The Other Side of the Crash
A/N: This story has been demoted back to one shot status. I am a terrible person.
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS! Also, the lyrics included are from "The Other Side of the Crash" by Thursday.
"The lights go down outside before our cars collide, so we silhouette ourselves in forty shades of fire."
The first thing he became aware of was the pain. Now, being a federal agent prone to injury, not to mention pushing forty five, that in itself was not unfamiliar. However, the level of pain was foreign. It was consuming, enwrapping his leg in a kind of white fire, like someone was playing darts with the entirety of his right leg. He groaned, trying to make some kind of sense of the jumble of memories in his head.
The next thing he became aware of was an overwhelming, inexplicable panic. His heart sped up wildly in his chest, like there were bongos playing in his rib cage. His brain was screaming at him in a language he didn't understand, trying to communicate something to him. He focused as best as he could, trying to gauge what he felt, aside from the intense agony in his leg.
Metal. Yes, there was twisted metal around him. He could feel the jagged edges poking him, most likely drawing blood. He felt leather behind him... a car seat? That must be it. He thought he smelled smoke, mixed with the scent of blood. Open your eyes, Anthony, a voice said, but it was eerie and distant. Definitely not his own. However, in spite of his confusion, he opened his eyes, which were lowered. His chin was resting against his chest.
That explains the leg, he thought blearily, looking down with some detachment at the thick stainless steel fragment driven up through his leg, soaked in his blood. Impaled. He'd never been impaled before. He fumbled at the back of his mind, searching for some explanation.
Ziva. Okay, that was something to start with. He saw her face in his mind... dark eyes boring into his. Then he remembered a warmth in his hand, the feeling of her slender fingers intertwined with his. He recalled her saying his name, but then there was a light...
Why was there a light? Because we were hit. There was a crash. Finally, his mind had caught up. They were in a car crash. They. The word echoed in his head.
"Ziva!" he groaned, his voice rough to the point of sounding animalistic. In spite of his body's painful protests, he turned his head to the side, fumbling with his hand. She had been holding his hand. Why had she let go? Where was she?
He didn't have to look far. A bloody hand rested only an inch away from his. I'm sorry... he whispered in his borderline delirious mind. I'm sorry I let go, Ziva. He grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers as he had before. Only this time, they were cold. She's never been cold before, when he touched her. She was always so warm.
He looked up at her face. Her head was lolled to the left, her dark curls splayed over her. Her eyes were closed. He saw that blood was trickling slowly down her neck. Why was it on your side? Why couldn't it have been on mine?
Her face was pale and bloodless, and that terrified him. Her right arm was pinned behind her, and he couldn't see how much damage had been done. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. "Ziva..." he whispered desperately, squeezing her hand.
She didn't respond. She showed no signs of being aware of anything at all. Actually, she showed no signs of being alive. But that can't be right. Ziva couldn't die. She was Ziva. The invincible Mossad ninja. His partner. His best friend. His purpose. She couldn't, wouldn't just die on him.
She couldn't be gone. He wouldn't accept it. He squeezed her hand harder, trying to shift to the side. He let out an ear piercing scream of agony when he shifted, the metal ripping farther into his muscle, but he persevered, ignoring the burning hot tears streaking down his face. He realized the tears were mixing with the blood dripping from a wound he could only assume was on his forehead.
He managed to lift his free hand to cup her face, turning her head slightly to the side. The entire right side of her face was bruised and bloody, covered with lacerations. He could barely make out her olive skin underneath all of the damage. He brushed his thumb over her undamaged brow, and the tears were still coming. "Come on, sweet cheeks. Don't leave me yet."
He became dimly aware of sirens blaring in the distance. Someone was coming to help them. The question was, were they able to be helped? He lowered his hand, feeling for a pulse. He groped her neck clumsily, trying to find any sign that Ziva was still in the body next to him, that he wasn't just holding on with all his might to a corpse.
He found nothing. He let out a ragged sob. "Don't do this, Ziva, don't do this to me. I need you." He continued searching for a pulse, two fingers pressed hard to her neck, and his other hand digging into hers. He wondered in the back of his mind if he was hurting her. "Ziva," he whispered her name. There was no pulse to be found. Just like with Kate. Just like with Jenny.
His body was still turned, and he buried his face in her shoulder, her hair brushing his forehead. He sobbed again, bringing her lifeless hand up with his, letting it rest on her heart. Her heart that was no longer beating. His other hand made its way back up to her cheek, tracing small circles in her icy skin. "I love you, Ziva," he told her, his voice barely audible. "I love you."
If she was dead, he wanted to die with her. Either both of them made it out of this, or neither of them did. They were partners.
Then, the most blissful thing he had ever felt: the feel of a dull heartbeat underneath their joined hands. He jerked his head up, staring down at her chest. Had he imagined it? No, no! There it was again!
She's still alive!
He made a sound of relief that he didn't know how to classify. A sob? A sigh? He didn't know, but dear God, she was alive. He looked up at her face, and he felt a weak squeeze on their conjoined, blood covered hands. He stared at her closed eyelids. A second later, they opened halfway, dark brown meeting his hazel.
They looked at each other for a long moment before her eyes rolled back into her head, and she sagged into him, sending the agony of his leg to whole new levels as she became dead weight. He let out a strangled exclamation of pain as they slid off the leather seat and into whatever was left of the floor of the back of the car. He cradled her to him, keeping their hands firmly over her heart, counting every beat. One... two... three... four... five...
By the time he heard voices nearby, black edges were creeping into his vision. He leaned his forehead against hers, their noses barely brushing. Maybe they were dying. Maybe the two of them would never wake up. Twenty-five... twenty-six... twenty-seven...
He wasn't a very religious man. Never was. But in that moment, he prayed. He prayed with everything he had, a mindless chant keeping pace with his tracking of her heartbeat, whispered words released into the narrow space between himself and Ziva.
"Please don't let her die."
Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...
"Please, please don't let her die."
Thirty... thirty-one...
"Dear God, please, please don't let her die!"
Thirty-two... thirty-three...
The blackness finally swallowed him whole as his desperate pleas became less coherent, and his count reached thirty-four.
"Car crash came and car crash went, so I went along with it, because the girl you love's not coming back, it'll never be the same."