Readers, readers readers! You are so fabulous! I love your type-y fingers and read-y eyes! I love your comments and alerts. I am really anxious to keep the ball rolling after my writing stay-cation, so here is another chapter for your enjoyment. Read on. And thanks times fifty-eleven.
. . . .
You work it the system; you see possibilities
And your glistenin' eyes show the hell you're gonna give 'em
-Indigo Girls, "Pendulum Swinger."
. . . .
Tony woke up to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. Justine was standing over him, smiling in the dim early-morning light.
"Morning," she whispered. "I just got a call from Dr. Monroe. Dr. Miller is on her way over—she should be here in about an hour. I was told to get you both up and moving."
He smiled and turned over. The cot was hard and narrow and the thin mattress did little to protect his joints from the bars beneath it. He felt achy and tender.
"Mmph. I'm up."
Justine was making a few notes in Ziva's file. "No nightmares, huh? She made it the whole way through?"
He nodded, drowsy. "Yeah, she slept like a rock. Maybe we should skip the afternoon nap more often."
She chuckled. "I don't think anyone wants a repeat of yesterday. Go grab a coffee while I take care of her."
"I can't leave if she's still asleep." He stood, stretched, and grabbed Ziva's right hand in his own, ignoring the splint. "Hey, ninja. Time to wake up."
She moaned and wrinkled her nose.
"Hey," he said again. "C'mon. It's time. You slept really well and now it's morning."
She propped up one lid and gave him a dirty look.
He stroked her cheek. "Zee-vah," he sang. "Good morniiiiing."
"Ugh," she gurgled. "Stop. Tired."
"I know, but Dr. Miller is on her way. You need to get up and get through your morning routine before she gets here."
"Ok." She swallowed roughly and opened both eyes, blinking hard.
"Listen, I need a coffee. You'll be fine while I run downstairs, right?"
"…right," she echoed. "Go. Fine."
He smiled. "That's my brave girl. Back in five, ok?"
"Yes." She smiled and opened her mouth so Justine could clear her airway.
He kissed her brow and left at a jog.
Gibbs met him at the coffee cart. "Got called in. Miller's on her way."
Tony nodded and paid for his cup. "Yeah, Ziva's getting her catheter changed now."
"No meltdown?"
"Nope," he replied proudly. "Said I could go. Didn't even cry."
Gibbs smirked. "Let's see how it is when we get back."
Ziva was just starting her nebulizer treatment when the returned. Gibbs kissed her cheek. "How you doin' Ziver?"
She smiled and continued to breathe deeply.
"This is the first time in two days I've seen you not crying," he teased gently. "Think you can go the whole day?"
She smiled brighter and rolled her eyes.
Tony sat stiffly in the recliner, elbows on his knees, coffee in his right hand. "I'm tired today. Maybe I'll throw a tantrum."
Gibbs delivered a stiff head-slap. "Won't get you anywhere, DiNozzo."
He winced. "Except to the cot for a nap."
Ziva gave Gibbs a look and held out her hands; again, she'd waited for him to switch her wrist supports. He opened his mouth to tease her about it, but a soft voice stopped him.
"Hello?" Dr. Miller was standing just inside the doorway. She was younger than any of them expected—almost baby-faced except for the very fine lines around her blue eyes. She smiled warmly and adjusted the laptop and files on her hip, then reached out to shake everyone's hands, Ziva included.
"I'm Dr. Petra Miller, the Speech-Language Pathologist Dr. Monroe recommended. It's a pleasure to meet you all. How are you, Ziva?"
"Ok," she mumbled from beneath the mask. Steam rose from the vents and clouded her vision.
Dr. Miller clucked and Tony and Gibbs exchanged glances; all of Ziva's other doctors were direct, frank, casual. Miller was soft, gentle, even maternal.
She delicately adjusted the nebulizer mask. "I'm going to ask your friends a few questions while you're finishing that, ok? Then you and I will spend most of the morning together."
Tony went on alert. "We need to stay."
Miller smiled. "Of course! I'd never ask you to leave." She sat, crossed her legs, and opened her laptop. "So, can you tell me a little about Ziva's strengths?"
Tony smiled. "She speaks six languages. She's fast, sharp, funny, and a little quirky. She's remarkably gentle for someone who was trained to kill. Literally. She's equally demanding and generous."
Dr. Miller turned to Gibbs. "And your thoughts?"
He nodded. "She's persistent, driven, a conscientious team member. Her PT called her a good student."
She nodded. "That's what I've heard. Do you think her injuries have made an impact on her personality?"
"She's incredibly frustrated," Gibbs blurted. "Impatient, quick to anger, crying more than I've ever seen."
Tony looked down at the floor. "She's never been fearful, but since she got hurt it's like she's afraid of her own shadow. She hates to be alone, hates to be touched below the waist. She's into throwing tantrums to get what she wants."
Miller took notes as they spoke. "This all sounds like frustration to me. Couple that with the head injury and you've got a recipe for depression, anxiety, anger, sadness. Has anything helped her moods?"
"Constant company," Tony answered quickly. "Devorah is great—Ziva was really athletic before the accident and now that she's immobile I think therapy is the only thing she looks forward to."
"And Abby," Gibbs reminded him. "Our forensic scientist has made Ziva into a mission. She brings toys, clothes, blankets and mementos from home—anything she thinks is going to make her happy."
Dr. Miller smiled, nodded. "I understand that need to help. What's her line of injury?"
"T1/C7" Tony supplied. "They told us she was paralyzed from the chest down, but she has sensation to the hips. Abby discovered that early on."
"She feels it when Devorah stretches her legs," Gibbs cut in. "Says it's 'hot'."
Dr. Miller glanced at Ziva, who was dozing. "How is she coping with the paralysis?"
Gibbs and Tony looked at each other. Tony shrugged. "She hasn't mentioned it much, other than to tell me 'I do not walk.' I uh…got a little sentimental one day. Told her I didn't care that she couldn't walk. She didn't seem to, either."
She smiled. "Has Dr. Monroe recommended a psychiatrist for her? Or even a licensed clinical social worker? She might need some mental health support."
Gibbs scrubbed at the back of his neck. "She's on Lorazepam for her anxiety. She can barely string two words together, what the hell kind of help is a headshrinker going to be?"
"You'd be surprised at how well she'll communicate if you give her time. She hasn't kept you guys guessing, has she?"
"No," he grumbled. "But we know her, it's not like she's some stranger we're trying to figure out. She's…my kid."
Miller smiled. "You sound like a very good father." She closed her file. "I'm going to do a brief exam now and then move on to the verbal and oral-motor portion of the evaluation. Ziva, are you ready to talk to me?"
Justine came in and lifted off the nebulizer mask and replaced it with an oxygen cannula.
"Ok," she agreed easily.
"I'm going to ask your friends to help me with this first part. I need you to lie down and we'll take off your brace." She was already flattening the bed. "I need to touch your throat and mouth. Let me know if I make you uncomfortable."
Dr. Miller snapped on a pair of latex gloves while Tony and Gibbs turned Ziva on her back and removed her brace. Gibbs slid a rolled hand towel under her neck for support; they couldn't steady her head by hand if the doctor was doing an exam.
"Ready?"
"Yes," Ziva said steadily
Dr. Miller probed her throat and neck, checked her lymph nodes, asked her to swallow a few times. She felt along her jaw and all the way behind her ears. Satisfied, she stepped back and smiled.
"You're doing very nicely. No trouble swallowing means you should be back on a regular diet sooner than you think."
Ziva smiled and blinked up at her.
As when she'd woken from the Propofol sedation, Miller had her smile, puff her cheeks, stick out her tongue, and blow kisses to Gibbs and Tony.
"Great job so far. We're almost done. I need to look inside you mouth—feel around in there to make sure there's no damage to your oral surfaces or any blockages in our way. Can I do that now?"
Ziva sucked in a breath and looked away. "Ok."
"I'll be very gentle," she said softly, and used her index finger to prod delicately at her tongue and palate. She'd barely touched anything but Ziva's eyes grew wet, her breathing ragged. Tony stood, expecting her to fall apart, but Miller waved him down.
"Ok, too scary. I'll stop." She snapped off her gloves and stroked Ziva's hair. "It's ok, I won't hurt you. Shh."
Remarkably, Ziva let Dr. Miller comfort her, regaining her self-control quickly. Only a few tears escaped before she sighed and looked up.
"Ok," she said quiet. "I…ok."
Miller nodded. "How about I just look inside? I won't touch anything."
"Ok."
She retrieved a light and a tongue depressor and started over, explaining each gentle ministration as she went. Ziva was calm, flinching only once when the stick touched a particularly sore spot on the right side.
She pulled back and snapped off the light. "Ziva, how many times have you had tonsillitis?"
Her brow furrowed. "Hm?"
"Your tonsils are enlarged and full of holes which tells me you have a long history of tonsillitis. Do you get a lot of sore throats?"
Ziva looked away.
"Answer her," Gibbs jibed gently. "No secrets, Ziver."
"Yes."
"How often?"
"Dunno," she muttered.
"Ziver," he warned.
She huffed in aggravation. "Dunno," she insisted.
Dr. Miller rubbed her arm. "How about snoring?"
"Oh. My. God," Tony drawled. "You have no idea. It's so loud—she snorts and snores and kicks like a mule. We had to do a stint in Paris, once, and I would've asked for a separate room on another floor if it wouldn't have blown our cover."
"That sounds like sleep apnea. Do you get a lot of colds, Ziva?"
"Constantly," Tony answered again. "Every other month during the winter."
She shot him a hard scowl and he shrugged. "What? She needs to know, Zi."
Dr. Miller nodded again. "I will continue on with my eval, but I would like to schedule a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy ASAP. Part of the problem is that her tonsils are getting in the way—that's why her voice is higher and more nasal than usual. It also explains the snoring, the poor sleep, the colds, the sore throats and some of the disprosody—her weak oral muscles can't compensate for the swollen nodes. It's also likely that they had a hand in the pneumonia; tonsils can harbor a lot of bacteria. Recovery from the surgery should take about two weeks and then we'll start on the treatment plan. Let's get you up so we can continue. Tony?"
He replaced the CTO quickly and easily then elevated the head of the bed. Ziva smiled at him, grateful and a little impish.
"What?" He asked innocently.
"Ha…Ha-ir. You."
He brushed a hand over his head and laughed—his hair was standing on end, sticking out behind his ears, his prized forelock hanging down between his eyes. "Funny girl," he snarked. "You just wait; you'll get your dues."
"Ok, Ziva," Dr. Miller redirected. "I am going to hold up a card with a picture on it. You tell me what you see." She held up a picture of a bird.
Ziva stared, squinted, hummed. "Bird," she finally sighed.
Tony silently congratulated her.
The next image was a tree and Ziva said so without hesitation.
The third was a house and she looked at Tony happily. "Home," she declared.
The fourth was a dripping faucet and she stuttered, looking wide-eyed at all three expectant faces.
"It's ok Ziver," Gibbs offered. "That's not an easy one."
She gave them a sad smile. "More," she said clearly and with a confidence she didn't feel.
The next was a guitar. Ziva clicked her tongue in frustration and furrowed her brow.
"You know what this is," Dr. Miller chided.
"Yes," Ziva sniped back, but she could only force out the first g sound. She blew out a breath, furious.
Dr. Miller flipped to a familiar sight.
"Owl!" Ziva crowed happily, and scanned the room for hers. "Mine."
Tony retrieved it from the rolling bedside table. "Here. Though I suppose you should give it a name if you're going to claim it like that."
"Shush," she huffed. "More."
Dr. Miller flashed a truck, a car, a fish, a bed, a shirt, and a bucket. Ziva managed to name only the fish and the car; the others were lost between her brain and her mouth. Her frustration increased, and with it came fatigue. She flagged, sagging against the mattress. Tony stroked her arm.
"We're running at a thirty-five percent success rate," the doctor said, and noticed the fallen faces around her. "That's pretty good, actually. I was expecting less than twenty. Let's move on quickly and then she can take a nap."
She laid five of the cards on the table-a table, a cat, a strawberry, a bowl, and a computer-and asked Ziva to pick the bowl.
Like her experience with the owl, she bit her lip and balked. "No".
"Can't find the bowl?"
"No."
The doctor moved the cards around. "How about now. Can you find the bowl?"
"Hm." Her fingers worried the edge of the quilt. "No."
"Ok. I'm going to put these away, but I want talk a little bit first."
Ziva looked at her quizzically.
Dr. Miller reached down and took both of her hands. "So I'm an SLP but my specialty—the reason I was in Canada—is women survivors of terror and terror-based captivity. Do you know what that means?"
She swallowed thickly. "Yes."
Dr. Miller nodded. "So you know why I was called?"
"Yes," she said again, and breathed hard through her nose.
"Ziva?" The doctor asked gently. "Dr. Monroe and Dr. Mallard told me a little bit about what you went through in Africa a few years ago. I don't want to presume, but I think it has a lot to do with the anxiety you're having. Am I wrong?"
Her eyes filled again. "No."
Miller slid a hand down Ziva's arm—a calming, quiet gesture of support. "I understand how your mobility issues bring up all those old memories. You thought you were done with all of that, and then bam, it all comes rushing back because you can't scratch your nose or check your watch. The helplessness, fear, loss, sadness, abandonment—I understand completely why you wouldn't want to be alone."
Ziva sniffed, fat crocodile tears sliding down her cheeks. "Abba left," she stuttered.
"I heard he went back to Israel. But what about that Abba?" She pointed at Gibbs, who smirked and sipped his coffee. "Is he going to leave?"
Ziva eyed him slowly, sideways. "Hm."
"You know the answer to that, David," he huffed. "What did I tell you yesterday and the day before…and the day before that?"
"Back," she said casually.
"And did I come back?"
"Yes," she replied slowly, squinting at him.
"So?"
"No…left."
"What am I?" Tony scoffed. "Chopped liver?"
"Ack," Ziva nearly gagged, then sobered. "No. No. Left."
"Another point for the Mossad assassin," he deadpanned. "No, Zee-vah, I'm not leaving. I don't care if I have to tell you a million times—I'm not going anywhere. Except to the bathroom occasionally." He shot her a deliberate look, half-desperate, half-wry.
She giggled and coughed. "Ok," she agreed.
Dr. Miller cleared her airway like an expert. "I'm going to talk to Dr. Monroe about your surgeries and come up with a plan. You need to take a nap—Devorah is coming at two. Want me to help you get settled?"
Ziva looked at Gibbs and Tony. "No. Thanks."
"Sure. Get some rest."
Dr. Miller left, and Tony and Gibbs turned her to the side. She was drifting on the Dilantin, blinking at them with a tiny smile on her face.
"Sleep, David," Gibbs ordered. "We'll be here."
Tony sat back in his seat. "How do you feel about her having those operations? Think she'll be ok?"
"They're minor," Gibbs replied smoothly. "If she wasn't already here they'd be an outpatient procedure. It'll actually be easier with the feeding tube; we won't have to worry about getting her to eat or drink, post-op. Kelly had it done. Took her two weeks to get back on her feet. And Ziva's tougher than she was."
"You're probably right," Tony sighed. "I just don't like the idea of her having another procedure. But Miller and Monroe are good; they wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her long-term recovery. I should trust them."
"You don't have a choice," Gibbs growled.
"And there's that," Tony shrugged.
Tim tiptoed in, smiling. "Hey, I just saw Dr. Miller in the hall. She said Ziva did great today. And the tonsillectomy is a good thing; she'll probably get better control of her secretions."
Tony laughed. "You're always talking about secretions, McGoo. You're worse than the respiratory therapist."
He blushed. "It's an important part of her care, Tony. Do you want her to get sick again?"
"No, I don't, McBooger. I just need to joke once in a while because I'm likely to lose my mind if I don't."
"Enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs said without malice. "What d'ya got, McGee?"
"I ran a background check on Thomas DeCroo. He's clean as a whistle but his brother, Carlos, is bad news. He's been running with the Carvelli boys of Baltimore; racketeering, money laundering, hits for hire, minor narcotics charges." He produced a photo from the fold of his laptop. "We picked him up on a drug deal gone wrong in Rock Creek Park. Remember the McGinnis case?"
Gibbs studied the photo; they'd questioned him, but found no reason to make an arrest. "Yeah."
"Well we picked up one of the Carvellis—Gianni—when we questioned Carlos DeCroo about Private McGinnis. And if you remember correctly, Carvelli got out of hand."
Gibbs sat back and sighed. "Ziva subdued him in Interrogation. You think this is payback?"
"Looks like it. Carvelli and DeCroo are in the wind. Newmark is up for questioning again tomorrow. His lawyer is difficult to get ahold of."
Tony leaned forward. "I can't be on this one."
"No, you can't," Gibbs agreed. "I'll tell Vance to pull your card. But McGee, get Davis' crew out on—"
"Already done, Boss. They're tracking him now. I bet we'll see them back in DC tomorrow night or early Friday morning."
"Good," Gibbs nodded. "Let him stew at Central for the weekend. Loosen him up a little bit."
Tim shrugged. "You off this, too, Boss?"
"Guess so. I can't be two places at once, and being her healthcare proxy means my interest is too vested."
Tim nodded. "Wish I could say the same. I need to get back—Abby and I are looking over Ziva's scans this afternoon."
"Keep us in the know," Gibbs said, and waved.
. . . .
The lab was silent, uncharacteristically so, when Tim returned. The music was off, Major Mass Spec hulked silently against the wall, and only on CPU hummed through a search. Abby was swaying by the lightboard, staring at Ziva's images and wringing her hands. She jumped when he put a hand on her shoulder.
"Did you see these?" She blurted. "The x-rays? Broken fingers and toes, broken radii, broken ribs, a missing molar, tendon damage in her wrist, right shoulder, and hip." She spun to face him. "And those are just the things that went unreported. She's broken both collarbones, her right scapula, her left tib-fib. And her head is mess." She switched the images. "Look at these scars on her skull—four of them over the parietal area—they're places where blood flow was interrupted. She's been through hell, Timmy. Literally. And now, with what we know about, DeCroo and the Carvellis, I'm sadder." She sighed and nuzzled against his chest. "What did Dr. Miller say?"
He wrapped both arms around her and squeezed. "That she's got expressive aphasia. And apparently her snoring is a result of sleep apnea—she's having a combined tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy either tomorrow or over the weekend."
Abby gasped. "That's horrible! I can't even give her popsicles!"
"I know, but it'll be a really good thing in the long run. She'll get fewer colds and her speech will improve faster, post-recovery."
"Fine," she sniffed, and stepped back. "Can I still see her tonight?"
"I don't see why not. She loves when you visit. Should we pick up Thai for everyone?"
She shook her head. "Gibbs won't eat Thai. We need to go with either Chinese or pizza. You pick."
He shrugged. "I forget sometimes that he eats like a college freshman." He did a time-check on his phone. "I need to write up a few reports. Should I come down at five and we'll go together?"
She opened her hands. "But then I can't stop to buy her presents."
"I don't think Ziva needs any more presents. She's pretty busy as is."
Abby pouted. "Timmy, it sucks to be in the hospital. If I don't bring her presents it'll just suck even more. Oh hey! Gibbs finished those puzzle boxes! Let's stop at his house and get them!"
"We'll get one," he conceded. "But I think we should save the rest for her surgery recovery. I think she'll need something to do in those two weeks. She'll have PT, but not Speech, and I'm willing to bet she'll get bored."
"Do you think Dr. Miller will do that singing therapy after recovers? Maybe I should put some new songs on her iPod. Like Primus or Plastic Death Spoons or Shredded Breakfast. Something really easy to follow."
Tim was anxious to get back to his desk. "I don't know, Abby. I just need to get my work done and then we can go ask."
She slammed her hand on her mouse. "Fine, go. I'll finish this search and we'll to the hospital. Just be quick. She's probably sick of Tony and Gibbs by now. How many hours of coffee and bad jokes can she possibly stand?"
. . . .
"Zivvie! How was your day? How was Dr. Miller? Tim said she's really nice! Is she really nice?"
Ziva smiled once the shock of Abby's entrance wore off. "Yes. Nice. And…and…"
Abby opened the takeout bags from How Lee and passed around entrees. "And what? Oh, I know about your surgery tomorrow. My little brother had his tonsils and adenoids out when he was in middle school. He got to eat all the popsicles and ice cream he wanted afterward." She whipped around to Gibbs, raising her hands in question. "Can she have popsicles?" She shrugged and dropped her hands. "Tell me they won't do the surgery unless she can have popsicles."
He stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, grounding her and stopping the outburst. "Abby, we need to see how well she's breathing and coughing afterward. If she can swallow without making them worry about aspiration then she can have popsicles after surgery."
"Yay! Ziva, popsicles! I'll only bring you red ones—they're the best. Unless there's another flavor you like."
"No," she said. "Red."
"Ok, great. Hey, I brought you something to play with."
Gibbs cleared his throat.
"If you're up to playing, of course."
"Yes," she said immediately. "What?"
Abby rolled the table on casters up to the bed. "This is a puzzle box—Gibbs made it for you. Isn't it pretty? I did the staining myself. You have to take it apart and then put it back together. Looks easy, right? Wrong. They're pretty tricky. Want to try?"
"Yes," she agreed readily, and held out a hand. "Mine."
Abby handed it to her with a flourish. Ziva pondered, turning it in her hands. She disassembled it quickly and laid the pieces on the roll-up table.
"Wow," Tim mused. "You are really doing great in PT. Look at your dexterity—it's getting harder to tell that you've had a high spinal cord injury."
She sniffed. "Devorah," she said haughtily. "It's…hard."
"But you're a champ," Tony said around a mouthful of shrimp-fried rice.
She looked over her puzzle pieces, took a breath, and closed her eyes. Tim grew worried and leaned forward, but Tony waved his hands.
She's fine, he mouthed, a half-chewed bamboo shoot sliding onto his chin. He shoveled it back in with the flat edge of his chopstick.
Sure enough, Ziva opened her eyes and slowly, almost cautiously, reassembled the puzzle box, sliding it across the table after she clicked in the last piece.
"Did it," she gloated, eyes roving.
Tony cupped her cheek. "That's my genius ninja. Right? You are so great, Zi." He kissed her gently.
"Gibbs," Abby worried. "You need to make more of those. Harder ones, too. I mean, she just did that in about two minutes."
Ziva gave him a soft look. "Thanks."
He stroked her hair, kissed her ear. "Welcome, Ziver. You need to get to sleep; they're coming to get you at six tomorrow."
She looked away. "Hm."
"It takes less than an hour. You'll be back there before DiNozzo even wipes the drool from his face."
She smiled. "Yes."
"No tears, ok? You've done really well today. Let's finish out strong."
She me his gaze with clear, steady brown eyes. "Ok."
"That's my girl. I'm going home to my boat." He kissed her cheek. "Sleep tight, and you know who to have them call if you wake up."
"Fine," she said seriously, meaning I will be fine.
DiNozzo shouldered Gibbs, playfully trying to push him aside. "Am I staying here tonight, Zi?"
She looked at him. "Hm. Small?"
"For a little while?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I'll stay til you're sleeping." Her eyes began to drift, shifting around the room aimlessly. "Which won't be long from now," he muttered.
Tim stood and joined the crowd around the bed, kissing Ziva on the cheek and running a finger under the tension strap on her wrist support. "Sorry we couldn't stay too long, Ziva. We'll be back tomorrow morning to check on you. Can we bring you anything special?"
"No," she slurred.
"Ok, goodnight." He motioned for Abby, who moved the table and puzzle box away.
"Alright, Zivvie, be brave tomorrow and I'll be ready with popsicles when you wake up."
"Ok," she smiled, but it faded. "Tired."
"Goodnight," they all chorused, and left with promises of tomorrow morning on their lips.
Tony lowered the bed, tugged the quilt higher, and slid off her day splints. "They're gonna cut you off at midnight," he explained, nodding to the blue diffuser box.
She rolled her eyes. "Yes."
He gave her a knowing half-smile. "You'll be off that thing soon enough. I'm excited for you to start Speech. I'm sure you have a million things to tell me." He jerked his head up to meet her eyes. "You know all the juicy hospital gossip. Maybe when you get out of here you can sell it to a TV writer, make a cool hundred grand. Sound good?"
"Yes."
"Good." He tightened the sleep splints enouh to keep her steady, but not tight enough to cut off her circulation. "Now sleep, ninja. I love you." He kissed her mouth and rested his head close to hers; it was the most intimate position they could manage.
"Love…too," she slurred, and slid her hand beneath his.