She lies flat on the gurney, watching the tiles on the hospital's ceiling fly past her line of vision. She shivers. Why is it so cold?
"You're going to be fine, Ziva."
She looks to the side. Tim is following behind the gurney, his hand holding hers tightly. He smiles, but his eyes betray his weariness. She knows he has gotten no sleep tonight. But he doesn't let that stop him from following her as far as he can, offering her comfort and support.
Ziva is frightened, though she'd never admit it.
They reach a door and the doctor stops them. "Sir," he says to Tim, "you'll have to wait out here." Tim is not happy about being shut out, but he doesn't say anything. He just nods, gives her a soft, tender kiss, and promises he'll be waiting right outside, that he'll be there to greet her when she comes out.
They wheel her in. She still feels so cold. There's a jolt of pain and she cries out. She wants to scream at them as they bustle around her, insist that they give her pain killers right now. But she doesn't. She can take a little pain.
"We're going to have to numb you," says one of the nurses. "This is going to hurt a bit, but then you won't feel anything."
It was an understatement, Ziva finds, as the numbing agent is administered. It didn't hurt a bit; it hurt a lot. True to the nurse's word, however, the pain ebbs and soon Ziva feels nothing. She sighs in relief, though she knows the night is not over yet.
As they continue to prep her, Ziva turns her head to the side. Standing outside, face pressed against the window like a little kid standing outside a toy store, is Tim—her Tim. He catches her eye and smiles encouragingly, giving her a thumbs-up. She mouths "I love you" to him and he reciprocates the words.
She never thought it would be so easy, really. Now that she's been numbed, there's no pain. She simply lies there as the doctors and nurses do all of the work. She could get used to this.
Minutes pass, though she is unsure how many. Her eyes are looking upward, her thoughts thinking back to the night and the accident. Tim holding her as she sobbed. Tim taking charge of the situation, going out into the rain for help. Tim cradling her in his arms, assuring her that things would be okay. And she believed him.
There had been the fight; each had made mistakes, admittedly. But, considering the situation, a fight was inevitable. The fighting didn't matter; what mattered was the end result, did they run from the situation or face it head on?
They had chosen the latter.
She feels a tugging. It brings her out of her thoughts. They tell her it's almost done. She sighs in relief. She hates hospitals. The sooner it's done with, the sooner they can go home.
Then there's a loud cry. But it isn't coming from Ziva.
"Congratulations!" the doctor says jubilantly. "You've got a healthy baby boy here!"
He stands, holding the newborn. Ziva sees him over the screen which obscures her lower abdomen from her sight. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, but they are not tears of sorrow. Straining her neck, she glances back to where Tim is standing. All of the weariness has left his body, replaced by joy and elation.
They lock eyes and share smile.
Ziva looked down at the sleeping child she held in her arms. Their son had inherited her olive-tinted skin and dark hair. From the prominent pout which remained on his face, it looked as though he'd ended up with his father's mouth. Her hand went up to his face and she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. "My hand is like a baseball mitt compared to him."
"I wish I could have been in there," Tim lamented as he caressed her hair. The C-section hadn't been planned. Ziva had been prepped for vaginal birth. Three hours into labor, though, the doctor realized the umbilical cord was wrapped around the child's neck, leaving a C-section as the only option. As Ziva was already dilating and the baby was going to come out any moment, there hadn't been time to wait for Tim while he changed into scrubs. They'd needed to get her numbed and open quickly.
"You were there," she told him. "You were standing there, watching everything. You probably saw more than I did." She nuzzled the baby boy's head. "And you got to hold him while I got sewn up."
He kissed the top of her head, pulling her body closer to his. "You know, we're going to have to name him eventually."
Ziva made a face. "Are you still pushing for Timothy Jr.?" she asked, recalling the babbling to which she'd awoken eight months prior.
"Not really," he admitted. "I was just trying to keep talking when I said that. I think naming him Timothy would make things too confusing. I'd never know if you were talking to me or to him."
"I could simply call you McGee or McGeek if you would like," she teased.
"Please don't. Timothy sounds so sexy when you say it; I'd hate to lose that."
She laughed. In her arms the baby stirred, giving a soft whine. "I am sorry, my darling," she whispered to him, kissing him atop his head. "I forgot that you were sleeping. Daddy and I will try to be quieter."
"What about Jacob?" Tim suggested.
Ziva looked up at him and then back down at their son. Jacob. It was a nice name. "Jacob McGee," she whispered. "I do believe that suits him. What do you think?" she asked the sleeping child. He didn't respond. "Well, he has no objections to it."
Tim delicately took her face in his hands, letting his thumbs stroke her cheek the way hers had stroked Jacob's moments earlier. His lips fell upon hers. He kissed her over and over, on her lips and her cheeks and her nose and her forehead. And Ziva drank it in, not caring that she had on no make-up, hadn't brushed her teeth that morning, and had just come from surgery and probably looked a fright. When you were holding a miracle child in your arms—and that's what he was, Ziva decided, seeing as he had not only managed to be conceived despite the use of two contraceptives, but had also survived a frightful accident and long exposure to the elements while within her womb—things like make-up and appearances simply don't matter so much.
The conception of the baby had been an accident—though neither Tim nor Ziva would ever say that aloud, opting to think of it as simply unplanned—but the result had been worth any troubles and tribulations through which they'd gone. Who could possibly look into that beautiful slumbering face and not fall instantly in love?
Even accidents can have blessed outcomes.
AN: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. It is, as always, greatly appreciated!