Author's Note: It's been a while for this one! I needed the right motivation to write it, and recently, I got it. Nothin' says exorcising personal demons like writing numb!Ziva... XD Thanks for your patience, everyone. I'll try to update quicker next time.

Ziva

When I emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in Abby's fluffy black bathrobe, she has laid out a simple meal on the dining table: fruit and salad, mainly. My stomach rumbles, despite my fatigue.

"Everything here is kosher, right?" she asks anxiously, and I give a hollow nod, wondering how long it has been since I have been in a position to ask myself that question.

"Yes. Thank you, Abby."

We sit together at the table in silence. While I rediscover the flavours and textures of apple, lettuce, cucumber, tomato and raw carrot, Abby picks at her food, taking about as much pleasure in the meal as I do.

It is as I feared. She is imagining too much, and no doubt much of it is accurate. I am still able to feel a little compassion, at least; I try to distract her. "I will need to buy clothing tomorrow. As much as I admire your style, it does not exactly mesh with mine."

Her easy smile reasserts itself, if a little faintly. "If you tell me what size you are, I can go out and get you some stuff," she offers.

"I will come with you," I say, shaking my head. "I think my American bank account is still open – at least, unless my father has closed it."

"Are you sure? I mean, if you wanna catch up on your sleep I don't mind…"

"I need something to occupy me," I reply. "I have been stuck indoors with no company for too long."

I do not add that it is likely that I have dropped a dress size or two since I last bought any clothing. It would only distress her.

"You just don't trust me," she teases, trying to lighten the mood, and I laugh despite myself at the thought.

"I do not think I was made for those tiny skirts you wear."

With every light-hearted word I speak, she relaxes a fraction, reassured by the emergence of my usual personality. She is not fooled; she is perfectly aware that I am at pains to put her at ease, but she chooses not to mention it. And I am glad it is working, at least in part.

It gives me something to focus on.

By the time I have finished my meal, my eyelids are heavy. It is part jetlag, part exhaustion, and although Abby offers dessert and movies as a conclusion to the evening, I decline with an apology.

"Rule number six, Ziva," Abby reproves with a shake of her head. "I get it, really. You should rest."

Don't apologise. It's a sign of weakness. I hear Gibbs' voice in my mind automatically, and a small part of me marvels at the fact that I have been through so much, and yet those rules are still firmly rooted within my subconscious.

It takes a few moments for the irony to strike me; for what am I right now, if not at my weakest? Caught between bitter laughter and tears, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. "If you will not allow me to apologise, then at least accept my thanks. For all of this."

She touches my uninjured shoulder lightly on her way to the kitchen. "Don't mention it. Sleep well."

Since Abby has elected to sleep in her coffin, I am to sleep in her bed; something I objected to, but chose to back down when I glimpsed the steely glint of determination in her eyes. I do not have the strength for arguments tonight.

After an hour's tossing and turning, it becomes apparent that I will get no rest under these circumstances. By now, I am used to sleeping on a thin, dirty pallet on the floor of my cell, with no pillow and only a ragged blanket to cocoon myself in. Abby's bed seems stifling, suffocating; too soft, even after I have kicked away all the bedcovers in frustration.

The only similarity between this sleeping arrangement and the last one is that I am weaponless. Whilst I was in Abby's company, I was distracted by other things, but now that I am alone again, I cannot shake this feeling of utter defencelessness.

Out in the rest of the apartment, I can faintly hear running water – the shower. Abby will be out of sight of the kitchen entryway for long enough for me to locate a knife.

My decision made, I drag myself to my feet and quietly leave Abby's bedroom, passing the closed bathroom door and making it through the living room to my destination. Moving with stealth, I survey the kitchen for potential weapons, discounting a couple of shorter, flimsy-bladed knives before locating a meat cleaver. It would not do as a throwing knife, but if I am attacked at close quarters it is the most effective weapon Abby is likely to own; it is designed specifically for slicing flesh.

The sound of the shower ceases as I contemplate the blade, and like a petty thief, I retreat to Abby's bedroom with my prize. I know she would not be comfortable with allowing me to have a weapon in my current state. She is a civilian, and would not understand.

Then again, despite his military background, I doubt that Gibbs would approve, either. The thought fills me with equal parts defiance and guilt, but I must do what I must in order to rest easy.

Stretching out atop Abby's mattress once more, I twist the knife's hilt in my fingers, getting to know its contours and its weight. It is comforting, but at the same time a memory chills me: the feel of a different blade at my throat, warmed by the Somali climate and stinging just a little as Salim shifted it slightly against my skin.

That was just moments before the gunshot that changed everything.

I am weary to the bone, sick to my stomach, and in mourning for the man whose only act of kindness toward me was to threaten my death. All I want is a few hours of blessed oblivion, and a part of me hopes that I will not wake again. And yet, the simplest of acts – merely falling asleep – is impossible, and that, on top of all I have endured, is a bitter pill to swallow.

Finally, I can take it no more. Pulling the covers off the bed, I spread them on the floor and lie down upon them, folding them over me and drawing myself into a foetal position. The knife, I conceal underneath a corner of the blanket, within easy reach.

Although still slightly more comfortable and far more secure than my vacant cell, thousands of miles away, this feels more familiar than Abby's bed. Within a few minutes, I relax enough to let the fog of sleep steal over me, and accept its embrace gratefully.