A/N: There were so many things I could have used for material this week. And for anyone else who threw up a little in their mouths when Gibbs and Hart (aka the TRAMP) did that stupid little eskimo kiss... Don't worry. That little scene will be getting plenty of attention. It will be spoofed, greatly. But that chapter will be posted in Something Extra. Here it just wouldn't flow. So for now, Ziva angst. Before I get groans of annoyance from having to read about her again, well... consider just which story you're reading. She's going to be getting attention, that much is evident from the first chapter. As for the angst... I know, I don't like overdone angst either. But it won't last forever. Next chapter I post for this story will be the end of the prolific Ziva angst. Maybe I should coin a new term for it... Zangst, maybe. Hm. Kinda catchy.

Anyways... Read, enjoy, and please let me know how you like it!


She was an idiot. Why did she have to bring up Saleem? True, he had been on her mind lately, after her argument with Jethro that night she got back from Paris. But why bring him up now? In front of Tony, no less?

She knew the moment his name had left her lips that it had been a mistake. His head had perked up just so, and then the carefully nonchalant response that was a prelude for what he hoped would be a delicate conversation. He wanted details, and now she had obliged him by even mentioning the fact that Saleem had hurt her.

And she knew her partner. Once he caught wind of something, he would sniff it out like hound on a scent. He wouldn't let it go until he got the information he wanted. It was what made him a good investigator, but this time, he wanted information he couldn't have, information she couldn't give.

"You never talk about it."

His voice was soft, quiet even in the murky silence of the warehouse. All her rambling about the fine, upstanding morals of America—which she had let pour out of her mouth as a smokescreen—had done nothing to deter him from the topic that she was most desperate to avoid.

"What is there to talk about?"

Her response was half an octave higher than she had been shooting for, belying her newfound anxiety, but the inquiry held true. What was there to talk about? The pain of not being allowed to die, the days spent with nothing to do but face the demons of her past? No. Such a concept was not even a blip on his radar. He, like everyone else, was more concerned with the physical pain.

It was funny, how the pain that faded the most quickly was what everyone most wanted to hear about. Perhaps it was all they could handle, all they could comprehend. True, it was the most obvious affliction, but they seemed to have forgotten that she had been trained to ignore physical pain. There wasn't any physical pain anymore. That much had healed.

"Come on, Ziva."

Come on? Come on? The words were simple, used by millions of Americans every single day. But in that moment, in the shadows of a terrorist's warehouse, they were as abrasive as sandpaper on a gunshot wound. Suddenly, all she could see was the tilt of his head, the tiny ever-present grin on the edge of his lips, the curious gleam of his eyes… And it angered her.

The same ire that flared in her during her fight with Gibbs reared its ugly head once more as she realized that it wasn't just concern that prodded him to ask her to confide in him. He expected her to. He felt entitled. She wondered why. Because he had rescued her? No, it hadn't been a solo mission… Both Gibbs and McGee had been there too, and neither of them felt entitled. Gibbs wanted her to talk because he thought it would help her, and so far McGee had been the only one to not ask anything of her.

Then what was it? Because he was her partner? Because he had been tied to the same chair she had been? It hadn't been for long, but did that matter? No. He still felt entitled. As if he had a right to get inside her head. Well, she knew the rights afforded to every American. She had been studying them for months now. And not one of them allowed him any leeway into her mind. Keeping her secrets… that was her prerogative, her right. She was not bound to give him anything.

And she wasn't going to.

"What Saleem did was bad enough," she said finally, her head cocked to the side like a petulant child though her voice remained steady. "Becoming like him would be even worse."

She turned then, and walked away. Her words were little more than nonsense, and change of subject designed to make Tony hesitate long enough for her to put some distance between them. He was trying to emulate Gibbs now, getting into her personal space, but he didn't know what Gibbs did. He didn't know that his proximity was unnerving her.

No, not just unnerving her. It was sending her pulse into an erratic horserace, and tightening her chest to the point that she could barely breathe without hyperventilating. Gibbs knew not to crowd her, he knew that she didn't like to talk about personal matters when she was within arm's reach of someone. Gibbs respected that, most of the time. Tony didn't.

She occupied herself with inspecting the warehouse around her. She ignored the dark shadows and the memories it threatened to waken, instead focusing on the items illuminated in the beam of her flashlight. She saw some basic hand tools she recognized from Gibbs' garage, as well as some clear evidence as to the extended presence of at least two individuals. Most likely two men, if the gentleman's magazines were any indication. But then, she had been known to read such magazines herself. Tony would be the first to attest to that.

But then a bottle caught her eye, brown with a white label. Acetone hydroxide. She called Tony's attention to it, grateful for the distraction. Now he wouldn't ask any more questions, or if he did, it would be about the case. She could handle questions about the case. The case was neutral territory, safe, even though the presence of that Allison Hart was less entertaining than it was a pain in her ass.

Of course, Tony was anything if not stubborn to the last. Or foolhardy, depending on how one looked at it. Once the find had been called in, he turned to her, and his eyes held the look.

He hadn't dropped it.

"You're gonna have to tell someone sometime, Ziva," he said.

"I do not have anything to share," she returned, fighting to keep the fire from her voice. They had just started getting back to normal, after their night in Paris. If she let him see the darker side of herself, the side that had overcome her during her fight with Jethro—that progress would be for nothing. He would hate her. And as much as he annoyed her sometimes, she didn't want to lose him.

"And if you did… would you tell me?"

Ziva froze, her breath catching in her chest. A memory sparked; a pivotal one, though it felt distant. It swirled with echoes of anxiety, guilt, confusion, and anger. An angry confrontation spurred by frustration and distrust. Furious shouts and accusations, and then the question of all questions.

And if you did, would you tell me?

No. But I would tell Gibbs.

In her mind she saw the flash of hurt on his face before the elevator doors closed, and felt the sinking sensation of her stomach. She had reverted that afternoon, gone back to her Mossad ways, and had struck him where it hurt most. She had both reminded him that he could never measure up to Gibbs, and that he was no longer important enough in her life to trust him with information about Michael.

Since her rescue, Gibbs had striven to convince her that she was not that person anymore. He said that part of her had died in the desert. But it hadn't. Not really. Because though it had been months between that day in the squad room and his repeated question in the middle of a grungy warehouse, the answer was still the same. She refused to say it, refused to see that flash of hurt again... but it was still the same.

No. But I would tell Gibbs.