Disclaimer: All thoughts about mental health professionals are Tony's and Ziva's own :P also, I don't own NCIS and all that shizz.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"Bus-route map."
"Check."
"Money for the bus."
"Check."
"Psychiatrist's number."
"… Check."
"My number."
"Tony, I've had that for a long time."
"Right." He swallows and tries not to be nervous as he gives her a once-over. "Sorry for sending you on the bus."
"It is not your fault. It is the therapist's fault for asking me to go in by bus," she grumbles mutinously.
"He … he just wants you to be independent, I guess." Tony licks his lips.
"I know."
"You'll be okay?"
"I have no choice but to be."
He tries not to be too worried about the defeated tone in her voice, choosing instead to tilt her face upwards for a kiss to her forehead. "I love you," he tells her fiercely, and she blinks dazedly at him.
"You rarely say that," she informs him, her tone carefully even. He blushes and drops his hand, but she curls her fingers around his. "It is nice."
He's fairly certain that his blush deepens. "I gotta go to work. Will you be alright by yourself?"
"I have been by myself while you're at work for months, Tony."
"I know, but I gotta check," he protests, and she gives him a tiny smile.
"I will be perfectly fine."
"Okay. See you after work; I'll call if I have the time."
She nods, tightening her fingers around his for the fraction of a second before letting go.
xoxo
She is sitting on the couch, tearing up tissue paper when he arrives home that evening.
Concerned, he drops his keys, throws his coat to the floor, and hurries over to sink down in front of her. "What happened?" If that shrink has hurt her in any way….
"I didn't go." Her tone is clipped, almost angry; she avoids his gaze steadfastly.
"Why not?"
"Why do you think, Tony? I got to the bus stop and there were people there."
The disdain in her voice makes his heart ache. "What happened?" he repeats, and she breathes out.
"There was a woman there. She reminded me of a patient at the hospital who wouldn't stop staring at me. This woman looked just like her and when she looked at me, I just … could not take it."
"Ziva," he sighs.
"I know it is stupid, okay?" she says angrily, the tissue becoming shredded under her fingers' jerky movements. "Shut up. I could have lied to you. And I never asked you to send me to the therapist's."
"You wanted it, though," he points out.
"Well, I was stupid enough to want wrongly."
She turns her head away sharply, balling her hands into fists as if attempting to get a hold on her emotions. So he touches her forearm lightly and—his knee cracking along the way—moves to sit on the couch, trying to slide under her rigid body without having her unleash any ninja moves on him. He ends up with her head tucked under his chin and his hand around her back, somewhat painfully supporting her weight as she curls into him.
"It's okay," he murmurs softly, his lips brushing her hairline. "We'll try again some other time."
"You should just give up."
"I'm not gonna give up on you. And neither are you on yourself."
There is silence, and then she snuffles angrily. "There was a time when no matter what someone said about me, thought about me, I could handle it—because I knew I was better than what they said I was. I was not just a woman or just a Jew or just a pretty face, whatever they said … now, I am nothing. I failed in what I was supposed to do. I've outlasted my usefulness, and if they were to tell me that I was even less than whatever label they could put on me, they would be right."
"They would be wrong," he tells her fiercely, holding her even more tightly. "Because you're not just a soldier, either."
"I know," she answers, and her voice breaks.
"No, you're not hearing me. I didn't say that you're not a soldier anymore; I said that you're not just a soldier." She falls quiet. "Ziva, that was all you ever labelled yourself as. And hell, maybe all of us—even Gibbs, I bet—fell for that trick a little, but that's not why we're here. If we wanted someone who could kick ass … well, that'd be easy to replace, 'cause let's face it: Your skills exceed our demand. But there's never gonna be a Second Ziva who managed to worm her way into our hearts despite the fact that we tried to shut her out at first. You're the person who gives all and risks all for anyone and everyone, Zi. And maybe that's a bit of the soldier in you, but if you ask me, that's more compassion than discipline. 'Cause you're pig-headed. You don't blindly follow orders, no matter how much you think you do, or else you wouldn't have engaged when you saw me go down."
"We are back to that, hmm?" she questions shakily, and he leans his forehead against hers.
"Yeah. 'Cause I never thanked you for caring so damn much. For saving me from myself when I was hell-bent on self-destructing, because you saw a bit of good in me and you wanted to make sure I never lost it. That wasn't the soldier part of you speaking; that was just you. You see good and you want to bring it out in others. And I'll tell you what, sweetcheeks—maybe you think you outlast your usefulness if you fail on an assignment, but the truth is that you've never been more beautiful than when you start caring."
She sniffles, turning her face into him when a single tear escapes her control. "But what if I can't care anymore?" she mumbles.
"I don't believe that." He strokes her cheek gently. "Because you already do."
She lifts her face. "About you?"
"Yeah." His heart skips a beat. "And Gibbs. And Abby. And everyone else. You never lost yourself, Ziva. You think you have, but this part of you that still cares, that still wants to see the good in people, is still here. And this is the most important part, because it shows how you're still better than any label anyone could ever put on you."
She brushes away the tear with the back of her hand. "Thank you," she tells him, and he kisses the top of her head in response.
She never does tell him whether she believes him or not, but when he eventually summons up the courage to ask her if she is willing to try again, she does nod.
xoxo
That Thursday, two days after Ziva missed her therapy session, Tony takes another half-day off to accompany her to the psychiatrist's once more. He hears through the grapevine (read: Abby) that Director Vance is becoming unhappy over the increasing amount of leave that he takes and has ordered Gibbs into the office for a pissing match as a result, but the senior field agent proceeds anyway, knowing that some things are just more important than work.
For the first time in his life, though, he realizes how difficult the conflict between job and family can be if he is unable to lose one or the other. Ziva is family, in a sense; he had once told himself that he would choose her over anything else, including the security of his job, and his conviction still stands—but because he would choose her over anything else, his job too becomes indispensable. Food costs money. Rent costs money. Water and electricity cost money. The psychiatrist costs money. Providing Ziva with a good second chance at life costs money in the harsh, materialistic world they live in, in essence, and sacrificing his job means that he might ruin any chances Ziva has of rediscovering what she had lost in the terrorist camp.
He finds the Catch 22 highly ironic.
These problems weigh heavy on his mind as he loads Ziva—who is surprisingly twitchy, despite the fact that she'd already once made it to the bus stop by herself—into his car. But Gibbs had signed off on the leave request, and Tony has to take his team's word for now that things will work out fine, because he knows well enough that he cannot fight all of his fights on his own.
This time, he sends Ziva directly into the psychiatrist's office and sits in the front room to wait for her hour-long session to finish (he had called ahead the day before and secured the only other empty slot in the week, much to Ziva's somewhat conflicting chagrin and relief). Halfway through the hour, McGee sends him a text: The yelling match between Gibbs and Vance has finished, and Gibbs has emerged the winner; Vance 'understands' why Tony needs the time off and has granted the senior field agent some leeway on the condition that Ziva 'DESPERATELY' needs his support.
He frowns at the emphasis in McGee's text message. 'Desperately' could mean anything from a complete Ziva breakdown to her merely needing his presence as a motivator, and he has no idea when Ziva will stop desperately needing his help—it could be anytime from the next week to the year after next.
Somehow, he doubts that Vance will let him take a half-day (or more if necessary) off every week for the future twelve months to come.
So when Ziva emerges from her session looking slightly jittery, he finds that his nervous energy almost equals hers.
His job is safe for now, though, and he tries to find some comfort in that.
