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CHAPTER 9: Visitors

For the three long days that Tony remained in the intensive care unit, Gibbs and Ducky took turns driving to Fairfax before or after work to see their missing team member and receive updates on his progress. As Tony's personal physician, Ducky was allowed to visit without question. And, since Ducky had pointed out to the vigilant nursing staff that Gibbs was, in fact, listed as Tony's next of kin, Gibbs was allowed brief visits as well. Each day Tony seemed a little stronger.

On Friday afternoon, Ducky received the phone call saying that Tony had been moved to a step-down unit, where nurses still monitored his condition with telemetry but without the constant observation provided in the ICU. Ducky broke the welcome news to the members of the MCRT and Abby.

Throughout the rest of the day, Gibbs noticed his staff checking their watches and hurrying through their paperwork in order to leave as soon as possible. He knew it would do them good to see that Tony, bad as he still looked, was safely among the living.

At precisely 5:01, Ducky appeared in the bullpen, his coat draped over one arm, and Abby on his other arm. "Jethro, I assume you'll be joining us on our trek to Fairfax to see our missing comrade in arms?"

McGee's eye opened wide and Ziva froze, unsure of how Gibbs would react.

Gibbs removed his glasses and turned off his desk light. "You're a minute late."

Ziva and McGee each breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to shut down their computers.

As Ducky waited at the elevator, he called back over his shoulder, "Let us meet in the waiting area on the third floor at the hospital. I would like to check on Anthony and have a word with his doctor before we descend upon him." The elevator doors opened. "Miss Scuito and I will be on our way."

"I get to ride in Ducky's Morgan," Abby gushed, her face beaming as the elevator doors closed.

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*****NCIS*****

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Tension hung heavy in the Fairfax waiting area as Tony's surrogate family waited for Ducky to give them the go-ahead. Finally, the eldest member of the NCIS team joined them.

"Now, you must understand that Anthony has restricted visiting hours because he is still very tired and working hard to recover."

"Ducky?" Abby asked, her soulful eyes pleading. "Can we see him now?"

Ducky pursed his lips and nodded. "The doctor says you may see him briefly, no more than two at a time." He paused in thought. "Be aware that Anthony is still in considerable pain. There simply is no comfortable position for him—with his leg in the condition it's in and requiring elevation. I'm afraid that places our Anthony directly on his bruised and sutured back."

Tim winced in sympathy. He knew the state of Tony's back all too well. To have his body weight pressing down on the stitches . . . . McGee shuddered.

"Anthony is still lightly sedated and on rather strong pain medication, so you mustn't expect a lot of conversation from the poor lad, and be aware that movement of any kind will bring him considerable discomfort." His eyes flicked surreptitiously over to Abby.

Abby blinked back the wetness rising in her wide eyes. "Air hugs only, Ducky. I promise."

That brought a smile to the medical examiner's haggard face. "And he must keep the air mask on, except to eat or drink." His eyes searched out Ziva and Gibbs, who had remained pointedly silent.

Ziva chewed on her lower lip as she studied McGee. Gibbs remained as difficult to read as ever.

"Jethro?" Ducky inquired, expecting him to be the first to see Tony.

Gibbs gave him a half smile. "Never been much of the hugging type, Ducky."

That elicited an entertained snort from Ziva.

McGee hadn't responded at all to the slight levity. If anything, he looked anxious to the point of jitters, and his neck had turned a bright pink that threatened to climb to his cheeks.

"McGee," Gibbs began, "go check on that partner of yours. He asked about you a couple days ago in ICU. Forgot to mention it."

McGee's head jerked up in surprise. "He did?" Because Gibbs and Abby had known Tony the longest, McGee had assumed they would be Tony's first official visitors. "You sure, Boss? Are you sure you wouldn't . . . ?"

"You questioning me, McGee?"

"No, sir—I mean Gibbs—um, Boss! Got it! On my way!" He stood up without further hesitation.

Abby took McGee's arm and led him toward Tony's room.

Despite Ducky's descriptions over the past few days, Tony's condition still shocked them as they entered his room. Tim had always hated hospitals. And now, even as he looked at his partner, cleaned up and bandaged, McGee still smelled and saw the blood-soaked clothing, heard Tony's screams of agony echoing in his mind. A small noise broke Tim from his disturbing thoughts.

Tony's eyes had opened to half-mast and closed again. He lifted his oxygen mask and took in a shaky breath. "What's new, Pussy Cat?" he slurred in a gravelly voice, clearly directing his comment to Abby, who smiled broadly in return.

"Oooh . . . sexy voice. It goes with your scruffy whiskers."

Tony smiled wanly, opening his eyes again. "No hug?"

"I promised Ducky no bone-crushers, so here . . . ." She very carefully leaned over the bed and kissed Tony's forehead, leaving a distinctive red SWAK mark. "Oops," she added quietly, not liking the visual reminder of the last time Tony had been in the hospital for an extended stay.

"S'okay, Abby."

Tony's face brightened visibly when his eyes found Tim. "McGee . . . ."

"Hey there, Tony, you look better than the last time I saw you, you know."

Tony's hand came up and he pointed a finger at McGee. "That guy there . . . I'll never . . . never call you 'McSqueamish' again. He . . . you . . . saved my life . . . and limb."

McGee couldn't speak past the unexpected lump in his throat. Instead of responding verbally, he blushed furiously and returned Tony's oxygen mask to his face. "I think you're supposed to keep that on."

Tony's entire body relaxed, a slight smile on his face. He breathed in deeply and whispered under the mask, "I owe you a new necktie." Then he drifted back to sleep.

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*****NCIS*****

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Tony was still sleeping when Ziva's turn to visit him came. After five minutes of watching him lie still in his narrow bed, her own eyes grew heavy and she leaned her head back against the wall, intending to rest for just a moment. But her sleep-deprived body had other plans. She had become so exhausted over the past four days that her sleep launched into dreams—disturbing dreams—within minutes of falling asleep.

When Tony finally awakened, his hoarse voice was so soft that Ziva did not fully awaken. Her dream pulled her back in.

"What's wrong?" Tony asked again, his voice quiet, his speech slurred.

Ziva's head jerked froward, and she looked around the hospital room, disoriented at first, still waking from her nightmare. She could only assume she had called out and had awakened Tony. But when she looked at him, he looked as he had just minutes before. Maybe it had been her dream. Her nightmare. Her own traumatic past battling with her current emotions.

Ziva's dream had put her back in Somalia. She had seen Tony's battered and dehydrated body as he sat tied to the chair where Salim had kept him for those many days. He and McGee had come for her, but in her nightmare their plan had failed. Instead, the potent concoction that Salim had injected into Tony's vein proved deadly. For hours, she had seen Tony tormented. She saw him bite into his own lower lip to fight against the strong drugs and in order to not divulge Gibbs' location. Finally his tightly restrained cries of pain had diminished to whimpers as his life drained from him completely. His chin rested against his chest in a grim bow. When Gibbs' fatal shot had finally come, it had been too late. Too late for Tony.

The dream's impact shifted as reality set in. Ziva felt tears on her face, the hair around her face damp. Tony lay still, eyes closed, as he had been when she had inadvertently nodded off. She stepped to the sink and splashed water on her face, patting it dry with a rough paper towel from above the sink. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as her mind tried to sort her most recent nightmare from the truth.

Tony's words in Somalia that lifetime ago returned. "I guess I can't live without you," he had said. She hadn't dreamt that.

Yet here he lay, the possibility of his death once again taunting her, as fate again dangled Tony's life off a cliff. She sniffled and wiped a stray tear on her sleeve as she returned to the chair by his bed.

"Ziva?" The weak and gravelly voice returned, muffled under the mask supplying him with a rich mix of oxygen and air. Her own deep brown eyes met Tony's hazel ones, almost completely green today, barely open, but observant. "Tears? Why?" he asked again quietly.

"Why? What do you mean, why? You are hurt and I am scared."

"S'okay," Tony slurred, closing his eyes again.

"That is easy for you to say," she teased quietly. "You are on drugs. I am not. And I am not accustomed to feeling scared. I do not like it." She absently stroked the small part of the back of his hand free of needles or tape.

"S'nice . . . . 'm getting better," he mumbled as he returned to sleep.

She knew he had fallen asleep, but she still needed voice her thoughts. "I saw that pile where the barn had been, and I knew you were under there, hurt. I wanted to go to you, and I couldn't. I had to do my job, and I hated it. I hated the feeling. And when you came out . . . ," tears began to stream down her face again, this time unchecked, "and your body and face were covered, I . . . I thought you were dead, and I ached. Intensely. And then I realized you were alive, and . . . ." She shook her head and wiped away the tears, taking a deep breath and sitting up straight as she looked toward the door self-consciously. "I am glad you are alive."

Ziva now realized just how horribly she had treated Tony after Michael's death, and how deeply she had hurt him in Somalia. She knew he forgave her, even knew at some level that he loved her. But their friendship was complicated—so many false paths and mercurial intricacies. She knew that now—more than ever.

This was not her first nightmare since the explosion—or since her parting with Ray. She had been suffering a recurring dream, and she knew its roots were in her guilt and her fear of losing another person that she cared about. This time, Tony had discovered Ray's crime, as if the Michael story were repeating itself. In her dream, Tony confronted Ray, not Michael, in her apartment. She watched, helpless, while they fought. Only, Ray hadn't been drinking the way Michael had, and Tony did not gain the upper hand.

Ray struck Tony full in the face and the NCIS agent fell backward onto the glass coffee table, shattering it. He writhed in pain on the ground, a large dagger of glass protruding from his calf, but he managed to aim his gun at Ray before Ray could take aim with his own.

"Don't do it!" Tony warned. "Put it down!"

"I can wait here all day," Ray said coolly. "You're bleeding to death."

"Put the gun down . . . ," Tony repeated, his voice faltering, his arm shaking. His aim began to falter, then the gun fell from his grasp.

Ray lowered his gun and Ziva felt a moment of hope.

"See?" Ray said. "Bleeding to death."

Ziva watched powerlessly as Ray raised his gun and again aimed it at her partner's chest. He pulled the trigger, shook his head, and callously stepped over Tony and out the door.

Ziva raced to Tony's side, her eyes full of tears. "Why did you not take the shot? You had it!" She pulled his upper body onto her lap and held him close, burying her face in his hair. "Why did you not take the shot?"

With only the ghost of a whisper, Tony simply replied, "I couldn't do that to you again."

The vivid dream always left Ziva shaking and breathless when she woke. But this time, instead of the flood of relief that usually came at the end of the dream, she now awakened to the reality of the past and Tony's present condition: injured, ill, deathly pale, and so frighteningly weak. At least, unlike in her nightmare, he still had some life left in him. And at least she was here.

"Tony, Tony, Tony . . . ," she whispered.

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*****NCIS*****

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The following morning Ducky brought tea. He gave Tony a choice between aristocratic and fragrant Earl Grey and classic English breakfast tea.

"Of course, to make it correctly, Anthony, one really must begin by pouring boiling water in a tea pot. You must not neglect the importance of a tea cozy, either, because that is what keeps the pot hot. Now, a lot of Americans, my dear boy, actually think this is the water from which to brew the tea. But that is simply not so! One must pour that water out once the pot is fully warmed, and then begin the brewing process with fresh water that has just come to a full boil. The tea leaves must have time to fully expand and steep for a minimum of five minutes. This must not be cut short!"

"It's okay, Ducky, really. I'm not that picky with tea. Either is fine."

"Well, I have brought both, so you may as well choose. I did brew it properly at home, and I heated the thermos before transferring the tea, so it should be acceptable, given the circumstances."

Tony was in hell. He loved Ducky like some quirky eccentric favorite uncle, but this was a bit much.

"Surprise me."

"Well then, given the time of day, we shall start you with English Breakfast tea." He removed a china teacup and saucer carefully wrapped in a pale yellow, linen tea towel from his medical bag and poured Tony a cup of relatively hot tea.

"Now, off with the mask." He gently removed Tony's oxygen mask. "Inhale the steam, Anthony. It will do you good. Then sip and enjoy."

Much to Tony's amazement, the tea tasted wonderful. The heat soothed Tony's throat and warmed him from the inside out. He knew how much time and thought Ducky had put into the gesture, and it touched him more than he expected.

"Thanks, Ducky. I hear Gibbs came in last night, but I was sleeping."

"Yesterday was a big day for you. You were inundated with visitors for hours."

"Yeah. Big day."

"You seem low, Anthony. Rest assured that despite how you may feel at the moment, you are doing well. This will not last forever."

"I gotta tell you, Ducky, this is . . . this is . . . déjà vu all . . . all over again," Tony wheezed tightly.

Ducky's lip twitched slightly in compassion. "Ah, you are of course quoting the great Yogi Berra. It is, at that, Anthony, but at least bomb injuries and open fractures are something that our local doctors have some experience with . . . although they are usually incurred in combat, and not by a plague survivor, and, well, you know what I'm getting at."

Tony rolled his eyes and chuckled, which brought on another round of coughing.

Ducky deftly rescued the tea cup from Tony's hands.

"Damn sick of this. Hard . . . hard to believe that holding a teacup . . . and talking kicks my ass like this."

Ducky nodded slowly in agreement and placed Tony's teacup on his tray table, next to the thermos. He lifted the mask back over Tony's mouth and nose. "We really must put this back on, Anthony, to let your body get what rest it can. The alternative is much more invasive—and fraught with its own host of nasty complications with injuries such as yours."

"Trust me, Ducky, I'm not going on a vent." Tony adjusted the mask to a more comfortable fit.

"I shall return in an hour or so, and, if you are awake, we might share another cup of tea. Perhaps the Earl Grey. It is, of course, named after Charles Grey, the second earl in his line and Prime Minister during the reign of King William IV in the early 19th century. The legend is that the earl was given the recipe by a Chinese Mandarin with whom he was friends, and whose life he had saved."

Tony's eyes had closed.

"But I shall tell you more when you are feeling stronger. Rest."

"Thanks, Ducky."