"A long long time ago, I can still remember how that music…used to make me smile," sang Tony, his soft voice floating between the concrete walls and over their little prison cell.

Little prison cell. That almost made it sound amusing.

(Nope.)

"And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those…people dance, and maybe they'd be happy…for awhile."

Was it working? Was he annoying her yet?

"But February made me shiver, with every paper I'd de-liver. Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take…one more step."

She glared at him, finally conceding a response, her dark eyes fixed on his one-man show from across the short distance of floor that separated them. The swollen bruise surrounding the cut on her cheek made the look far less intimidating than she'd intended.

"I can't remember if I cried when I…read about his widowed bride. But something touched me deeeeep inside, the day, the muuuusic…died."

He doubted that any guards waiting outside the door would appreciate his impromptu concert, but after two days without any contact, he kind of hoped they did hear him. Plus, he'd already earned his desired response from Ziva, so he assumed he may as well go the extra mile.

He raised his voice a little higher and pretended not to notice her death glares.

"So bye bye, Miss American P—"

"Would you please stop singing? You are giving me a headache," she snapped quickly, pinching the bridge of her noise and leaning her head back against the wall.

Ah, there it was. Proof that she hadn't clocked out on him yet. And he had his doubts about his singing being the only thing responsible for her headache.

"It's a classic American song, Ziva. I can't help it."

"I am not American," she replied matter-of-factly, her head still resting against the wall.

"I'm aware…" muttered Tony, dropping his voice and going back to sitting idly against his claimed section of the wall. Besides singing, and talking to Ziva, it was just about all he could do. And his time-wasting served as a nice distraction from his internal conflict about actually talking to her.

He wanted to talk to her, because his curiosity and the gravity of the past few weeks had him feeling uncertain and vague about everything that had happened up until this point. He wanted to know what she was planning, or if she was at all, or if there was something he should have done already. And he wanted to know if this was somehow connected to the way she had been so viciously cleaning her knife just hours earlier.

No. Not hours – days. Fuck.

And yet he didn't want to have that conversation, because it scared him more than he could vocalize.

How was this supposed to go? It was impossible to bring it up casually, as the topic he wanted to discuss was far from casual and he knew that the emotional wound had torn her apart. He couldn't just ask her– the question would be awkward and tense. And he couldn't start a different conversation and 'accidentally' lead her down that path; she would never fall for it. He wanted to respect her decision not to talk about it, but he also just wanted to know.

He didn't even realize he was staring at her until her tired voice cut through the silence.

"If you are going to say something, please just say it."

He felt like McGee every time he got caught stumbling over his thoughts. And he wondered how she knew he was looking at her, but there wasn't much else to look at, so maybe it wasn't that lucky of a guess.

He cleared his throat and pretended he hadn't been staring.

"Just…you never said what happened to Tali," he said quietly, trying to soften the veiled accusation he did not want to infer.

Her eyes snapped open and she quickly brought her head forward, meeting his pensive gaze with a questioning look of her own. It was hard not to see the sincerity on his face.

"She is dead," she replied, her voice hollow and unfeeling.

"I know that."

Or, he had guessed. He had tried not to pry, again out of respect, and because it was too soon, so he had stayed silent and allowed her to keep her distance.

But now they were alone. It was harder to stay distant.

"What happened?"

Again with the blank stare, but she was met only with careful affection. With honesty. It surprised her enough to answer.

"I have other contacts in the CIA that Kadin does not. It cost me a lot of time, but I gained access to a list of abandoned or suspect establishments within a fifty mile radius. I used what Kadin had already told me about her operation to eliminate about half of them. I wasted many hours breaking into these places, but I found her."

For the second time since landing here, he felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

Found her? Did he really want to know what that meant?

(Yes.)

"I do not know how long they tortured her. When I got there, she only lasted a few minutes," finished Ziva, voice heavy as her eyes dropped to the floor.

"Where were they keeping her?" he asked quickly, the conclusions and the theories forming in his mind before he could catch up.

"Somewhere miles away from the city. It was once a gas station."

"Do you think maybe, we're being held by the same guys?" he wondered, getting hopeful despite their situation.

Her brow furrowed in disgust, poorly concealing her misdirected anger.

"Those men are dead," she spat, entire body tensed. "I killed them."

And then, as her features blended between dark and beautiful, as elusive power, he was gripped with an estranged helplessness.

"Would it have mattered?" he asked, releasing a low breath. "If I had been there?"

"No."

(Yes.)

"Why?"

He, she was glad to note, had at least retained some measure of defiance.

"It was not something I wanted you to see."

She looked to be on the verge of tears, and he wondered if he pushed too far, suddenly ashamed. He did not wholly meet her eye when he spoke again, and he failed to mask the fear that threatened.

"What did you do?"

But her voice did not break as he thought it might.

"I lost control."

(And here they were.)

Time passed more slowly than even he imagined.

It had been hours, certainly, since two men had brought them each water. Brought being the kind version, as he did not want to dwell on how they held open his jaw and shoved it down his throat, or how they spit into Ziva's and forced her to drink it anyway, laughing.

She'd been silent since then. However long ago it was.

Now, she was sleeping, or resting, or pretending to sleep. He knew he hadn't truly slept more than a few minutes since they were brought here, which made her achievement all the more impressive, given the circumstances.

As if sensing his gaze, she stirred slightly, attention drawn to the door. He followed her line of vision just as it suddenly unbolted, swinging forward and slamming against the wall. He jumped, feeling idiotic.

He glimpsed his partner's glare – she had not been startled, at least – before his view was blocked by several men marching into the room. Four of them this time. Each one with short dark hair – except the guy with the ponytail – and tanned skin, none of them carrying water or food.

A familiar knot twisted deep within Tony's stomach.

The fuck did they need four men for?

Ponytail said something to one of his companions, and two of them reached down and roughly heaved Ziva up by her shoulders.

"Hey!" yelled Tony in protest, trying to stand up. He barely made it a few inches before a boot made contact with his chest, pushing him back down.

Any further movement was quelled by two different barrels pointed directly at his head. Spurred on by watching him get manhandled, Ziva lashed out, swinging a foot into the groin of the closest man.

Tony heard the sickening dull crack before he registered the fist moving, her head thrown backwards with the force of the punch. She slid downwards, dazed, but the men holding her tightened their grip to keep her from hitting the floor. When she managed to right herself, some of the blood flowing freely from her nose fell in tiny droplets near Tony's outstretched feet.

He could not help the instinctive recoil, disgusted, terrified.

More yelling – jeering – and suddenly they were gone. They'd ripped her right away from him.

And he'd just watched.

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