A/N Thanks for the reviews, you are very encouraging.

By the way, I have nothing against Palmer, per se, but he's unfortunately been brutally attacked by a hoard of wild squirrels and cannot make an appearance in this fic. He is hoping that his traumatic experience will result in a made for TV special or angsty fic of his own. Keep dreamin', Jimmy, you gotta at least make the opening credits first! Meanwhile, Ducky and McGee will try to stop in again, but they've been stuck with a lot of work since Tony and Ziva have been distracted then exiled.

Okay, back to the drama at hand . . . .

Chapter 10

Exposure

I want to resist being forced to leave a crime scene, but I cannot. I must respect Gibbs and so I keep my eyes ahead and find my voice, "Yes, Tony, thank you." Tony helps me up. I do not want help, but I sense he needs to give it to me. He stays close to me as we walk to the car, I suppose in case I swoon again. I blush at such an appalling thought. Oh, can this day get any more awkward?

We drive in silence and I notice that Tony is often glancing at me. I feel sorry for him having to babysit me as I battle the guilt of leaving the crime scene short two investigators. At my apartment he gets out of the car and rounds it quickly to open my door. I would normally be insulted by such a show of my weakness, but today I am weak. He remains close but does not touch me as we walk. I should have never flinched. I find my keys and unlock the door. It occurs to me that I have not given Tony a key to my new apartment. I had given him one years ago in case of emergency, but I have not thought to give one to him since I had returned. I will make a note to fix that. I walk in and tell him to make himself at home while I change.

I find myself in the shower once again in contemplation. The same scars are there that I have tried to wash away for months. I think about Abby and the promise I made and I realize that it is time to bare my scars. I do not want to face a shrink, but more than that, I find that I want Tony to know. I do not want to keep anything from him any longer, and now I have no excuse for secrecy.

When I walk out there is silence. Tony normally turns on the TV when he has to wait for me for any reason, but today his full attention is on me. He has placed a glass of juice on the coffee table so as I towel my hair dry I take a sip and notice his eyes following me as I sit down on the other side of the couch. I drape my towel over my legs.

More silence.

He looks so concerned, the same expression he wore at the warehouse a month ago when he tried to get me to talk.

I turn to face him, "I should have talked to you months ago."

"You needed time, I knew that."

"The simple truth is that I went through hell. I do not want to worry anyone else with the details and I do not want anyone's pity, but I do not think I can continue to work if I do not get this off my skin."

"Take your time. I'm on strict orders from Gibbs that neither of us leaves here for at least 24 hours. I'd just as soon have a mother bear after me than tick him off."

"He is too kind to me, as are you."

His arm is draped over the back of the couch and he lightly squeezes my shoulder and says, "Yeah, well there's a selfish reason for my kindness, but that's a talk for another day." He winks at me and I relax.

There are more moments of peaceable silence as I summon the courage to begin.

"I think the easiest way to explain what I went through is to show you my scars. I have kept them from everyone until Abby walked in on me in the locker room after the dirty bomb incident." A flicker of recognition crosses his face. He is too good of an investigator not to have noticed a change in our friendship, so I know he has made the connection.

I remove the towel exposing the bare legs and feet. He looks at me as if to verify my permission to invade my privacy. "It is okay, Tony, you may look." He tries not to act repulsed by the evidence of my abuse as he studies the cigarette burns. He does not touch my skin. He maintains frequent eye contact with me, allowing me to stop the inspection at any time. This puts me more at ease and I am thankful for the consideration.

Now comes the hard part.

"I would not have imagined a scenario in which I would voluntarily take my shirt off for you, Tony, but since you pinned up a picture of me in a bikini on an aircraft carrier, I will assure you that you will see nothing new." I smirk to hide my nervousness but he retains a seriousness knowing the implications of what I am about to do.

I hesitate. I just need to take my shirt off, a simple motion, but I cannot make my hands do it. They begin to shake again. My breathing quickens. No, not again. I close my eyes and command myself to relax. I feel his steady hand on my shoulder and my breathing returns to normal yet I cannot stop the tremors entirely. He understands that I cannot back out now or we may never have this conversation.

"Would it be easier if I helped?" he asks very carefully. In any other context that would sound suggestive coming from Tony, but in my distress the offer is laced with sensitivity. I nod and turn so that my back is towards him. He slowly lifts my shirt, a few inches at first then I raise my arms and he gently pulls it above over my head, revealing my sports bra and the now white criss cross of scars from the whip. I sweep my hair over my shoulder so he can take it all in. He is silent. I feel his hands tentatively tracing what I know are some of the more severe lines. I let him touch and explore my back and I hear quiet sniffs and know he's mourning for me, for what I went through, for not saving me sooner, for not being able to take them away.

I look over my shoulder at him and his expression holds such sorrow, such palpable compassion. We both shed silent tears. I turn my body to face him and he sees the rest. He lightly touches a few scars on my stomach, then hesitates at the longest one, makes eye contact. I nod my permission. I am sensitive to his touch. It feels curative rather than invasive.

I lose my sense of time as we communicate with few words. He traces and retraces all my new scars. Now and then he pauses at one and I supply the answers to the questions that he will not ask.

"cigar burn . . . broken glass . . . whip . . . "

When he places several fingers over the largest scar I explain, "Knife wound from when I was first captured. I must have been close to death, but they needed me for intelligence so they stopped the bleeding and let me heal just enough to be useful."

He shifts his hand so that his palm meets my skin and he soothes the scar with his thumb, I tap his chin so he raises his eyes to meet mine.

"Tony," he looks at me with so much remorse. I place my hand on his cheek. "Tony, it is important to remember that though these scars remain, they represent the past and because of you, more were not added to their number. I survived because of you and the team. I survived, Tony. I will never be the same as I was but I will be okay."

Tony nods, closes his eyes and seems to feel the reality of the warmth of my skin seep into his as confirmation. We have survived our newfound intimacy, but it is not yet enough. I can sense his internal conflict as he works up the courage to ask the most invasive question.

He opens his eyes, places his protective hands over mine then carefully kisses my hand and brings our woven fingers to his lap. He clears his throat and delicately says, "There is one more thing that I need to ask, and please forgive me. Ziva, did Salim . . . take advantage of you."

I maintained eye contact "Yes."

He reflexively releases my hand, places his elbows on his knees and drops his head in his hands in anguish. No words come to him as he takes on the weight of what he sees as his failure to protect me. It is my turn to rub his back.

"That is what made today so difficult. We have not had an assault case similar to mine since I have returned. I knew it was inevitable, but I did not realize how severely it would effect me." I am surprised at the relief that washes over me. All these months I had been afraid to show vulnerability, afraid that admitting to being a victim would intensify my disgrace. Ironically, I gain confidence with each word and actually feel a step farther from Somalia. Yet, as my grief lessens, I look at Tony and my heart breaks for him.

He keeps his head down, ashamed. "How can you do it? This job involves so much violence, and you just work as if this were any other day job. Here you are getting over such a terrible experience . . . Ziva, I knew you had been tortured, but I just didn't want to think about how cruel . . . and you have to look at the scars everyday. If I could take it all back I would." He utters it all with such passion. I realize that he needs this talk as much, if not more than I do. It is not in his nature to be open, and he does not have the advantage of scars to display. He is not getting extra Abby hugs or people reaching out to him but he has been suffering as long as I have.

I work my fingers through his hair. "Tony, I do not think about it most days. I am growing accustom to the scars. I had known nothing but a violent isolated life until I came to NCIS and now I have people surrounding me who chose to care about me enough to go to the ends of the earth and back to rescue me even after I had deserted them. That one good thing outweighs the rest. And if you ever regress to thinking that I am just an indestructible ninja, remember that today has proven that some days I cannot handle everything. This is the first time I have truly broken down and despite how embarrassing it was at the time, I am thankful it happened and that you and Gibbs were there for me."

Tony patted my knee, wiped the last of the tears from his face and replied, "You don't have anything to be embarrassed about. You know, after you drool on a guy's chest hair, you shouldn't think twice about a little vomit on his shoes."

My eyes shoot open in mortification. "I did not!"

He laughed weakly. "No, actually you didn't, but I wouldn't mind getting drooled on again if you ever need a good night's sleep."

I reply, smiling but serious, "Gibbs did say that you had to stay with me for 24 hours, and I do not see the need to discuss who gets the couch."

Tony looked at me with that vulnerable expression again, "I promise to remain a gentleman, Ziva."

I squeeze his hand, "I know you will, Tony. Thank you."

After a few more minutes of comfortable silence, Tony picked up my shirt, I raised my arms and he gently pulled it back over my head.

"Since you've had a rough day, I think we should lounge around, order a pizza, and have a movie marathon. You can even pick as many chick flick musicals as you'd like."

"Wow, you must feel sorry for me! You know I will sing along."

"Today, for you, Ziva, I will too."

At last I lean on him, his arms wrap around me securely and we are stripped of all pretenses, allowing the intimacy forged from shared terror and survival to bind us closer together.