A/N: Well, this one fought me a little on the way through, but here it is, for your reading pleasure :)
As always, a boatload of thanks goes out to the readers and reviewers, and to the quietly loyal silent lurkers... and a special shout-out goes to those of the silent lurkers (or, as some may know them, the CSL... xP) who have come forth to generously speak their piece.
You folks are the stuff legends are made of. :)
x
The ensuing silence was a lit fuse, Gibbs' words the spark of light slithering their way down the coil.
"I asked you to see to it that she left, that she went home... she was sick, she was supposed to be gone before we got back." The look on Gibbs' face was like nothing Ziva had seen, his voice as close to breaking as it had ever been, his control over the brewing storm resting on the edge of a knife. And she knew that Tony could hear all of what she was seeing from the agony that came through in his answer.
"She was going... Boss... she was... going home, but she looked... so... awful, I... I told her to nap in... her lab... I was going to b... bring her back... to my place... after..."
"She should have been gone, she should have been safe. You shouldn't have let her stay... she was your responsibility." The words were biting, spat out through clenched teeth. His fists convulsed at his sides, and he slammed them down on the table, making both McGee and the equipment jump. "God damn it, Tony!"
"I... I'm... sorry... Jesus... I'm sorry..."
They could hear his breaths, ragged from strain and from wounds that seemed for the moment to have been forgotten by the team lead, and Ziva felt her heart clench under a flash of white hot anger at the very real danger that this discussion was only deteriorating Tony's ability to cope with it all. And she refused to simply stand by and listen to it happen, to listen as he was made to suffer even more for the choice that had painted on the horror she'd seen on his face the moment he'd realized the looming tragedy, that had led her partner to run back inside when he had to have known he couldn't possibly reach Abby and get back out in time.
Without stopping to consider any of the long-term consequences, she forced herself between Gibbs and the table, signaling an equal-parts fearful and awed McGee against pressing the button. By this point, the lingering rescue staff had wisely returned to their duties, giving the team the privacy that the discussion clearly warranted.
"That is enough," she hissed, eyes flashing as she met Gibbs' furious ones. "This will not help him – you are making it worse, tormenting him with a failure that was unintentional and cannot be reversed. Abby's life in on the line, yes, but Tony's is as well, and you may well tip the scale against him. I should not need to remind you that in his condition, in this situation, additional stress can lead to shock, and while he remains out of our reach, shock can and will kill him." She continued to meet him head on, her anger undeterred even as she watched his own begin to calm. "You will not speak to him unless you are able to demonstrate the proper restraint. Do you understand?"
With eyes narrowed at her gal, but softened in the slightest at the well-deserved rebuke, he nodded stiffly in understanding, and she stepped aside, still seething but reigning it in as McGee, without needing the order, pressed the button down. Gibbs considered his words carefully, filtering through all those fighting to be said, and leaving himself only with those safely outside the blame itching to be assigned.
"We're coming, for the both of you. Just... keep talking to her, keep her with you."
He paused for a moment, letting the image his mind had conjured of his senior field agent, his friend, fill him: hurt, alone, having been ready to die trying to save the very person Gibbs had all but accused him of condemning. Though he would never admit it out loud, and hated to admit it even to himself, Ziva had been right, but he couldn't take back what he'd said, wasn't sure he'd have the strength to try even if he could, so he moved on, hoping any damage done wasn't as lasting as a part of him feared it would be.
"We'll radio every so often with updates on progress. Let her know that she'll be home soon, and hang tough, DiNozzo. We will. Not. Let. You. Down. Got it?"
The silence from the other line stretched for so long that they thought worriedly for a moment that he had passed out. When finally an answer came, they wondered whether the silence was actually worse.
"...Understood. Will radio... any changes... and await further... contact. Over... and out." The statement was brusque, professional, and deceivingly unshakable.
Everything Tony had built through a lifetime of practice to hide behind; hurt the man enough, and Tony curled away, leaving behind only Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, long-time fielder of all kicks delivered when he was down, and the version that took over when the man that was their friend knew no other way, for whatever given moment, to keep himself in one piece.
Gibbs bristled at the sharp knowledge that this time it had been of his doing, but firmly reminded himself that what he had to do now was throw everything he had into the coming hours, make this mess end right for those caught up in it, and then sort out his screw ups the way the two of them usually handled things between them: over a night of pizza, largely too much Bourbon, and a pile of movies he'd never heard of. It'd worked for other big-ticket items in the near and distant past, like during and post-fallout from his Mexico hiatus, and for the fiasco with Jeanne and daddy dearest – it would work here. He would make sure of it... he just needed to get his people back.
It was that small comfort that he took with him when he ordered McGee to keep up steady check-ins with Tony, and strode back to the command post, figuring Ziva held her job in high enough regard to follow in spite of the anger continuing to smolder silently in his direction, and quietly satisfied to not be disappointed. They relayed their new and confirmed standing survivor count, plotted their closest and most viable plan of entry, and then there was nothing else but for them to do but get all the machinery and equipment in place, and start digging.
And damn well hope that they were as fast as they needed to be.
He ended the transmission numb and expressionless, blinking back the tears that threatened with no more than a passing thought of irritation to lay silent and still, absorbed in the separate breathing rhythms that traveled through the air in the small area. For the moment, he was happy to simply keep his mind empty of any and all thoughts pertaining to pesky emotions that he knew would do him no good in his circumstances, taking instead to refreshing his observations of his surroundings.
There was an almost disconnected feeling to it this time as he took it all in with a clinical eye, as though he were investigating the scene that was possibly to be some other poor bastard's impromptu grave, cataloging the environment to figure out exactly what these final hours would be like from an outsider's perspective: drifting clouds of concrete dust and dirt and ash, thick enough at some points to be both suffocating and blinding, having yet to settle with the magnitude of the explosion and collapse, and the continued shifting of what was left of the building; rubble ranging from the size of mere pebbles to chunks and slabs as large as sports cars (like the one above me, with the steel... Stop – useless fact, with no bearing on the condition of the environment; can't use it, can't change it – move along), with the odd bit of wood and material from desks and chairs from the higher floors scattered throughout the piles; bits and shards of shattered glass sparked periodically throughout by the light of the fires, whose number and proximity were gradually heating the relatively closed in space, but luckily were not near enough to his position to pose any immediate threat of burning...
A sudden jolt cut through his disconnected state at the unwanted thought of how close the fires might well be to Abby, until he was assaulted by a far more sickening thought: if the fires had reached her, he would know. He would hear.
He gagged and shook, and fought to return to his mindless processing, but the damage had been done – the thought of Abby and of what might happen to her while he was unable to reach her brought his thoughts crashing back to the radio transmission. When he'd first heard McGee's voice, it had allowed him the first shred of hope he'd felt since regaining consciousness to find himself pinned like a goddamned butterfly; he'd had flashes of an impossible rescue made possible by the sheer fact that Gibbs and the team were behind it, had actually imagined with a startling amount of fondness the ambulance ride to the hospital, and the days of nurse-watching and complaining that would ensue.
Then had come time to admit to his screw up, to admit to the mistake that he would regret more than any other in his long list for however long remained of his life, and even though he'd expected the anger, and knew that he deserved it and the blame, it had hurt like he never would've believed possible to hear it from Gibbs, to know how profoundly he had failed to live up to the trust the Marine had always, and somewhat inexplicably, put in him.
...she should have been safe...
...she was your responsibility...
The words, like a knife to the chest then, were now akin to acid, searing and corroding the longer he thought of them and he could do nothing to shut them out, to shut them up... or to deny their truth; Abby had been his responsibility – she'd been sick, exhausted, and had he just done as he was fucking told rather than going with the inclination to play nursemaid, he would've paid for a cab to take her home where she'd have been well and truly out of harm's way.
He was the reason she could die, might already be dying... and he would never forgive himself for it.
God, what've I done?
Had his heart not been in the process of breaking, he might've laughed at that thought, which he was absolutely positive was a quote from at least a dozen rip-off sci-fi/horror flicks. As it was, it took everything he had not to give in to the earlier urge to scream, the hand over his wound flexing and pressing down rhythmically, and he was left shaking both from the effort as well as the welcomed shock-wave of pain, glad for its temporary relief from the memory of Gibbs' damning words.
Of course, they were still waiting for him when the pain once more subsided to a dull roar and he surfaced from its drowning properties, and he growled at himself to grit his teeth and deal with it, to not let it bear down on him. After all, as easy as it would be to lose himself to the guilt that his already weakened defenses and energy stores were ill-equipped to shoulder, he had every intention of following Gibbs' newest orders to the letter; he would keep talking to her, keep her aware and with him as well as he could, even if he had to cough and stumble his way through it... he'd damn well talk until he passed out if that's what it took, then he'd wake up and keep on going.
He was Tony DiNozzo – talking was what he did.
"Well, just got off... the horn... with McGenius – told you he'd... figure it... out... by the way – and Gibbs, and... they wanted... me to pass a... along kisses, well wishes... and the... happy news that they... were almost done... working... stuff out up... top, and they're on... on their way... pretty soon."
The distant muffled sounds of machinery beginning its work just barely reached his ears, and he half-smiled to hear it, managing to inject a healthy dollop of audible grin into his voice.
"Abs... you hear... that? They've started... to dig... they're coming, we'll... be... home in no... time." Maybe not the lie for false hope that that had started out as?
Well, stranger things have happened.
With a wider smile, he picked up where his previous monologue had left off, or rather as close as he could figure given its concussed aimlessness, practically counting the minutes as they passed and all the while listening as the sounds of the excavating crew drew closer at an achingly slow pace. Every fifteen minutes or so, McGee's voice would burst into life in his ear, sending a spike through his head to remind him his headache hadn't gone away, and he would listen to Probie's rambling play-by-play about surface activities, assure him that they were both still (for the moment) alive, and end the transmission before the noise could make his head implode.
As before, he kept up his monitoring of the sounds of her breaths, struggling to keep his voice calm whenever he had to coach and coax her out of panic or pain-induced gasping, and keeping in DiNozzo tradition for topic choice. Eventually, he even got around to the Spring Break he'd spent in Panama City, where he'd stumbled upon Kate's picture on the Wet T-Shirt Contest Wall of Fame, and the mutual blackmail that had ensued.
It occurred to him for a foolish moment that Kate was going to kill him when she found out he'd spilled the beans on her 'clean as a whistle', good Catholic girl image, then he reminded himself bluntly that Kate was dead and as such likely wouldn't care, and then promptly changed topics.
Somewhere along the line, he'd begun shivering, peripherally aware that despite the flames scattered around him and the heat they expelled, he was getting colder, almost freezing, but his mind, which was a whirlwind of thought processes on a good day, couldn't hold onto such things in the midst of everything else and so let these pertinent facts slip away to dissolve.
And if he was starting to slur a few of his words together, stumble over them more than he had before, or sometimes forget what he'd been saying in the middle of a sentence, it didn't really matter, did it? It would be okay, as long as he kept talking, kept Abby with him – even if she didn't answer, her constant breaths and the thrill of warmth he felt whenever he made a particularly ridiculous joke and his ears just managed to catch a huffing wisp of a laugh were all that counted, and all he needed to dig deep into his babble-well and keep up the stream of words.
He wouldn't screw this one up, wouldn't give his boss any more of a reason to be disappointed in him, maybe even hate him. He wasn't at all sure he could survive another conversation like that intact... the shame and the guilt were still threatening to do him in from the first one.
...she was your responsibility...
I know, Boss, I'm trying harder this time...
"Tony?"
McGee's voice was like a gunshot in his ear, and he jerked, releasing a low groan for all involved pains before raising a curiously clumsy hand to his comm.
"Mc...Gee...?" He frowned at his sluggish pronunciation, wondering when it had started for a moment before shrugging off the question in favor of keeping up with whatever the younger agent was trying to say to him.
"I, uh, wanted to let you know why the digging was stopped..." The kid sounded worried, but Tony was too busy wondering how he'd managed to miss the fact that he couldn't hear the sounds of machinery any more to think much of it. When Tony didn't answer, McGee kept going, sounding even more worried than before, though obviously trying hard to hide it. "The crews had to pull back because they hit a pretty big collection of gas lines and piping, and couldn't risk cutting through it all."
Tony fought to grasp what he was being told, surprised to find how hard it was to take in anything outside the bubble his stream of stories and pointless anecdotes had created. "They... stopped, as in... can't... won't be able t... to..."
"They're not going to stop digging period," came the hurried reassurance, which managed to quell at least some of his rising dread and confusion. "The bulk of the crew has relocated to a new chunk of the site to try coming in from a less obstructed angle, but Gibbs insisted on keeping on the original site with a few of the engineers, and they're going to try working their way around the obstructions to get down the rest of the way to you guys on their own."
"Oh... 's that... safe?"
Dumb question to ask, DiNozzo – of course it's not. They're risking their asses to save yours, or... Abby's... mine's a bonus... That's even dumber. Stop being hormonal about this, and get back to listening – the kid's talking again.
"Yeah, they're... they're being pretty careful about it," McGee said, obviously a little reluctant on going into details he probably thought would upset him. "They've got safety lines, and safety lines for their safety lines, plus Ziva's working with them over the radio as they go." A quick snort came over the line. "Don't think anyone wants to ask her where she learned most of what she knows."
Tony's lips pulled into a smile at the image of their nervousness around the Israeli. "Yeah... I wouldn't... if I were... them."
There was a long pause then, and Tony should have realized what the younger agent was building up to saying, but he would blame it on the beating his head took that he didn't see it coming.
"Tony... what Gibbs said earlier... I know he didn't mean -"
"Don't," Tony interrupted flatly. His hand flexed of its own accord over the wound, as though it had by now learned the habit of using the pain as a distraction, as grounding in a sea of uncertainty and a mess of emotions that he just couldn't handle right now.
But the guy, once so meek a kitten could take him on, had apparently spent the last three years growing a spine in the face of Tony's badgering, and tried again.
"You can't blame yourself, Tony, you couldn't have known..."
"I... said... don't!"
The outburst cost him, and everything locked in place as fresh lungfuls of dust dragged him into a harsh coughing spree that left his head spinning, the world pitching and tilting under him while the muscles and tissues around the rod stretched and contracted in a swirl of agony that stole what little breath he was able to pull into his vice-tightened chest. It was almost two full minutes before he was allowed to sag back into his bed of debris, exhausted, and wondering if McGee had had to listen to that whole debacle. He hoped not.
Then...
"Tony?" Well, so much for that hope.
Tony couldn't help a grimace, both at the coppery taste in the back of his mouth that he swallowed without letting himself dwell on, as well as McGee's voice, made so quiet from the fear he couldn't quite hide any more that it was halfway to a whisper.
"I'm... okay... Probie... just tired... of this... shit." He knew he sounded it too, and wished he had the energy to make light of this. As it was, he was using everything he had just to keep his eyes open and his other hand still pressed over the wound, for all the good it was doing; he had to have torn it open even more, with that last episode being as rough as it was. Sure as hell felt like he had.
There was a reluctant sigh as McGee decided not to call him on just how not 'okay' he'd sounded. "Just... just hang in there, Tony. Gibbs'll be down there soon, he'll get you guys out."
"I know."
"You do believe it, don't you?"
It was Tony's turn to sigh. "Yeah... Probie... I do." And he did. Because Gibbs had said so himself, and he always did what he said he'd do.
Whether or not he may be planning to later on kill one of the two people he was aiming to save... well, that was another point all together.
