Author's Note: This chapter took forever and a day to write! This kind of subject matter is quite difficult for me to write - Ziva's feelings are pretty much canon, but the whole concept of main characters being suicidal is something I usually avoid in fandom. That's a warning, just in case anyone's squicked. This chapter's from Ziva's POV, and I am still going for a Zabby pairing, but I really doubt Ziva's mind would be in any kinda state for romance at this stage, so it'll be reading as a friendship fic for now.

Ziva

It is strange to see Abby so subdued. We barely speak on the drive to her apartment, although she sneaks glances at me the whole way. The atmosphere is strange – tense, and yet strangely companionable.

She unlocks her apartment door and steps back to let me enter first. While she busies herself locking up behind me, I look around her richly-decorated, cluttered apartment. I never thought I would see this place again, and the sense of unreality that I've felt since Salim's body hit the ground increases.

"Ziva?" I do not realise Abby has spoken until she touches my arm, and I try not to flinch. "Do you want juice? Coffee? Food?"

I do not want anything, except to die. Salim was to be my salvation, and he was so close… There is a thin line across my throat where his knife scored my skin, and if McGee and Tony had not intervened, he would have killed me. The way my father wanted.

The way I longed for.

"I… do not know, Abby."

Her eyes are distressed, but she masters it well. "Sit down, okay? I'm gonna run you a bubble bath."

I cannot deny that I need it: I cannot remember how long it has been since I have properly been able to clean myself up.

Now that Abby has a plan of action, she becomes purposeful, darting into the bathroom to set the bathwater running, then into the kitchen. While she rushes around, I slowly cross to the couch, sinking down onto the soft cushions. The comfort brings tears to my eyes – with the voyage of the ill-fated Damocles, my subsequent capture by Salim's men and the months of torture that followed, it feels as if I have not been comfortable for a lifetime.

Feeling vaguely ridiculous, I reach out and pull one of the smaller cushions towards me, pressing it to my abdomen and wrapping my arms around it. The defensive position eases my mind a little, but I do not risk closing my eyes despite the fatigue that plagues me.

Abby returns from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice, and I take it with a mumbled 'thank you', staring at the opaque liquid with something akin to fascination. I have drunk nothing but water since my capture, and only vaguely remember the taste of juice.

I take an experimental sip, while Abby continues to dart from here to there, locating bedding and comfortable nightwear for me, despite the fact that it is only around six p.m. The tangy flavour coats my tongue, stronger than I expect, and I drink it slowly, watching Abby and responding to her chatter whenever I can find an opening.

After a few minutes, she shuts off the water in the bathroom and calls me in. I walk into the candlelit room and cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm: the fragrance of aromatherapy oil fills the air, and the lighting is dim and relaxing.

"Thank you, Abby," I tell her sincerely, and she touches my arm with a smile before stepping toward the door.

"Let me know if you need anything."

Left alone, I brush my teeth with the spare brush she's left out for me, and then begin to undress. My shoulder twinges as I try to strip off my shirt, and I grit my teeth and try again. Agony flares, and I hiss a soft curse, giving up for now.

One would think that after all I have been through, this would be nothing. As it is, it is all I can do not to burst into tears. "Abby?"

After a slight pause, her voice calls through the door, "Yeah?"

"You can come in," I say, and she opens the door enough to stand in the doorway, looking at me anxiously. Forcing a smile to cover my frustration, I ask, "Would you mind helping me to get my shirt off? My shoulder is injured."

Her concern deepens, and she gives a rapid series of nods, stepping closer. "Which parts are hurt?"

Turning my back, I indicate the angle that is giving me the trouble, mentally cursing the tight shirt. After a brief hesitation to evaluate the best way of completing the task, she asks me to put my arms up over my head. "Tell me if it hurts too much, okay?"

As quickly and painlessly as she can – which is not as quickly and painlessly as I would have hoped for – she manoeuvres me out of the shirt, apologising each time I flinch. Once it is removed, I cross my arms across my breasts for modesty, feeling oddly naked despite the fact that it is only Abby here with me. "Thank you."

Abby has other concerns, however. My shoulder is a vivid mix of purple and green, and she bites her lip at the sight, wincing in sympathy. "Maybe you should go to the hospital."

I shake my head – I cannot think of anything worse right now. "I will be fine, Abby. They would only ask me to rest it."

"Then let me wash your hair," she insists, shooing me toward the tub. "You'll just hurt yourself more trying to do it yourself."

My mind stalls between conflicting desires: on the one hand, I want to be left alone to soak, without having to rely on anyone else. On the other, I want all the grime and horror of the past couple of months to be washed away, and that longing overrules my need for independence. "I would appreciate it."

Promising to return once I am settled in the tub, Abby leaves the room, taking my bloodstained, filthy shirt with her. Alone again, I strip off the rest of my clothing and step into the water, some of the tension inside me uncoiling as its warmth envelops my body. I have not properly relaxed since I rejoined Mossad, but this is as close as I am able to get to it right now.

For a few minutes I simply lie there, my eyes closed, breathing in the scented steam of the bathwater. Then I slide down to submerge my head, holding my breath and letting the water cradle my face.

From a dark corner of my brain comes the impulse to breathe in, to draw water into my lungs and finish what Salim could not. I surface with a shudder, and the warm liquid around me ripples with my disgust.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, willing the image away. If I was in my own apartment – which no longer exists – I might entertain the notion further. But I will not commit suicide in Abby's bathtub.

It would be bad manners.

The absurdity of that thought is enough to force a short, bitter laugh from my lips. To worry about manners after the past couple of months' trauma seems ridiculous.

A quiet knock calls me back down to earth, and after checking that there are enough bubbles to adequately cover me, I call, "Come in, Abby."

"How are you feeling?" she asks quietly, sitting on the edge of the tub.

"Better than I have in a while," I admit. It is true, despite the knee-jerk suicidal thoughts that invade my mind. My words are rewarded by a genuine smile. I have missed seeing it, though I had not realised it until now.

She holds up two brands of shampoo. "Orange and vanilla, or green tea and mint?"

I consider for a second. "Orange."

Abby nods as if this was a forgone conclusion, squeezing shampoo out onto her palm and shifting to sit behind me. I draw my knees up to my chest and hold them there, tilting my head back a little as she begins to lather up my hair.

I am unused to allowing anyone this far past my defences, and cannot fully relax, but her touch is gentle and soothing, and after my harsh treatment at Salim's hands it is almost restorative. "Ziva?"

"Hmm?" I tense up a little, waiting for her to demand details of what has passed these last few months.

I do not know if she has noticed the change in my body language, but she backs off. "Never mind. It can wait."

"You are shocked." I make the observation calmly, and her fingers cease massaging shampoo into my scalp.

"Of course I'm shocked. I thought you were… and now you're here, but you're…" I don't need to look up into her face to know her eyes are full of tears. "And I can't even imagine…"

"It is better that you don't, Abby." The words are out of my mouth before I realise it, and I realise that she will now only let her imagination run wilder.

With a deep breath, she begins to rinse the shampoo away, lapsing once more into silence. Once it is gone, she repeats the treatment to remove the remainder of the dust and grease, and I attempt to take her mind off things. "Tell me about the past few months."

"Tony and McGee tried to find a replacement for you, but Gibbs kept scaring them away."

A smile creeps across my face as I imagine that. "Let me guess. Every candidate was a woman."

She brightens a little, a tinge of laughter in her voice as she relates the story of each of my replacements. She has always been an expressive storyteller, and a couple of times she even coaxes a laugh from me. By the time she leaves me to scrub the rest of the desert from my skin, I almost feel human again.

Almost, but not quite. And I know that out in her living room, Abby is allowing her anxieties free rein while she waits for me to emerge from the bathroom. She and Ducky have had time to discuss my condition whilst I was in Vance's office, and the names of several psychological disorders have no doubt come up.

I cannot think about that right now. In the interests of preserving my ability to function, I have reduced my world to simple concepts:

I am not dead.

I am glad to be in the States right now, rather than returned to Israel.

I plan to die.

I must not die while I am Abby's houseguest.

The bathwater is getting cold.

Simple concepts.