It was a good minute after the elevator doors slid shut on DiNozzo and McGee that Ziva showed any signs of life. Gibbs was all for moving quickly; the faster Ducky examined and treated Ziva, the faster she could clean up, and they could all get some much needed rest. No one was looking at them anymore, but he still felt far too exposed, too vulnerable in the middle of the large clump of desks. He could guess that Ziva felt the same.
Making judgment calls was something Gibbs did every single day – it was just another part of the job. But for the first time in quite a while, he felt himself hesitant as he looked at the battered, filthy Ziva. She was staring straight ahead, into nothingness, arms hanging limply at her sides, normally bouncy curls weighed down with dirt and grime. It was an awful sight – he had known Ziva to be quiet, hurt, even crying on occasion, but this emptiness, the shell-shocked stiffness with which she stood in front of him, was almost too much.
But this wasn't about him. It was about her.
And she needed them.
''Come on, Ziver,'' he said softly, holding onto her elbow as he walked them in the direction of the elevator. She went willingly, matching his pace, but still saying nothing. The doors slid shut. The hum of the elevator moving down and Ziva's soft but erratic breathing were the only things filling the silence.
Ducky was waiting patiently for them when they entered autopsy, and Abby was nowhere to be seen.
''I sent Abby to procure some clothes for Ziva,'' he said as Gibbs arched an eyebrow. ''And something to eat, as well – I imagine you must be hungry.''
Gibbs and Ziva both remained silent, but Ducky didn't appear to be expecting any answer as he prepared an array of small tools – a penlight, tongue depressor, and stethoscope among them – and patted one of the gurneys, which was covered with what looked like towels. ''Climb on up, my dear,'' he said to Ziva with a small smile, and to Gibbs' surprise, Ziva walked forward on her own, placing a hand on the side of the gurney.
The winces that crossed her face as Gibbs helped her up were not lost on him or Ducky, nor was the soft hiss of breath she let out as she settled into place.
''I'm just going to shine this light into your eyes, Ziva,'' Ducky began, flicking the light on, ''just look somewhere to your left for me, now.''
Ziva complied. Gibbs looked on.
''Normal dilation,'' Ducky murmured, ''that's good. Open your mouth for me, please.'' He shone the light inside, staring critically. ''Redness, but that's to be expected with that arid desert air.''
The inspection continued for ten more minutes, with Ducky talking the entire way through it, filling the silence with a steady murmur as he cleaned out the small cuts along Ziva's face and arms, and held the stethoscope to her chest.
But the bruises and cuts went far beyond her cheeks and forearms, and Ducky carefully removed the stethoscope from his ears before asking. ''Ziva. I'm going to have to remove your shirt – shall Gibbs wait outside?''
Gibbs, who was already standing straight and beginning to walk to the doorway, was halted by the first words Ziva had spoken so far: ''No. He can stay.''
Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and, likely, the abuse of sand and hot, dry air. At least, that was what Gibbs was choosing to attribute it to, for now – there was likely a far worse reason, he knew.
There was no love lost between Ziva and her dirty, tattered clothing, and so Ducky simply began to cut the fabric away, bits of sand falling onto the floor as Ziva moved her arms to slide it off, head down, hands gripping the edge of the gurney. Gibbs was glad, in a way, that she wasn't looking – he and Ducky had more control than to gasp, but Ducky's eyes widened, lips parting in an instinctive reaction of shock, and Gibbs' fists were clenching so hard that he wouldn't have been surprised to find blood later.
Cuts were all the way up her arms, some healing, others relatively fresh. Bruises were abundant, and across what seemed like every inch of her skin – up her sides, across her torso, some just large, mottled black and blue, others closer to her chest in distinctive hand-shaped prints.
''Oh, my dear girl,'' Ducky murmured finally, lifting up the antiseptic and sterile cotton, ''What did they do to you?''