinking about touching her. "Don't," she warned.

He backed up a step, saying nothing.

Ziva felt herself slump. She was too hot. The knife was sticky at her waist. Was she melting? "Can you leave, please?" Manners were good. Maybe Vance would not fire her if she was polite.

"You're grey."

"So?" she challenged.

"And you say I'm the juvenile. Hang on."

He stepped out the door, swinging it wide, and she caught sight of the bullpen—everyone busy, so busy, Gibbs' silver hair above her cubicle wall, McGee with the phone to his ear. Two interns glanced up and she looked away, angry all over again.

Tony caught it before it closed and pressed her inhaler into her hand. "Take that, Sweet Cheeks." She tried to turn away, but he caught her shoulders. His fingers were hot through her thin shirt. "Hey," he said gently. "We're post-elevator. Remember?"

She burned, embarrassed, ashamed. Was she terrible? She took the full dose without looking at him. "Is Vance waiting for me?"

"Didn't see him."

"Maybe he will wait until the end of the day."

"Let's go down to Autopsy."

Maybe listening to him would keep her out of trouble this time. Ziva followed him out of the bathroom to the elevator, where she waited with her chin raised, eyes forward. Someone behind them said Hafford's nose is still bleeding like they wanted her to hear.

"Ignore it," he whispered.

She stared so hard she missed the opening doors. Tony had to nudge her, and then Gibbs slid in just before they closed. He hit the stop button with the palm of his broad hand. "I've arrested people for less."

She stood at ease. The knife beckoned. Gibbs was old. She could gut him so fast.

"You don't get to act like that on my watch. Vance put a LOR in your jacket. I want a psych clearance before your requal."

She nodded. "Yes, Gibbs."

He stepped into her personal space. "Talked Vance outta firing you."

"Thank you, Gibbs."

"That was your last trick you'll ever turn, David. Get it together or get gone."

She flinched and said nothing. The lights went back on. The doors opened. Gibbs stepped out. She and Tony traveled alone to Autopsy.

Ducky was waiting for them. He pushed a wheeled office chair beneath her. "I have been given orders to examine you, Ziva, and send you to Bethesda if I have even the slightest concern. Anthony—leave."

"I'll just turn my back," he negotiated.

Ziva pulled her collar aside. They would fire her and she would reapply, work in Intel or Computer Crimes, report nine-to-five, spend weekends exploring the city. Maybe she would drive out of town for weekends. Maybe she would take up ballet or yoga. Or soccer.

Ducky took the stethoscope from around his neck. He hardly touched the chestpiece to her skin. "No, wait." He held out an old-fashioned mercury thermometer. "Under your tongue."

She accepted. He examined her eyes and ears with a light, tapped on her forehead and under her eyes, asked if it hurt.

No, she indicated. No and no and no.

He looked at her fingers, tilted her chin, removed the thermometer. "Low-grade. I'll get you some Paracetamol."

Tony turned around. "Relapse?"

"Possibly," Ducky mused. He opened a toolbox and dug through for a small foil packet, held out the contents to her. "Here, Ziva."

She took the pills. He offered her water, but she dry-swallowed and shook her head. "I missed the appointment."

His eyes were wide behind his glasses. "Oh."

"I did not mean to," she continued. "I know you must be disappointed. I left a message. Hopefully I can reschedule."

Ducky folded his hands. "May I ask what happened?"

"Transportation issue. I will not let it happen again."

"Ziva," he sighed. "I am so sorry."

She jumped up, wiping her sweaty hands on the legs of her pants. "I am the one who is sorry. You have every right to be upset at my having taken advantage of your kindness and professional connections."

"I am not angry at you," he said quietly. "Only sorry that you are struggling."

She sat down. Her stomach was full of cold water. "You treated Hafford for his…injuries?"

"A bloody nose is hardly an injury, Ziva, though I am not sure his ego will recover."

"Vance put a LOR in my file."

"Yes."

"Gibbs wants to fire me."

He paused, one finger up. "I am not so sure, Ziva."

Tony coughed. "So what's the verdict, Duck?"

Ducky took Ziva's hands in his. He was gentle, his skin soft, his voice low, but firm. "You can stay. I want you to eat a proper lunch and remain at your desk. Should you feel fatigued, you must tell someone immediately so that you can either be brought to me or driven home."

She got up, relieved. Light. "Yes, Ducky."

"You are not to overdo it. I have no qualms calling medical transport to take you to the hospital. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said quickly.

"Yes," Tony echoed. "Yep. Roger." He lit the elevator call button. "C'mon, Zee-vah. Let's get to it."

She gave Ducky a gentle look. "Thank you."

He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "You're welcome." He leaned in and whispered: "It's a good idea to put the knife in a drawer for now."

. . . .

More strings were pulled. Another appointment was scheduled within twenty-four hours. Ziva called Tony to drive her, and found herself on a low blue sofa in a Northwest DC office. Hands folded. Expression neutral. "They are still identifying bodies from evidence, but nothing has turned up matching Emma Coffman. Emma disappeared—"

"So you said," Dr. Mich interrupted. "You have told me quite a lot about the victims. I got an overview from Dr. Mallard, but I'd like you to elaborate."

"I broke protocol," she shrugged, "but Atherton will not kill another woman."

"You were injured."

"Yes."

"Injured severely enough to still have an impact on your day-to-day life."

Ziva glared at her. "I have been able to work."

Dr. Mich nodded. "I got a report from your superior that said you assaulted a coworker."

She took a steadying breath, having used her nebulizer and inhaler before the appointment. "Agent Hafford has taken several sensitivity trainings. He should know better than to make a comment about a case being NHI."

"No Humans Involved."

"Sickening," Ziva spat, remorse fading.

"Humiliating. You almost gave your life for a case in which women were treated like literal garbage. You must have been so furious."

"I should not have hurt him. That was wrong. But at the time—"

"Have you had difficulty controlling your temper?"

"Yes."

"How about nightmares?"

Drowning, drowning. "Yes."

"Flashbacks?"

"No."

"Have you experienced-?"

"Yes, in the past."

"Do you have a trauma history, Ziva?" Dr. Mich asked. She'd lowered her voice, softened her features. "Has anyone-?"

"I was Mossad. I have worked in federal law enforcement here for years. I have been shot at. I have been assaulted. I have been kidnapped. In 2009 I was taken captive by a terrorist faction in Somalia. They were a small organization, but impressively armed." She took another steadying breath. "There were thirty men."

"Ziva."

"They made me keep track while they took turns." She sat straight, chin up. "You are the only person I have told that particular detail."

"Why have you kept this to yourself?"

"You know the field I am in, yes? My coworkers would never trust me again."

"But you told me."

She wanted to roll her eyes. "You are not my coworker."

"Fair enough, Ziva. I am, however, mandated to perform a psychiatric evaluation and I must put disclosure of sexual assault in the paperwork."

"So you will end my career."

Dr. Mich checked a box several pages into the form on her clipboard and put her pen down with a slap. "Ziva, if every rape survivor lost his or her job, then there would be no one in the workforce. Do you know that more than a quarter of women have been raped or assaulted, and sexual violence is one of the most underreported crimes in the world?"

Oh yes, she knew. "There are few women—"

"Yes, and you have grounds for a lawsuit, should NCIS terminate your employment." She raised an eyebrow. "For anything other than assaulting Agent Hafford."

She looked down, sorry and not. "I should not have hurt him."

"You were officially reprimanded, but I am not concerned you will do it again."

Ziva folded her hands again. "I am genuinely remorseful."

"I'm sure. Have you been disturbed in the past month by repeated thoughts or memories of what happened?"

She blinked, blindsided. "What happened?"

"With Atherton, with your previous assaults. Are the memories intrusive? Do they interrupt your activities?"

Her face burned. "I missed the original appointment…I called a cab, and when it arrived I could not get in. Atherton…Atherton picked me up in his truck. I could not separate…" she trailed off, ashamed, sick. "I could not separate that experience from simply getting into a hired car to come here."

"That is awful. I wish you'd told me sooner. I would have been happy to do a phone session. How about just at home—are you having these thoughts?"

"I prefer to be at work."

"Do you avoid being alone?"

"I prefer to be busy."

She made another check. "How about physical symptoms?"

"I had pneumonia. I am often short of breath. My heart races from the medication."

"Do your symptoms get worse at times of high stress or when you are remembering?"

"Yes."

"Do you have trouble concentrating?"

"No."

Another check. "Have you lost interest in things you previously enjoyed? Recreational activities?"

"I do not recreate very often. I am very busy with work."

Check. "Do you feel as though your future will be somehow cut short?"

Ziva sucked in a breath. "I was reprimanded both for the incident with Agent Hafford and for my recklessness during the undercover operation. I will have to requalify to get my gun and badge back. My superior is watching me closely. He almost fired me."

"Your biggest fear is losing your job."

"Yes." She sounded too earnest. Eager muskrat? Eager badger? "I do not know what I would do if...if I could no longer be a federal agent."

"So your work-life balance is—"

Ziva blinked. Would she stop with the questions? "I have no family left. My father died a few months ago, but before that our relationship was…complicated."

Check, check, check went the pen. Dr. Mich's eyes were clear blue, but not as blue as Gibbs'. "Your support system?"

"There is only work," she admitted, but kept her shoulders square and her eyes up. "I have a family friend. He lives in Israel. He is elderly; I do not ask him to come here."

"Your coworkers?"

"My partner and I are...our relationship is hard to define. It is important to me. He is important to me. The rest of my team is kind and accepting. We are a close group."

"How close?"

She scowled. "We are not unprofessional." A nod, more checks, a long note. Ziva fell silent until Dr. Mich looked up. "What are you writing?"

"That your work-life balance leaves much to be desired."

She stiffened, offended. "I am passionate about my career. How is that a bad thing?"

"When was the last time you did something you enjoyed—something not work-related?"

"I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival before we were given the BC assignment. I went to the Museum of Natural History. I got takeout from Sitar."

The doctor brightened. "With whom?"

"No one."

"Is there a peer group—?"

Shut up. "I work long hours."

"What about a romantic relationship?"

She laughed harshly. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"I can see you feel defensive."

"You are making me sound lonely and pathetic. Why would I not be defensive?"

"I am not here to judge you."

"But you are," Ziva argued. "You were hired by NCIS to do just that. Is that not the purpose of this evaluation—to find me fit or unfit for my job?"

"The purpose of this evaluation is to identify any possible mental health issues and recommend services. The purpose of this evaluation is to help you, Ziva."

"If you want to help," she snapped, "You would sign the paper and send me back to the office."

"I can't do that," Dr. Mich replied. "You disclosed a trauma history, a lack of familial or peer support, and PTSD. I can't just send you back to work without mandating counseling services, a SA support group, and medication."

The room shrank. She went cold. "So I am unfit."

"You are in crisis. Temporarily unfit."

Ziva reached for her knife. Her hands were freezing when they brushed her bare skin. She swallowed spit and bile. "No."

"What are you reaching for, Ziva?"

"My," she started, but couldn't remember. Her what? "It is gone."

"You were armed."

"They took it."

"You are always armed."

The room canted. She almost fell off the slippery blue sofa. "It is gone. My knife. I used it to…" the room dipped again. She gripped the cushions, hung her head.

"Are you feeling ill?"

She nodded, afraid she would vomit if she opened her mouth.

A rough hand forced her head between her knees. There were swirls of horrible, horrible color and then she tipped sideways. Something soft beneath her face. A voice she did not recognize said she's hot.

Hands on her face. "Pulse over 180. Call ahead."

The lights flashed. They were moving. She was moving. This was not real. People did not get kidnapped from the shrink's office. "No," she said. Someone shushed her. She said no again, but it was muffled. No one would hear. Did she have her phone? Could she call Tony?

She didn't need to; he appeared from behind a curtain in his work suit, hair on end, eyes bright and wide. "Sweet Cheeks," he blurted. "What the hell?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Why was she so sorry? "What happened?"

"You relapsed. Damn, I shoulda known."

Him? How? "No."

He made a soft tcchh with his mouth. "Don't worry—I didn't let them keep you."

Good, good. "Thank you."

He kissed her cheek. "Welcome, Sweet Cheeks."

A nurse brought a small pink pill and water. "Pharmacy on Level G before you leave. Your scrips are waiting."

Tony winked at her. Ziva took the pill and swung her legs out. Everything ached. She was so tired.

And such an idiot. "Am I fired?"

"No, but you're not allowed out of bed for like, six months."

"No," she argued. "I need a good night's sleep and then I will be fine."

"You have reduced lung capacity. You're done, Zee-vah."

Pressure mounted behind her eyes and then she was crying. "No. No. That is not true. You cannot—"

"You'll have a nurse and a PCA four hours a day for the next two weeks. It was the only way I kept you out of the hospital." He put his arm around her. "I did what I could. I know it would kill you to stay here."

It would kill someone. "Can we please leave?"

"Waiting on discharge instructions."

Another nurse, a second inhaler—for maintenance, twice a day—more antibiotics, more steroids, a wheelchair. She did not, could not refuse.

Tony steered. He sang quietly while she got in the car, kept singing as he started the engine and drove her home. He steered her to bed, helped her undress, smoothed the blankets, brought water, drugs, her nebulizer. "Cozy, Sweet Cheeks?"

"The landfills," she told him. Her eyes were heavy. Her whole body was heavy. "Tell Matt to have them check the landfills."

Did he look confused? "Atherton," she reminded. "Emma could—"

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "I'll tell them. Here." He gave her the mouthpiece to her nebulizer.

"Call now," she told him before taking it. "Do it right here in front of me."

He looked so sad. "Ok." She accepted the medication and he shuffled through his mobile contact list for the coroner's number.

Ziva closed her eyes. Everything was staticky—her hair, her chest, her head. Everything hurt. Maybe she would rather drown.

"No," Tony said, speaking to someone—Matt?—on the phone. "Emma. Ziva wants—ok."

No, she wanted to say. Not ok. It is not ok. Emma was in the landfill. She held her hand out—give me the damned phone—but it did not materialize.

It was gone, vapor. Tony was all shadow. Was it night? "I told him," he reported. "They'll have CSIs on it this week."

What day was it? "Too late."

"It's the best they can do."

She coughed. It pulled deep, deep in her chest. "No."

Was he touching her? No. Yes. His big hands were on her cheeks, then away and there were soft sounds, and then they were around her waist. Ziva shivered.

He spooned in close. "You're a furnace."

"Do not get in my bed."

"I like furnaces."

"In the summer."

He put his face to her shoulder. "I'll stay right here, ok?"

"No, Tony."

"I won't let you drown."

Settle, she ordered. Settle. Ziva threaded her fingers through his. Her hands were freezing. "Do not tell anyone."

He sighed a long, long sigh. "No more secrets, Zee-vah."

She closed her eyes. "I am sorry I hurt you."

"Didn't leave a mark."

"No. It is not right. I should not—"

"It's ok."

She fell silent. The air conditioning hummed. "I cannot lose my job."

Tony kissed the back of his neck. His lips were cool and moist. "Ziva?"

"I am fired," she whispered.

"Ziva?" He whispered, too.

"I am finished. Tomorrow I will—"

"Ziva, it's ok," he interrupted. "I'm right here."

He drew his hand down her arm in a long, slow, soothing stroke. She focused on the sounds of the building—water running, a car on the street—on her heavy bedclothes, on Tony's knees brushing the backs of hers. The night would be long, but maybe if he stayed…if she could just wait, perhaps, instead of sleep, then the water would not rush in and steal her breath again. Again.

Tony's mouth was by her ear, his voice low, but crisp. Clear enough that she almost believed him.

"Ziva, I'm right here."

. . . .