The sheets on the bed are tight and white. Cotton, harsh and starched under her hesitant palms. She spreads her fingers wide until the knuckles and tendons strain against the papery skin. She is awake, and extraordinarily tired.

"Tony...Tony."

A man with fair hair and crinkly eyes looks up from a clipboard and smiles quickly. "It's good to see you, Miss David."

"Tony." Her voice cracks and wavers, hopelessly unsure. It would break your heart. The good doctor puts down the paperwork, comes and stands close to her, checks some needles and drips and monitors and statistics. "Tony, I presume, is Mr DiNozzo?"

"Tony." She does not understand what he is saying, does not want it. Her only hope lies in the aching repetition of the name she once knew. She clings to it, desperate, like a child with a doll. Like a rosary.

"Would you like me to bring Mr DiNozzo here to see you?"

"No!" The words tear themselves from her throat like frightened birds fleeing from a nest. Burning. The man looks startled and places a cool hand on her arm. "Alright, Miss David. Just calm down. Stay calm. Can you take a deep breath for me? I'm not going to do anything you don't want. If you don't want to see anyone, that's fine. Alright?"

She nods, eyes wide and filled with a desperate trust. So like a child.

"OK," he says, and smiles once more. The cotton hugs her, snug and unrelenting. She feels her lids begin to gather weight, to fall. Drop like a stone in a pond. She flickers, eyes wide once again, and sees the man with the cup of coffee and the silvery hair, with the hard blue eyes and the mouth that kisses a goodbye to break your heart. Take care of yourself.

She gasps, heaves for breath, draws in and starts to panic once more. Nurses flock. She cries out against the tide, against the many hands and beeping machines and blank eyed uniforms. A needle slips into her arm. She flinches and it stings.

"No, no, please, no, please, Tony, Tony..."

And the man with the grey hair does not sip.

The next time she wakes, it is night. The light comes from cold and yet comforting overheads, and the sky is a rich and molten black outside her window. She turns over. Her head feels thick and filled with dust. Junk. She glances at the plate glass and sees him, standing there.

Hazel eyes and honey hair. No smile. There is dusky shadow on his jawbone. He clenches. She meets his eyes, pools them there, languid and bruised. A blank and submissive resignation. It breaks him. He mouths a word. Ziva.

Scenes flicker before her, distorted and somehow grotesque with the speed. A kiss, a writhe, hot sheets and hotter skin. Back to back, blam blam blam. 'Not worth dying for', she laughs, and saves his life with the casual clipping of a wire. He loved her, then. He thought she was beautiful, deadly and powerful, proud.

Proud. A gun, some glass and a dead love of your life is all it takes for her to slip out of you, hating you and crying for you as you fly with her far, far behind. Smash into the concrete. Press a gun to his chest, his leg. Shoot him, anywhere but here. Not in his heart.

"Tony."

He blinks, hesitant and unsure in her presence. She tries to move but winces instead, and, he is instantly through the door. As soon as it clicks softly to behind him, he is trapped, and a child again.

"Ziva."

"Tony."

The silence stretches, wavers, bends in the middle with the weight of unsaid words and breaks like a skein of molten silver. He tries to catch it, but it pools, deep and malevolent, at his feet. Stares down at it and breaks instead.

She gazes at him without emotion. Something deep inside her clicks, shutters up. She watches him breathe.

"Thank you for rescuing me." It is like a slap in the face, and it resonates in the room in much the same way. It could bring tears to his eyes.

"Ziva..."

"You've already said that."

A snarl, desperate and primal, rises in his throat. It is enough to strip her bare. Behind the bruises and the blank eyes, she is terrified and young. Intensely vulnerable, and it frees his voice.

"Oh, god, Ziva, I'm so sorry for everything". His voice is hoarse. Desperate to be understood. To be heard. She gazes fiercely into his eyes and sees it pool. It does not congeal.

"I'm sorry too."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I killed him, and then I left you. And you ... they ... look at what they did. Oh, god, Ziva, I'm sorry."

She glances at the glass of water beside her. He jumps across the room and hold it up. The liquid trembles.

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

Molten glass in his hand. Twinkles and slips, bubbles, over itself. Water. She is mesmerised.

"Ziva."

She reaches, uncertain, and touches his hand. Feels the pulse flicker, just over his thumb. Rubs small smiling circles over warm skin, golden skin. Honey, sweet and clear. Tony. Sweet and clear. Alive alive-oh. Thinks of summer and his rich dirty laughter and how to her they sparked the same feelings, the same hope and love. She gazes deep into his eyes, unsure beams of dark and bewitching light that threaten to spill over into panic and tears. He makes noises, calming, soothing, shushing noises. She begins to sob, like a child, high and vulnerable and sweet. He holds her, and does not let go.

When the man with hard blue eyes and the sorrow-stained heart returns with another Styrofoam cup, he sees the couple sleeping on the bed. She is broken and fragile, a curled and slumbering baby bird encased in the tight embrace of a man with hazel eyes and a fresh new hope. Sweet and golden and clear.

And the man with the silver hair sips and smiles.

Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, they are all really helpful and encouraging and they ALL make me smile ... and thank you, also, for all your 'good luck's for my history exam! It went really well (I hope!) and now I only have one more left, which is next Monday, so I have plenty of time to be writing a lot more...so yays all round, I think.

As always, I adore reviews almost as much as I adore Tiva :)