Oh, there will be hell to pay, ass to kiss, and apologies to spit. There will probably be stony and incredulous sessions in MTAC, a spoilt and helpless old man who can't quite understand how he didn't receive what he asked for. His daughter, home, on a plate.

There will be choices to be made.

She goes home with him that night.

Her apartment is out of the question. It simply does not exist. Quite frankly put, she has nothing material left in the world. And yet, strangely, it touches her very little. The journey back to NCIS, back home (and how sweetly the word is repeated in the downy secrecy of her quiet mind) is blurry and distorted, almost surreal. She remembers laughing, without thought, at Vance's surprised and furious face. She even makes a comment about feeling sorry for his toothpicks that evening.

And they laugh.

And suddenly, she cries.

And then they know that it's not ok, it's not, and it's not going to be quick either. It is going to be brutal.

So he takes her home.

It is almost eight o'clock by the time he switches the light on in his apartment, and for a second he is ashamed of it. When he left, he had been falling asleep in front of the television every night. He did not bother to open his curtains, or wash up after cooking. Plates, clothes, film cases were strewn across the floor, and more than one empty and discarded alcohol bottles were scattered drunkenly around them. There is a blanket, crumpled and stale, across the back of the couch.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess, I hadn't been living so well for a while..."

She turns to him, drops her bag full of stolen medication and welcome-home presents to the floorboards and smirks.

"You mean, missing your five AM runs and cold winter showers, or a bit more than that?"

And he bites back the urge to say It's because of you because it's true, and she won't know what to do with it.

He makes a meal, pasta, and they eat it in silence. It is a comfortable and wary silence, and they smile through it. She winces with each swallow, and Tony is terrified each time. She is vulnerable and wounded, and he doesn't know how much so.

After dinner, he surveys his home – his home ­– and gives up. Laughs. And she comes and stands with him and laughs too, but softer and sadder. She touches him in a way that he is not used to. Not from her.

And they break apart and she stands, shorn and bruised, and smirks still. He thinks she is beautiful, and the words are in his mouth before he can rationalise them. He almost lets them out, lets them escape, but bites them back at the last minute.

And the taste of the words in his mouth, instead of in the air surrounding them, in her ears and on her skin...

It tastes like poison.

They tidy. Even though he protests, she gives him an eyebrow raise and he visibly withers. There is soap and water and bin-bags and air freshener and polish. It doesn't take long; much of the damage is purely superficial. And he watches her, bent over the floor, sees the white knobs of her spine through skin that has endured so much.

He tries to protect her as best he can. He knows, in a way, it will never be enough. But he also knows – with far more certainty – that he will never stop trying.

Quickly – unexpectedly – it is finished. They sit, awkward and suddenly shy, next to each other on the freshly cleaned sofa. Bookends. She looks drained, but refuses to acknowledge it. And Tony knows, in a smiling and bitter sort of way, that it is better than she tires herself cleaning, because it does not involve guns. Not even when Ziva does it.

And she will always outstrip herself.

He opens his mouth to speak and realises that there is nothing to say – or rather, nothing that he can verbalise. Before he knows it, he is crying, and it is her – the wounded, the raped, the oh-so-nearly broken – that is holding him, comforting him. Words, silly little things, words like God, Ziva, I was so – I didn't know what to think, I kept calling and you – you – never – oh God, I'm so glad – what could have happened – I didn't know.

And that little voice in his head whispers: And you still don't. Do you? Do you.

Third chapter as promised in several review replies - and I'm keeping that promise too. Enjoy, review and have a nice day :) I am. The sun is shining, and Tiva-tension is growing ever-more-palpable. There's actually going to be some proper, non-frustrately ambigious Tiva-talk next chapter too :)

(I love hyphenating Tiva with words beginning with T. Noticed?)