Thanks: many

Disclaimer: No.

. . . .

Ziva drifted for days, hauled a few nets, shouldered a few coho. The currents were slow, the water mild, the sky burnished near the Olympic peaks. Occasional west winds would push her into the middle-strait, where she would give a stiff nod to the cargo ships and the occasional grey whale. Once all the way to Lasqueti Island, where a white man in a faded pink coat came out of a floating cabin and gave her smoked salmon on a hard roll and a cup of strong black coffee.

"Ziva," he said.

"What," she replied.

"Better tie off here if you won't want to ride the Westerlies to Halfmoon Bay."

She looked around. Her mouth was dry from the bread and tasted metallic. What was in Halfmoon Bay?

"No one there once the weather turns."

But she had no anchor lines, no dock lines, no mooring ball. The food made her stomach cramp. Her skin rippled. "I should go."

He nodded. The breeze pushed his pink collar against his leathery neck. "A'ight."

She let go of the platform, pull-started the outboard. He nodded, crossed his arms.

"Ziva."

"What?"

"Ziva?"

"Ziva."

She looked up, squinting. The sun was so hot. "What?"

"How are you doing?"

She flexed her fingers. Not one tether. "Fine?"

"Was that a question?"

Yes. No. "No."

Schmiel sighed from the other side of the world. "My Ziva. How often is this happening?"

She chewed her bottom lip. "What do you mean?"

"This disassociation. How often? Once a day? Twice? More?"

The truth was heavy. "Yes."

"How is your temper?"

She almost smirked. "The drugs keep me under control."

He heard it. He always heard it. "It is not about controlling you, my Ziva. The medication is to lower your anxiety so you can function. Speaking of—you are recovering?"

"Yes."

"No more nurse or attendant?"

Quiet, quiet. "No."

"You are spending the days alone?"

Why was she crying? "Tony comes in the evening."

Schmiel was quiet for a long time. "I am glad you called me."

She inhaled, exhaled. "I have an appointment for an eye exam tomorrow. If I pass the vision test, then I can go back to work part-time."

"Not in the field, I hope."

A flicker of irritation. "I have to requalify on my weapon before Gibbs will allow it."

More quiet. Not the trees. Not the fountain. Hardly the sound of her own breathing.

"I have asked Tony not to return my other weapons," she admitted finally. "I do not think it is appropriate for me to have them."

Yet.

"I do not want to be a danger, Schmiel. I do not want my friends to fear me."

She could feel him nodding, leaning back in his desk chair. "And you need weapons to maim someone, Ziva?"

Yes. No.

"The risk is lower. And…I am still recovering."

"You sound weak still."

That precious match-strike of anger. "I am improving. It takes time."

"Patience is not your strength."

She snorted. "What choice do I have?"

"None, my Ziva, but you will soon. Will you call me again?"

She sniffed, insulted. "Of course."

"How about Sunday morning for you? You can ring me at home. We can have a coffee together."

That sounded…nice, actually. "All right."

"And do some reading in the meantime. I've sent you a few books. They should arrive tomorrow morning. Start one, and we will discuss it."

She nodded as though he could see it. "There is no way to fix this."

"No, my Ziva. You must make your own closure. You must find your own acceptance."

She was crying again. Crying always. "There are so many still suffering. How can I accept that?"

"You can only heal yourself."

Ziva stilled, felt her hand on the phone on her ear, the sofa beneath her. She was in pajamas still, at noon. Or after. The sun was high, the shades open just enough. "I should go. Thank you, Schmiel."

"Do not thank me."

"Th—"

"Shh."

She smiled, despite the lingering ache in her chest, despite the odd, jangling pain between her eyes. The tender skin over the bridge of her nose, the sticky spots still on her cheeks. "I will talk to you on Sunday."

"Yes."

"Goodbye, Schmiel."

"Shalom, my Ziva."

She ended the call, crying again, held in the cradle of a longing so deep that it threatened to close over her. She gasped. Her vision flashed grey with churning storm waves.

Ziva reached for the tiny white inhaler on the table and used it once, twice. She stopped drowning and studied it. Plastic no bigger than her palm, the tiny canister of albuterol.

Was that it?

She got up. The ache in her chest fell into her hips and knees. She had been too sedentary, too still.

She would take a walk. Put on shoes, sunglasses, grab a few dollars just in case. She could walk to a coffee shop, order an iced tea. Yes.

Yes.

She dressed. Found comfortable sandals, tied back her hair, pocketed her keys, put her hand on the deadbolt.

Unlocked. Opened.

And Gibbs was on the other side. "Ziver."

She gaped, heart galloping. "What are you doing here?"

"Talked to Matt Brown, the the coron—"

"Yes," she clipped, angry at him. "I know who he is."

Gibbs stared at her. Waited her out.

The rage fizzled. "What did he tell you?"

"ID'ed more bodies. Probably wanted you to know. Acted surprised when you weren't in the office."

She turned slightly, one shoulder coming up. "You could have just called."

"Wanted to check in."

"I was about to take a walk."

He had a folder under his arm. Of course. "So let's walk."

She fell into step beside him, out the door, onto the bright summer street. Cars parked at the curb. Children rode bicycles down the block. Somewhere a dog barked as though greeting them.

They walked. The hot sidewalk burned through her sandals. "I want an extra one in my desk." His voice was deep. Booming.

She slowed. "What?"

"Inhaler. I want one in my desk. I don't want any bull about you forgetting it."

Un-fired.

"I did not," she ventured, hesitant. "I did not think I was welcome back."

He walked on. " Ain't getting your knives back for a while."

She caught up. "You are not responsible for me."

Gibbs swung around so fast. Spry. Sharp. "You on my team? Then I'm on your ass. End of story."

He walked again. She stalled, breathing hard. A tiny warmth started between her ribs. It was almost pleasant. She trotted to catch up. "There will be consequences for my actions against Agent Hafford."

He held the coffee shop door for her. "Damn right."

She stepped past him. The conditioned air was easier to breathe. "What can I expect?" He ordered coffee for him, iced tea for her. She bristled. "I could have ordered my own beverage."

"You get six months at a desk, regular reports from the shrink, and med management. Talked 'em out of Anger Management."

She blinked. "Why?"

"You know why."

She studied the ice melting in her glass. Yes. No. "I have been better able to control my temper since starting the medication."

He nodded.

"I have been meeting my therapy goals."

More nodding.

"Do you think it would be appropriate for me to come back a few hours per week?"

"Two mornings," he agreed. "Eight to noon. You check in and out with me."

She nodded, feeling a blush creep into her face. "I do my nebulizer treatment at 1000."

"With Duck." His gaze turned soft. "Missed you, Ziver."

Missed.

You.

She frowned. "Pardon?"

"Missed you. It's too quiet."

Quiet, quiet.

Her drink was mostly water. "I did not realize—"

"Been worried about ya."

The flush feeling again. She could not look at him. "Thank you."

"We don't wanna lose you. I don't wanna lose you, Ziver."

Her lip trembled. One tear fell. Another. A third. She tented her hand across her brow, humiliated. Crying. Again.

This was her boss.

And apologies were off-limits.

He touched her hand. "Hey."

She tried, failed, to get herself under control.

"Look at me, Ziver."

She looked up, hating herself. Hating him. Not-hating him.

"You gotta get through it, Ziver."

She sniffed, eventually nodded.

She hated herself.

She hated him.

"How," she began, and stopped to swallow. "How can you sit here and look at me like that? How—"

"I'm really damned glad I can sit here and look at you."

"It may not be perfect American justice, but I did—"

"The hell you did!"

The coffee shop stilled. Ziva froze, skin rippling.

He was not finished. "You don't get to risk your life like that. Not on my watch."

Her breath came faster. She scanned the store for a weapon.

There was a knife somewhere.

"If one more woman would have died—"

"Your life ain't worth less than theirs, Ziver."

She stiffened, furious, stiff-lipped. "But it is not worth more."

"To me it is."

A door slammed. A barista steamed milk. Ziva sat, breathing hard, staring at his hand still on hers. Everything hurt.

"I need to go home."

Then Gibbs was standing, levering her out of her chair. He posted her up the whole way. Shortened his stride. Tipped his head closer to hers.

Was he really so tall?

Yes. No.

Then he was lowering her to the sofa, tossing her inhaler in her lap. "How many times a day you use that thing, Ziver?"

Five. Ten. A hundred. She shrugged. "I do not count."

He nodded. "I gotta get back. Team's waiting."

She hung her head. Sweat dried on the back of her neck. Her hair had come loose.

"You, too. Monday. 0800."

"Yes, Gibbs."

She got up to let him out, but he waved her down. "Don't bother. Got DiNozzo's key." He slapped the folder down. "Might wanna have a look at this."

"Yes, Gibbs."

He paused, back to her, door ajar. "Glad you're doing better, Ziver."

"Gibbs, Tony and I—"

"Are gonna keep it out of the office."

"Yes."

"Monday."

"Monday," she echoed.

He left. She sighed.

In the quiet, quiet.

The sun shifted. Ziva remained on the sofa, waiting, drifting.

Tony would come.

She picked up the folder. The first page was a list of names:

Georgina, Andrea, Angela, Heather, Sharon, Marnie, Olivia, Monica, Brenda, Sheila.

All identified by bone fragments. After, they'd found Heather's inhaler under a pile of rags.

The second page was an autopsy report. Mostly redacted.

Name: Unknown.

Sex: Female.

Age: 19-25 (approx.)

Rigor: absent

Height: 165cm

Weight: 56kg

Eyes: brown

Hair: dark brown/black

Clothing: none

Significant Medical History: Unknown

Dental records: not found

Distinguishing marks: birthmark right up. thigh, birthmark right upper arm. Skin/venous damage/deformity of inner elbow.

Body consistent with white female of normal development. No indication of genetic abnormality. No preliminary indication of disease or injury.

Ziva's heart thumped Em-ma, Em-ma, Em-ma.

Genitals bruised. Seminal fluid present. Sent to Samples sent to LabCorps.

She coughed, throat burning.

Bruising on inner thighs (bilat.). Bruising on lower abdomen. Bruising on greater trochanters (bilat.). Tearing of vaginal tissues consistent with forcible rape.

She closed the folder with shaking hands. Did she need to read this?

Yes. No.

Iced tea sloshed in her cold stomach. She closed her eyes, leaned back, sighed.

A dorsal fin breaking water. Cold green sea, green islands, green forest.

She sat up only when she could dial her phone with steady hands. One ring and then Yeah, Gibbs.

"Why did you bring this report?"

"Thought you'd wanna see it."

She balled her free hand. "I did not."

"DNA came back. It's not Emma."

Ziva closed her eyes, sighed. Meredith at PEERS had not made a file for Emma. "There are how many bodies to identify? Fifty? A hundred? You're going to tell me that this one is somehow more important than the others?"

He was silent. Waiting her out.

Ziva's vision flashed grey and red. She inhaled, exhaled.

One more dive. One more streak of silver in the cold, green sea.

"I'll see you Monday, Ziver."

She swallowed. "Yes, Gibbs."

She placed the phone on the table and got up, went to the sink, drank a glass of water. Refilled it, drank another. Another. Another. She drank until her stomach was tight and her legs wobbly. She drank until her eyes stopped burning.

She sat back down. The afternoon was stretching, stretching.

Tony would come.

Ziva picked up the folder, put it down.

Her own closure.

She went to the bedroom, climbed up on the mattress, peeled the slip of paper from the back of her orca.

Blackfish.

A 416 area code. Bell Canada. Toronto.

Ziva dialed slowly, deliberately. One ring, two, three.

She could hang up. Mothers of missing persons got hang-up calls all the time.

Yes. No.

"Hello?"

Ziva inhaled. A knifepoint grazed her ribs.

"Hello?" the voice tried again.

"Hello," she said tightly. "My name is Ziva David. I am a US federal agent—"

"The American woman," the voice said. Soft, breathy. "I saw you on the news."

"Yes, I am calling to let you know that Emma has not been found among the deceased on William Atherton's property on Vancouver Island."

"Oh, I know."

She knew.

She knew.

"My name is Rochelle," she continued. "I am Emma's mother."

Ziva breathed, held back tears. "Yes. I—" She floundered. Was that all? "I wanted to update you on the case. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Coffman."

"Thank you, Agent David."

She hiccupped, shaking, nauseated. "I did not—"

Rochelle cut her off. "You showed this country that my daughter mattered. That all those women mattered."

Everything was tight, quaking. "I am sorry I do not have more information about your daughter."

"Thank you, Agent David."

Ziva shook harder, freezing and burning. Her eyes were hot. "I am sorry."

"Don't apologize." Rochelle's voice was so gentle. "I know you did everything you could. I can't tell you how much that means to me."

She studied her hands. "The Mounties will keep you posted as the case progresses, Mrs. Coffman. Thank you for your time."

"I have been working with a private investigator. May I call you if I find anything on my own?"

She took a shuddery breath. "Yes."

Please.

"And please reach out should you need anything, Agent David."

Reach.

Out.

"Yes." No. "Thank you."

"I hope to hear from you again."

She had to get off the phone before she broke. "Yes, thank you."

Ziva hung up, gasping, gagging. Her tears were hot and gritty, her face rubbed raw on the pillows.

The front door opened, closed. The deadbolt slid home. "Ziva?"

Tony had come.

"In here," she rasped. Her throat was tender. Her belly, her lungs.

He padded in with no shoes. "Hey."

"Hi," she managed.

He eyed the slip of paper in her hand, the phone beside her on the bed. "You called."

So many calls. "Yes."

"And?"

"Why was she not angry?"

He sat in the hollow between her chest and knees. "Everyone deals differently."

Quiet, quiet.

She blinked. "Can you take me to the eye doctor tomorrow?"

Tony rubbed her back in slow, even circles. "Absolutely."

Ziva scowled; he sounded too hopeful. "Emma's mother knew."

"Good."

Was it? "She hired a PI."

"She has resources."

"And what will that get her, Tony?"

His hand stilled. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. At least she's trying."

"And other families are not?"

"I'm sure they would if they could."

Her eyes felt too big for their sockets. "Poverty is rampant on the reserves so many of them came from. I doubt—"

"It isn't fair."

She was so, so tired. "Everything comes with too high a price."

He tucked his hand in hers. "I know."

"All the money, the equipment, the man-hours…and what will it do? There is always another predator. There are always more vulnerable women."

Tony let out a long breath. "I think the greatest victory is to live your life, Ziva."

Her life.

"I am going back to work on Monday."

She felt his whole body smile. "Great."

"Gibbs is still angry at me."

"How many times have we almost lost you?"

Five. Ten. A hundred. "I doubt he will let me leave the Navy Yard ever again."

"You're a good investigator." He put his hand on her cheek. "Among many, many other things. This came for you."

He put a padded envelope on the night table. It had a par avion address label.

Schmiel. Her books.

"Thank you."

"You need to sleep?"

Did she? "No. I would like…"

To do what?

"To…I do not know, but I am tired of this."

"You're still—"

She clenched. Yes. No. "Recovering."

Tony hummed. Crickets chirped.

Recovering.

"I took so much."

"Huh?"

She closed her eyes, saw flashes of red and blue. "My recovery. VicPD, RCMP, the hospital…our airfare. Tremendous cost."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does."

More lights. More colors. Someone urging her to lie down.

He stuck me.

The nurse: you're in soft restraints.

She gripped Tony's hand. "I would like to give something back."

His face was so handsome, so gentle in the lamplight. "You almost gave your life, Ziva. Isn't that enough?"

Yes. No. "Is there something they need at PEERS? Something I can donate?"

He kissed her knuckles, smiling slightly. "I bet we can check the website. If not, we can call. It's not too late on the West Coast."

Too late. Not too late. Should she wait until after midnight to speak to Meredith?

Silver-grey-green. Moss under her shoes. Moss on the bricks she leaned against. The smell of low tide—

Leering, grinning Bobby. His greasy hair. His wheezing laughter.

Ziva sat up, breathing hard. Everything in sharp focus: her bedroom, her window, the trees outside. Her perfect green courtyard.

She looked at Tony. "Let's go outside."

Tony nodded.

They sat at a picnic table. Fireflies blinked above the grass. There was a breeze, a car door opening and closing, the engine starting and driving away. The sky was clear and blue-black.

Normal.

Nice.

"We are living," she blurted.

Tony laughed a low, gentle laugh. "Yeah."

"That is all that can be expected of us."

He nuzzled her hair, her ear. "Yeah."

A woman on the fourth floor opened her kitchen window. Out wafted the smell of frying onions and garlic, the clatter of dishes, low voices.

Ziva smiled a tiny, tight smile. "That is all I want, Tony."

He put his arm around her. "Me, too."

They were together at the bottom of the world's blue bowl. Water and sky. They circled, blackfish in the distance, salmon running in the depths. Their sides touching, her body sharing space with his.

They were living.

Whether they meant to or not.

. . . .