I Am Damaged Goods
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible."
- George Chakiris
"Chanukah comes early this year, doesn't it?" Anthony DiNozzo asked into the silence of the eleventh floor hospital room. He didn't expect an answer, even though it was what he wanted so desperately. All he wanted was for her to answer him – some assurance that she was indeed there inside herself.
Snowflakes fell outside the window, sticking to the glass.
About two hours after she'd had what Tony still assumed was a nightmare, Ziva had been moved out of recovery and into a private room on the eleventh floor. With what had happened earlier, nobody wanted to chance her rooming with a stranger.
As he'd promised Elizabeth, he hadn't left her since.
His attempt at some form of conversation was futile, but he'd known it would be. The NCIS agent had sunk into a light green chair placed close to her bed. Luckily, it wasn't plastic this time, but had a wooden frame and a thin cushion.
There were only a few members of the team still in the hospital. Gibbs and Abby were in the café: the boss had been trying to get the forensics analyst to eat something. McGee was back at headquarters with the team who was investigating O'Neil, providing any information or files that they didn't yet have. Ducky and Palmer were back at autopsy – they always had work to do. There simply wasn't a reason for all of them to hang around her hospital room. The most helpful thing for any of them to do was to help with the investigation for the time being.
Since the interview with Harold O'Neil, no new information had been found on the younger brother. Gibbs hadn't gotten any straight location out of the older brother – only that, yes, he'd been taking care of Donald since he'd been assumed dead five years ago. That was the time when the man his wife had been cheating with had beaten him up. From what Gibbs had gotten from the bragging older brother, Donald had been taken under the wing of Harold, and, together, the two had begun killing unfaithful navy wives. Harold, the older brother, had been the brawn of the team, and Donald had been the brains. That much had been obvious.
The only thing now unknown was exactly where the younger O'Neil was.
"You know, I am going to teach you how to make a proper snow angel one of these days." Tony said, eying the snow outside. "The trick is to-"
"Stand up inside of it. Yes, I know." Ziva spoke, a whisper at first that rose in volume. She wasn't looking at him, but at the ceiling instead. "I have made a snow angel before, Tony."
He was shocked by the sudden conversation, but pleased that she was speaking. She hadn't spoken much since her nightmare – and for most of that time, he'd sat in silence next to her, letting her know that he was there.
"You know, your doctor said you could have some water." Tony suggested, eyes falling to the pitcher. Ziva nodded, still not meeting his eyes. He poured a glass of water, intending to help her drink it, but the young woman took the plastic cup with a shaking hand. Refusing to abandon helping her, he steadied it. He should have known she wouldn't accept help when it wasn't absolutely necessary: for someone who was used to being completely independent, having to need help was going to bother her.
"Toda." She murmured, to which Tony responded with a nod, replacing the cup on the table. Her eyes were on the ceiling still when she said, softly, "I hate this."
Unsure if it was a comment meant for him, Tony hesitated. When he didn't answer, she continued as if he'd spoken. "I am helpless." She could not get past it – what use was she now? She was of no use, and she hated to rely on others.
He looked at her and realized she was looking back. Her dark eyes were scared, more vulnerable than he'd seen her in years of working with her. "You're not helpless." He told her.
"I cannot fight. I cannot run." She countered. "What more is there?"
Tony shook his head. "You're alive, Ziva. You don't have to do any of those things, Zi. Not anymore. Just get better."
"It is easy for you to say that." She said. "You are not the one who has pins in her leg."
"I'm not going to leave, you know."
"What?" She asked; confusion apparent in her voice.
"Just because you think you're worthless doesn't mean that you are, or that we're going to abandon you. We don't just keep you around because you can fight. We're not going to throw you out because you can't kick someone's ass." The mere fact that she thought that was even a possibility, that her father and her past made her think she could be worthless because she wasn't able to fight, made him considerably sick to his stomach.
She didn't answer, and her eyes were on the ceiling again, but a single tear had made its way down her cheek.
TBC
Author's Note:
I'm writing this with a five month old kitten on my lap. He's enjoying the story as I much the rest of you are – the response to this story has been amazing. I can't believe it, that there are people out there enjoying reading this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Clark (the aforementioned kitten) would really, really love it if you would review – and so would I. It means a lot to me, it lets me know what you're thinking of what I've been writing … so please, if you could, review. You're all awesome!