Disclaimer: What I love most about this show is the father/daughter dynamic between Gibbs and Ziva, their heart-warming interaction and the beauty of subtleness of it. This oneshot has been in my mind for a while, and now I decide to give it a try. English is not my first language. Therefore, in spite of my desperate effort, there must be some kind of linguistic flaw in this story. Forgive me for making them.
I don't own any of this great show.
She woke up to the buzzes of bees it late summer. Broiling and bright, she could literally feel the sunshine tickling her face. There was something unforgivingly dry and tickle in her nostril. She suspected it was Ari and his damn dogtail grass, again.
"Back off bro," ok, perhaps she wasn't as annoyed as she believed, because her face inched to form a smile, "before I get up and hurt you. " she intended for a lazy threat but noting came out.
The realization struck her, along with the overwhelming nausea: She wasn't the carefree 11-year-old girl lying in her father's front-yard anymore. She vaguely recalled where she was, as the pain, excruciating painfulness crept back under each and every nerve of hers. The buzzes was getting louder and louder; she couldn't tell if it was only in her head, but the headache it caused was pure torture. Harsh desert sunlight pierced her eyelids, brought stings and tears to her eyes.
Some voice stood out in the buzzing background, hoarse, humming, like the sound of sandpaper against wooden boat framework she had found so soothing in another life time. "Hang on…Ziver…You're safe now.. safe…." Was that French, or English?
She struggled to see through the fog in her sore eyes, only to find that large faces, hidden behind dark shadows, were hovering inches above. The panic grasped her heart; she flinched violently, which caused massive pain shot through her midriff. She had long stopped biting back any screams: it was almost the only pain release she had, and she decided to make full use of it.
Her cry of pain sounded more like a squeak, which was ironically similar to the noises made by those desert rodents residing in her cell. Just then, she felt the arm around her shoulders tightened to stabilize her; something moved to brace her injured waist, relieving the intense agony. That gesture must have earned her trust before she knew, because she instinctively searched for the piece of fabric that had been touching her bruised cheek since she awoke, and buried her face in it.
A large hand came up and gently covered her exposed ear. Shielded from light and sound, she drifted off to a peaceful unconsciousness for the first time in months.
The silver-haired agent stood outside his former agent's hospital room for a full thirty minutes before the nurse came out with her tray. He went in and perched on the folding chair at the young Israeli's bedside. Wrapped up in bandages and cast, she was slighter that what he could ever imagine. Her gaze followed his every step, and that had been the only indication that she recognized him, and the two of her former parters too.
"Hey, Ziver." He greeted softly, bringing up one hand to cover hers. She lifted up her ring finger—the only finger that was not broken and therefore was spared plaster cast—and managed to scratch his palm a little. The effort itself made him smile. He hooked his finger around her unbroken one with a surge of pride. She calmly allowed him to stroke the back of her hand for a few minutes, which, much to his delight, had been another progress since she woke up in the hospital.
He noticed the wetness on her cheek: the treatment must have been hard. Yet her eyes remained stoic and controlled. Occasionally, he caught sorrow, devastating sorrow underlying those dim brown orbs; he wondered how many more secrets she was guarding.
Out of the dozen of languages she mastered, she wouldn't utter a single word. Doctor had proved that none of her injuries physically prohibited her from doing so. Apparently, the aphasia was phycological, and there had been a deafening silence when the good doctor inquired about possible trigger.
He toyed with the thought of pushing the issue with Ziva, because honestly they didn't have much time: he highly doubted that Mossad hadn't been informed about their Africa mission, and Director Vance requested a clean cut. Among all the chaos, he needed to know where she stood. Kill two birds with one stone. He thought back to the conversation with Vance and wondered where he ought to stand.
The elder agent watched the young woman breathe in and out gingerly; her finger jerked every time she took a shaky breath. His heart went out to the girl who learnt to silently bear with such lingering pain. She's here; would anything else matter if it was his little girl? He decided that he wouldn't trade her peacefulness—even though temporary and superficial—for the world.
"It's late. Try to get some sleep."
She closed her eyes obediently, but her finger kept twisting in his hand for a very very long time.
What do you think about it? Please let me know