For LittleSammy's prompt: I think, therefore I am in trouble.

Not necessarily a direct descendant of the first chapter. Not necessarily in the same universe. But connected, s all things are, by a theory...

Subject Reflux

Second Verse

The answer, in its one-word simplicity, covers all the mandatory bases that he could possible establish at such a ridiculous hour. Of course, he takes the contrary position out of what she can only label misguided malice. Her reply is summarily dismissed. Like her notion that being in bed, naked and sated, is a clear announcement of a future agenda. Namely sleep.

"Not good enough."

Ziva's groan should be taken as a precursor to death. Eyes are sealed shut with the residue of exhaustion or she'd have glared him into the next dimension.

"Lets say A kills B," Tony explains in a voice lending too much passion to a post-midnight hypothetical "Ask A why and he says, 'because.' You're satisfied with that?"

"At 2 am? Yes."

"So, to clarify, you're fine with because as an answer to life's most crucial questions."

"I am, in fact, planning my defense around it when I kill you."

And when the court details how her lover was debating age old unknowables in the dead of night, she'll be exonerated.

The pillow is cool on her cheek and she presses closer, breathing into fabric softener and the overlay of activities from hours ago. At least it had tired one of them out. The other is wrought with insomnia, a common nuisance that brings nothing to their relationship besides probable cause.

The issue of humanity's purpose, the why-are-we-here and how-can-we-know conundrum, isn't enough for Tony tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever. No, he's adding variations on afterlife inconsequentials to his list...

Are there quotas on good deeds? Does Heaven run instructional seminars on harp playing? Is the line at the pearly gate run like the DMV? Will there be You Are Here directories?

But as the crickets moan for his noise, it always comes back to why people exist. He doesn't appreciate her lack of nocturnal interest in the Grand Plan. He doesn't appreciate that five am approaches with the speed of oncoming traffic. The pillow doesn't quite muffle her version of primal scream therapy.

"Can you reschedule your mid-life crisis for noon?"

"It's not a midlife crisis."

By his uneasy chuckle, she's just handed him something knew to worry about. With one eye cracked open, Ziva watches a distorted shadow cross over the bedspread as he wanders from window to window. Thinking in a way that's outlawed in civilized regions. Dictators use this sort of free-form, leapfrog logic to sprinkle wars into the commoner's recipe.

"Then what is it?"

The answer is no mystery, but if he's determined to keep her up, he should have the courtesy to speak the words. And it's only because she has arrived at a place where vocalization matters that he finally shuts up. Men possess all the convenience of poison ivy.

Ziva wants to remind him that nothing is as futile as an inner debate. He'll never win a battle where the opponent doesn't fight fair and who plays dirtier than one's own conscience? That he gets like this at times, introspective in safe privacy, is no surprise. The job calls for both the gravity and levity. They each fall victim to fruitless questions but she leaves such epic deliberations for daylight, when answers can't dart so quickly behind the apron of shielding night.

The trouble with charmers is their capacity for the right words or at least inappropriate ones that smash through melancholy. But she lacks a nurturing vocabulary at any time of day. And so she'll resort to huffed commands peppered with exasperation since their efficacy has been repeatedly proven.

"Come to bed."

He's rubbing at his forearms now and for this she'll silently rise, tracking the movement of involuntary fingers. There will be a sensation of phantom glass pelting his flesh, the heat scalding his skin. It's been six days and time's purported healing factor is a lie.

Evolution is the process of questioning what is not understood and then flogging oneself for taking too long to grasp it. However imaginary the cat o'nine, his hold on the implement is tight. But she prefers his flesh intact.

The floor is chilled where he hasn't worn a rut into it. Years, months, even weeks ago she'd have let this go. Back when they never got things right. But her hands will reach for him, turn him and fold around him. And he will accept it faster than the platitudes she spills into the deep.

"She should have survived, but she didn't. And sometimes the only reason is because."

"Should've been faster, should've heard her before..."

And when the guilt sucks his words dry, there is only breathing left. Ziva's inhalations still taste like smoke and she thinks maybe he's still exhaling it. Overwhelming, the noxious damnation that is fire's scent and the little girl's blood had hung like vile seasoning just below, the barest note on the palate. Tony had pulled her out and she'd clung to him and life with a child's confidence that the promises of adults are sacred and sure. Until today, when her tiny fingers finally released the thin cord.

Her rescuer won't be satisfied with because. No one mourns as thoroughly as a good man.

However poor a substitute, Ziva presses consolidation into his shoulder in the form of words he can't translate. The why's of old Hebrew proverbs, hollowness to explain it all away. Give him this offering because sometimes pandering kindness does more than well-placed jest.

What is a midlife crisis if not the moment when the naive mind catches up with unrepentant reality?

"It's just..." then he gathers himself up, dust in the pan to be cast aside. "No, you're right."

Resignation is carried to the mattress, deposited onto its overpriced softness and he'll let it lie there since they don't do heartfelt without arm-twisting. He tightens the bolts on his mouth, which answers her earlier craving. But the shut-off valve for his brain has been rusted into an open position. Hearing someone thinking is fairly grating.

"Don't do that," she warns, though it renounces coveted sleep. "Finish what you start."

In the wait, she will fluff her pillow, smooth the sheet and plop down beside him. She could touch him, could let fingers scratch holes in his tenseness until it relents. Or let their world lapse into the kind of silence that breeds rewarding slumber. She does none and perhaps he appreciates it.

"I got the final report today," he says. "Accidental fire. Some retiree fell asleep smoking."

"And he gets to continue an already long life while she doesn't."

"Exactly."

"Then I lament his curse. To live under the weight of such a mistake and despite the wisdom of years, never be able to fix it."

Apparently, dead tired is the state under which she works best. Something slides into place for him with a nearly deafening click. More reason to ponder, to search the ceiling for infinitives. But at least he'll do it quietly now.

"So, why are we here?"

It's no longer about the fading hourglass or human origin or even a dead child. This is about her arrival in his bed without invitation, without deception and quite honestly without a plan beyond sex and sleep in no special order. On that scale, she's hitting fifty percent. So she'll yawn her reply.

"Because."

And it's finally good enough.