Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos. Oh and the OCs.
Warnings : Rated T for language.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who read, favorited and followed so far. And extra thanks to everyone who left a review.
To momcat: The story does have an ending and a resolution to every thing that happened. There are 3 more chapters after this along with an epilogue. All written and waiting for me to squeeze in the editing. I'll post them as I finish.
Longer, slower chapter today. Sorry, not sorry.
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Sitting on the ambulance bumper, Tony DiNozzo huddles under a reflective blanket. While it keeps the icy wind away, it does nothing to ward off the chill seeping into his bones, freezing him straight to the core. He stares unseeing at the crowd on the other side of the police tape.
A bunch of lookey-loos—moms with babies in strollers and elderly neighbors and those stoner teens and the cross-dressing congressman in men's clothes—congregated to watch the fucking three ring circus of Metro PD, ambulances, and NCIS. Under their watchful eyes, Marissa Jackson and Arthur Haskell were hauled away by Metro in cuffs, an unconscious Tim whisked to an ambulance, and Gus—real name: Pavel Ivanovich, hired muscle with outstanding warrants in six states—in a body bag.
Tony is the only one left.
And he doesn't know why. He is caught somewhere between having to face what happened and lingering on the ambulance bumper to relive every second of being in that basement.
He runs his fingers over the raw flesh on his wrists. Even though the skin burns like hell, it is a small price to pay because he lived. He fucking lived. But Tony isn't ready to find out whether Tim will be as lucky.
He glances back to the crowd again, but he is adrift in a sea of strangers without a life boat.
Tony is pretty sure that Jethro Gibbs is around here somewhere. He showed up shortly after Tim passed out, after everything was over. When Tony sat by Tim's side, feeling his friend's thready pulse and praying—actually, praying—to whomever was listening to let Tim make. Please just let Tim make it.
And after the ambulance carted off the junior agent, Gibbs tried to placate Tony, tried to apologize because he hadn't been there with them. Like somehow the whole fiasco could've been Gibbs' fault because he was back at the office…doing whatever he does when they're in the field.
But Tony just shook his head and asked what would happen to Ziva. Gibbs launched into some bullshit about needing to speak with Ziva first. Tony stopped his there, said simply, "That's not good enough boss," and plopped himself down on the ambulance bumper.
Tony hasn't been able to move since.
Suddenly, the young paramedic, wiry-limbed and nervous-eyed, comes into Tony's view. He leans forward, getting into Tony's personal space. When Tony meets his gaze, the paramedic jumps back.
"We're ready to go, sir. You know, to the hospital," he says as though Tony might kick his ass. "Only if you, you know, want to. Sir."
Tony presses his lips together. "Is anything broken?"
"Excuse me?" the paramedic asks.
"My bones. Are any of them broken?" When the paramedic shakes his head, Tony continues: "Do I have a head injury?"
"I don't know. You'd need – "
"Do you think I have a head injury?" Tony interrupts.
The paramedic jumps, flinches, looks at everything but Tony. Then he squares his shoulders and approaches the agent. He leans into Tony's face and holds a flashlight up. Tony groans at the searing pain when the paramedic swings the light back and forth to check the his pupils. Then they play the games: how many fingers? and follow my finger.
When they're done, the paramedic nods resolutely. "I think you're okay, but I still recommend – "
Tony stops listening because he caught a glimpse of someone familiar in the rubber-neckers. There's a flash of dark hair, somber eyes, and catlike grace.
Fuck. I can't talk to Ziva right now.
"Alright, Hawkeye, you win. Let's go," he says.
The paramedic's face turns confused. "What?"
"You should watch more TV, kid," Tony says. "MASH is a pretty good show."
The paramedic still looks completely clueless as Tony climbs onto the gurney. But once Tony is away from the doors, the paramedic closes them before anyone changes their mind. Then the ambulance roars down highways and city streets towards Alexandria General.
Lying on the stretcher, Tony stares at the metal ceiling. He counts the rivets, watches the stacks of gauze and medication and tubing pitch dangerously at every turn.
All the while, his tired mind runs at full speed to try and makes sense of everything. He and Tim were stranded, alone, abandoned, without back-up. Whenever he called for help before, he could expect someone to be there. For the first time in his career, no one came. No one fucking came.
And the worst part of it all is Tony has no idea whose fault it is.
For some inexplicable reason, he blames himself. Maybe if he'd just taken a stronger hand with his teammates when they screwed up. Or if he'd just given them a dressing down when it was warranted. If he'd just been their boss instead of their friend, maybe none of this would've happened.
Tony presses his lips together.
No, it couldn't have been him. He'd done everything right, tried to be the best damned agent he could be and tried to make Gibbs proud. And maybe, he did. Tony always preferred to think so.
Could it be as simple as it just being Tim and Ziva's fault?
Out of the two of them, Tim deserved less of the blame. G-d knows anyone who's ever been on a stakeout has had to pee at some point. And the junior agent, always respectful and proper and modest, never could just whiz in a cup in the car like a normal cop. If Tony could forgive anyone for dropping the ball, Tim would be the easiest. After all, he'd been right by his side, walking through hell to get back home. Sure, Tim fucked up big time, but he still had Tony's six all the way until the bitter end.
Until he dropped…
It really is all Ziva's fault.
She cut the mic. She hung them out to dry. She left them alone in the field, in the hands of a group of terrorists. Everything that happened today was her fault.
What if there's more to it than that?
Tony tries his hardest not to fall down the rabbit hole, but his mind won't turn back.
What if it was partly Gibbs' fault for their mish-mashed team?
His boss used to sing the praises of his gut, claiming that he had a knack for picking people who would have your six in and out of the field, the kind who would be there the moment that you needed them. He'd been right as hell about Tim.
But Ziva? Gibbs' gut was probably drunk that day.
And couldn't it be Gibbs' fault for not trusting Tony when he said that Ziva cut the mic? For some insane reason, Tony expected his boss to fire Ziva on the spot. Instead, he got an I'll handle it.
What the fuck does 'handle it' mean anyway?
It almost sounded like Gibbs would bench Ziva for a few weeks, make her the team's paperwork bitch when she got back, and then set her loose into the field again. With Tony. With Tim. Like they were a fully functional, trustworthy team again.
Will I ever be able to trust her again?
In his heart, the answer is a resounding, hell no.
He dry-heaves.
Paramedic Hawkeye is quick to Tony's side with a metal basin, but the agent waves him away. The man slinks back to the bench to keep a watchful eye on a patient that wants nothing to do with him.
When they arrive at the hospital, the world turns into a blur of doctors and nurses and hospital equipment that he has never seen before. He is whisked away for test after test to ensure that nothing is broken, that everything is still in its proper place.
He asks about Tim over and over. Still in surgery is all the nurses tell him. Eventually, a pretty doctor with a nice smile tells Tony that he has nothing worse than lumps and bumps and a minor concussion—all in fancy medical speak, of course. But they're keeping him overnight for observation, just in case.
The hours tick past midnight with still no word on Tim's condition. An overweight and overly friendly nurse, who talks away too much about her grandson—also named Tony—dims the lights to let him catch some sleep.
Tony is nearly out when soft footfalls send him into panic mode.
He opens his eyes to find Ziva at the side of his bed.
He bolts upright. "What are you doing here, Ziva?"
"To see how you are," she says simply, like they're friends, like everything is a-o-fucking-kay.
He presses his hand to his head. "I'm alive, no thanks to you. Where the hell happened back there? Where were you?"
"I did not hear what was happening." She looks away.
"Because you cut the mic."
Her frown deepens. "I merely turned down the volume on the listening device. It was still recording."
"But you weren't listening."
She won't meet his eyes.
"So you didn't hear me call for help? Or McGee get brained by that guy?" He clenches the blanket on the bed, wringing it in his hands. "You didn't hear any of it."
She hugs her arms to her chest.
"Look at my face! Look at what happened to me because of you." She still won't look at him. He beats his hands against the bed, howling: "And what about McGee? They tried to beat him to death! One of them was going to blow my brains out!" Pausing, he tries to force himself to calm down. It doesn't work. "We almost died in there. And that's your fault."
Tears start to sneak down her cheeks. They glisten in the light sneaking in from the hallway.
"It was not what I intended," she whispers. "I did not wish for you or McGee get hurt."
"Didn't wish for it?" Tony presses his hand over his eyes. "Of course you didn't wish for it. No one wishes for their partners to get murdered."
"I – "
But Tony keeps going. "Never, in my entire time in law enforcement, have I had a partner ignore my six. Whenever I called for back-up, someone always came. Except for you."
More tears come. "I am sorry."
"Do you think sorry is going to help McGee? Do you – "
"I came to say that I am sorry and I meant for none of it."
He starts to rise. "Get the fuck out!"
Her haunted eyes study his face for a long moment before she straightens her stance. Then with another "I never intended for any of this to happen," she leaves him alone.
With the anger bubbling in his gut, Tony hits the nurse call button.
Her smiling face appears in the doorway. "What can I do for you, darlin'? Are you finally ready for those pain meds the doctor recommended?"
Tony shakes his head. "How's Agent McGee?"
"Still in surgery, it seems," she replies. "I've called up there a few times, but they can't tell me anything yet. You'll know as soon as I do."
"Thanks." The thought of Ziva coming back roils his stomach. "Say, can I get the forms to sign out of here?"
"You know the doctor wanted you to stay overnight," she says, growing serious for the first time. "She wanted to make sure nothing was going to go wrong before she cuts you lose. Plus, you look like you could use the rest."
"I'd like to sleep in my own bed."
After a long pause, she seems to accept that she won't change his mind. "I'll see what I can do, darlin'. It just might take a little while."
He half-smiles. "Apparently, I've got all night."
With a clipped nod, she dims the lights again. Then she disappears from the door frame. Tony settles back into the bed, hoping to catch a few minutes of sleep before leaves.
What feels like mere seconds later, the room lights are flicked back on. He blinks owlishly at the sudden brightness.
Did I just fall asleep?
"Are you Agent DiNozzo?" a man's voice asks.
Tony squints through the light. Standing by the door are a short, thin man with salt and pepper hair sticking out from a surgical cap and a tall, long-limbed younger-looking blonde. They wear matching green scrubs.
Those must be Tim's doctors.
Tony swallows hard.
And if they're here…
"Are you Agent DiNozzo?" the man repeats, slower this time like Tony has a head injury.
"Yeah, that's me."
"I'm Dr. Peyton, chief of neurosurgery, and this is – " he gestures to the woman " – Dr. Smith, chief surgical resident. We're here to update you on – " he checks his chart " – Agent McGee's status."
Tony's heart plummets. "And?"
Dr. Peyton doesn't look up. "Agent McGee came in with a moderately-sized, acute subdural hematoma in his left parietal lobe."
"What does that even mean?" Tony asks, confused.
"The blunt force trauma he suffered caused some bleeding underneath his skull. We went in and repaired the vessel. It is quite remarkable that Agent McGee was up and moving around with that type of injury, let alone doing what I heard he did."
So it turns out that Tim's injuries are so much more serious than Tony originally thought. And here, he chided Tim for having a panic attack after he took out Gus. If that's the last thing Tim heard…Tony doesn't know whether he'll be able to live with himself.
Dr. Peyton glances to Dr. Smith and she takes over without giving Tony a chance for questions. "My team and I handled the internal abdominal injuries. Broken ribs. Collapsed lung. Swollen spleen which I removed when I repaired his hemorrhaging splenic artery."
Tony gapes. "You took out his spleen."
Both doctors share an amused smile when Dr. Smith continues: "It doesn't really do anything anyway. Not to mention, that's the least of his worries."
"But is he okay?"
Dr. Peyton takes over again. "They're moving him up to the ICU as we speak. Once the anesthetic is out of his system, it will a waiting game to see if he regains consciousness."
Tony swallows audibly. "If."
"We remain optimistic, but we aren't out of the woods yet." For the first time, Dr. Peyton meets Tony's worried eyes. His face softens. "We need you to sign some forms, Agent DiNozzo. We need you to decide how much intervention you'd like us to take in the event things take a turn for the worst."
The doctors approach the bed to pass Tony a clipboard. He flips through the pages, his brow crinkling. He has been through too much and his head hurts too damned bad to consider things like DNRs and lifesaving interventions and code blues…and for fuck's sake, organ donation.
Dr. Peyton already has the pen out.
"Why are you giving me these?" Tony's head snaps up. "Shouldn't you be waiting for Tim's sister? She should be the one making these decisions."
"You were listed as Agent McGee's medical proxy," Dr. Peyton says calmly. "What we do is up to you."
"Why would he do that?" Tony asks, a little hysterical, a little crazed.
"Evidentially, he trusts you with his life." Dr. Peyton tries to smile, but he just ends up baring his teeth. "From what I heard about your day, I'd say the feeling is mutual."
Tears start to brim in Tony's eyes. He looks away.
"Will you do everything?" Tony whispers.
Dr. Peyton nods. "You have my word."
Tony takes the proffered pen and signs every paper that guarantees that the hospital will put Tim back together again. When he gets to the form marked Organ Donation, he hesitates.
Dr. Peyton places a firm hand on Tony's shoulder. There is a practiced steadiness to his touch like someone who has spent a great deal of time counseling others in life and death decisions.
"It's just in case, son," Dr. Peyton says. "If Agent McGee doesn't make it, we would need that form in order to keep his body stable until…" Mercifully, Dr. Peyton doesn't finish.
Until they can harvest Tim's organs.
With the tears still biting, Tony stares blankly at the form. The words swim together, blurring into one big mess of giving Tim's life away. If Tim dies—which he won't, right? right?—Tony doubts his friend would want other people to die when they could've been saved. When he could've saved them. Tim always was—is, for G-d's sake, is—just that kind of person. Giving and kind and generous.
Tony holds his breath as he signs the form—and possibly Tim's very life away.
He swallows hard. "Now what?"
"We wait for Agent McGee to wake." Dr. Peyton squeezes Tony's shoulder again. "In his own time."
Nodding tightly, Tony studies the faded print of sailboat on the wall. Dr. Peyton gives Tony's shoulder one more squeeze and another promise to do everything. Then Dr. Smith mutters her sympathies because well, it seems she's already given up.
Then, he's alone.
Tony sits on the bed, staring at that print on the wall while his mind whirls with what will happen to Tim, what will happen to him. Sometime later, his nurse comes to get his signature on the AMA form. He listens to her lecture as he signs his life away. Then she gives him a set of green hospital scrubs, a bottle of pain pills, and a gigantic hug.
The rest of the night is like watching a movie of his life.
He dresses in the scrubs, then takes the elevator up to the ICU. He pauses in the doorway of Tim's room to stare at inert from of his friend in the hospital bed. It's pitch dark with only a patch of light from the hallway to highlight Tim's pale skin against the jet-black bruises on his face. There are more machines in there than in Abby's lab and they're all hooked up to Tim by tubes and wires.
Tony can't bring himself to go inside. He can't even take a single step over the threshold. If their positions were reversed, he knows Tim would be by his side until he woke. But Tony can't stand the hiss of the ventilator or the beep beep beep of the heart rate monitor.
He just can't bear seeing his friend like this.
"I'm sorry, McGee." He swallows the regret, backs away. "Tim. I'm sorry, Tim."
Tony heads out into the frigid night to take a cab on the hospital's dime. The city streets are desolate and deserted like he and the cab drivers are the only ones left in this miserable world.
When he gets home, he takes two pain pills and chases them with Scotch until he passes out.