- Chapter One -
"Shoofi mafi?"
"…Ma adhri."
He is aware.
From consciousness to the white fire of knowing he is suddenly here, awake and in pain.
"Asre!"
"Aasef."
Dirt grinds under his cheek. There is a smell, like new paint and sweating metal.
He can't feel his hands.
"Tamaam."
His eyes flick open. Above him a mountain stares down, and it starts when it sees his look.
What…
Whisper of noises. He feels her shudder, turns his head.
"Up."
Fist around his collar, dragging him to his knees. Sparks shoot in front of his eyes as his blood loses equilibrium.
"You."
It must be him. The man with the heavy jaw looks down at him.
"…What?" He croaks it out.
The man kneels down. When he speaks his breath touches McGee's face and it makes him gag.
"Repeat."
McGee listens and he will, but he will never really know what he said. The meanings are lost in the drumroll of his head.
The man steps back. A red light blinks awake.
He repeats. The fog pulses in his head, and he wishes he could just close his eyes. He talks, and dark eyed men watch him.
Thoughts start to surface, bobbing like flotsam.
Worry. Ziva?
She's limp beside him. He looks sidelong, and sees her eyes are open. She blinks, turns her head as he speaks. Reflex actions, because there's a dullness to her.
Question in his head. Uncertainty. Where...?
This does not feel real.
It penetrates through slowly. Ink in water. Camera. Men…
Threats in what he's saying.
His voice doesn't change. He doesn't lift his head. But there's a low buzzing inside his head, rising until it's a howling swarm. His eyes move between them.
One. Behind the camera. Shuffling shoulders, heavy jaw.
Two. Giant behind. Holding the gun and standing very still.
Three. Watching them both from the side. Hollow cheeks and eyes that sink like twin pits.
One, two, three.
And just like that, his fingers unfurl. One, two, three. They're thinking faster than him.
He finishes.
Lowers his head.
The man with the jaw watches on the camera. He fists his hand, hides away his guilt.
She knows.
Ziva.
Her head lifts suddenly. Eyes flick open, turn to look at him.
The man behind them steps back just as quick. McGee turns his head, distracted. He doesn't see the twisting movement, but he does feel his fingers break.
He might have screamed. It could have been anyone, because suddenly they're all yelling.
"You signaled! You signaled!" He's screaming it in his face, with breath that could skin a horse. Ziva lunges and her fist nearly touches him. She's jerked back out of sight.
McGee is hovering at the edge of blackness as his arm burns cold like acid. His fingers are wrong, they're not supposed to look like that—
They make him start again.
He tries, he really does. His nerves fizz and his consciousness gutters. He can't hear through his wailing hand.
Takes him a while to notice when Ziva takes over. He only realises when her hand touches his side.
"They are broken."
Ziva's voice is frank. Never could accuse her of softening the blow. Her thumb and forefinger are pressed against his palm, trying to straighten fingers that split off at the second knuckle to a forty five degree angle.
The sight makes his head light. He clenches his jaw, a groan grinding from his teeth. He wants to jerk away, but there's nowhere for him to go.
The place they are in is tiny. If it was him alone, it would not be entirely comfortable. But there's two of them, and so it's no longer not entirely comfortable but instead anxiously cramped. Had he stretched out his legs, arms, he would have easily touched all four walls with limbs still bent.
"I kind of figured." It was meant to sound flippant, but it comes out strained.
She doesn't reply. She's looking down at the pen and three cloth strips in her lap, and she doesn't look happy.
Not surprising. They're in a room that's barely four feet square, not even tall enough to stand, and she's going to splint his fingers. Her hands are moving slowly through the fog, assessing the splintered bone. He swallows, shuts his eyes.
Ziva's quick. Grabs his wrist, pulls the finger straight. He nearly dislocates his wrist trying to pull away, foot jerking into her stomach.
She rubs her abdomen ruefully. "Not that way."
McGee pulls his hand against his chest. "No."
Against the floor, wrist pinched hard by his other hand, then straight out in the air. Neither work; his reflexes won't bare it.
In the end, he ends up with his wrist pressed hard between her knees so he can't flinch away. He shuts his eyes, focuses on staying awake and not throwing up all over them both.
Less than an hour has passed since they were put in here; they've said nothing outside of the task at hand. He suspects neither of them can cope with what's happening.
Fix the fingers. Then deal with everything else.
She's got the first strip tied. The blood cuts off in his wrist, but he can't say he minds. Breathe through his nose, out through his clenched teeth. Watch the black curl at the edge of sight.
It's odd. This feels real. Not the room, not the men outside. He has his wrist held between Ziva's knees, and somehow he's not surprised.
Must be the concussion.
"Are you alright, McGee?" Her eyes are focused on keeping the bones as straight as possible. He wonders if she knows there's blood across her face.
"I was just thinking I would end up with my hand between your knees."
Her mouth quirks.
"…I mean—"
"Excited?"
".... Is there a right answer to that question?"
"We'll see." She tightens the third strand of fabric. "This will have to be enough."
As she says it, there's a chill over him. He looks up at the buzzing light bulb and shudders at the way sound is swallowed by the walls.
Ziva's socked feet are pressed against his leg, and he can feel her trembling. She realises because she jerks away, half standing to runs her hands over the wall.
Tony mentioned once that Ziva had a fear of enclosed spaces. McGee can't really say he agreed then, though now as he watches her press her hands against the door, he wonders.
But then, he can't say he is not scared, either.
* * *
They pile it in the centre between them. All things that could be useful.
Socks. Shoes. Empty gun holster (3x). Watch (2x). Receipt.
No belt. No tie. No shoelaces. They even took Ziva's scrunchie.
"What did they expect us to do?"
"You would be surprised." She looks unenthused. "Any ideas?"
"I really wish I'd watched more McGyver. Where's Tony when you need him?"
"There must be something useful in these." She picks up the watches. They're both analog, and both say that it's been ten hours since they started to climb the stairs to interview a suspect.
Gibbs is going to be pissed. They're very late.
He twitches as Ziva smashes her watch against the wall. It makes a crinkling noise, like tinfoil. She does it again, and it crumbles in her hand.
Now they have glass, paper thin gears, a tiny battery. Ziva wipes her bloody hand against her trousers, picks up the largest shards of glass. He eyes it.
"Ever killed someone with bits of a broken watch?" Sounds like a rhetorical. Or the title of a Salvador Dali. Reality should be less desperate.
Her grin is wry and a little dangerous. "There is always a first time." She hands him back his watch.
"Too expensive?"
"Knowing the time is worth more than weapons." She smiles slightly. "Plus it is too hard to break."
He snaps his watch back on, then picks up the largest gear of hers. It's fragile, but with a serrated edge.
There's a first time for all things. Like cutting a jugular with tiny bits of metal.
Ziva stills. "Do you hear that?"
A low drone. Starts out soft, then seems to make the ground vibrate.
"Helicopter?"
It fades, then comes again. They both stare up at the ceiling.
McGee's heart is ecstatic. They've been found. He hasn't even started believing he's here yet, but they've found them.
Then a dull thud that makes the walls tremble. Cosmic whump through the earth.
His heart is uneasy. "What was that?"
"Mine." Ziva's lips barely move.
The drones fade.
They wait for a long time, unmoving. His watch does a revolution twice.
Nothing.
"They must have…gone?" He turns to look at Ziva. The disbelief has leaked into his voice.
And the emotion that is a mutation of disappointment. The knowing that this will last longer than they hoped.
Her lips are pressed together, and she says nothing.
They wait until his watch tells them it's midnight. The adrenalin fades, and they give in to the fact they must rest eventually.
They sleep badly and not at all. He stays stiff as a board to try and keep on his side, and she doesn't move a muscle. The floor is hard earth and scrapes against bone, and he feels his muscles cramp.
He watches the clock through the night, hands marching round and round.
No one comes.