Stunned faces. Anguished faces. Angry faces. Stoic faces. Tim was surrounded by faces that were trying to deal with what had happened tonight. Most of them weren't doing very well and the night wasn't over yet. He didn't know what had happened to Mrs. Vance, didn't know how bad her injuries were, but he knew how the director's face had looked when he got into the ambulance with her.
He didn't want to look at his own face, even if he could have. He wasn't happy with himself right now. He'd been completely and utterly unable to tell Ziva about her father. All the words about careful and caring casualty notification had left his head, leaving him with a mental blue screen. Abort, Retry, Fail. His face had told her, though, and her face was something that would never leave his head. He'd thought the faces after the bombing had been bad. This was worse somehow.
Tony's face, too, was something he'd remember forever. Tony had been inside the house, had seen Ziva collapse at her father's side, had heard her pray to him, for him, at him. Whatever the proper preposition was; he wasn't sure. Tony had needed to tell someone what he'd seen, part of his grieving process, probably, and he'd told Tim on the way to the hospital. Not much, of course, but just enough that Tim had seen the care and the sorrow that he was sure was on his own face in its way.
And there was Gibbs' face. Stoic to all the world, but not when Tim looked at his eyes. The eyes were the window to the soul, and Gibbs' soul was not a happy place right now. No one's was, of course, but Gibbs was standing, guarding, watching. Tim had a mental image of the Old Guard, watching over the Unknowns. It was that kind of face.
Finally, though, there was Abby's face, and Ducky's. Ducky's was creased and lined in sorrow, compassionate and understanding, weary of yet another trip to a hospital. Abby's eyes were scanning over Tim's face, Tony's, Gibbs, checking over everyone, trying to think of something she could do to help. There was nothing, and he knew that was frustrating for her. Seeing her face, though, helped him. Calmed him, and he found himself looking at her again and again.
They all settled into the lobby before Ducky disappeared to find someone he knew who might be able to give them "a bit of information" and Tony, unable to settle for more than five seconds, went to find coffee. It would be hospital coffee and therefore awful, but the coffee wasn't the point.
Tim sank heavily into a truly uncomfortable chair and put his hands over his weary face. He heard Abby sink into the chair beside him, then felt her hands gently tugging his away. He looked up to see her eyes full of love and compassion for him and she held his hands tightly.
"It's not okay, Tim, but we'll get through it. We'll get through it together. All of us," she reminded him, and her voice was thick with the tears she was clearly trying to ignore until she had access to Bert.
He couldn't have spoken if he tried, but he nodded, and she smiled. It was a weak semblance her normal smile, but at that moment, right there, he decided that of all the faces he'd seen that night, Abby's was his favorite.