I can see you're new-awake.
And let me assure you, friend-
every day is ice cream and chocolate cake.
The Weepies, "All This Beauty."
Abby would've bounced in the room but she was laden with shopping bags. Ziva was only a step behind, also packing presents. Gibbs smiled, rose from his chair, and kissed each of them on the cheek.
"Well?" he greeted them.
"We got everything!" Abby was exuberant but kept her voice soft. She'd toned down her usual outfit and was clad simply in a black t-shirt emblazoned with a smiling cartoon Dracula, jeans, and suede boots. Her cuffs and collar were gone and she wore little make up; he cautioned her about scaring Sara after all she'd been through. Nothing that looks like needles, Abbs, he'd warned.
She rambled on, oblivious to how he scrutinized her clothing. "It took us almost two hours to find the books you wanted. Ziva kept calling the Ox-Cart Man "Overall Man."
Ziva smiled sheepishly and dug through the smallest of packages. A powdery, clean smell wafted up from it and she brushed away blue tissue paper to reveal a dozen small bottles all bearing different labels. Finding one to her satisfaction, she daubed a bit on her palm, rubbed her hands together, and began to smooth a sweet-smelling cream over Sara's unencumbered arm and across her throat and chest. The twelve-leads had been peeled off with a sponge bath a few hours ago. Ziva was gentle, excruciatingly so, and Sara slept on.
Abby unpacked her bags as Ziva tended to Sara. She unloaded books, puzzles, and games, all appropriate for pre-schoolers and slightly beyond. With Gibbs' admonishment, she'd stayed away from electronics and things with small pieces or print. She stacked games and puzzles while Gibbs shelved the books on the window sill. Content with his own personal decimal system, he pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket, flattened it on the table, and displayed it on the bulletin board under the shift nurse's name. Abby looked up and clucked.
"Cute, Gibbs. It's saying your names!" She poked at it, trying to unfurl the edges. "I just love frogs." She paused, thoughtful. "Maybe we should've gotten more things with frogs on them. Or maybe we should've gotten her a frog."
Gibbs smiled. "You've done enough, Abbs. I really appreciate all this stuff. Sara will, too."
Movement from the bed indicated a waking Sara. Ziva had capped the bottle of moisturizer and hovered over sara, stroking her hair and whispering comforting things in her ear. Sara came awake slowly this time, focusing first on Ziva, then Gibbs and Abby. She fidgeted and stuffed her thumb in her mouth.
Abby approached the bed, "Hey, Sar. Remember me? I hung out with you and Ziva when you came to NCIS. Do you remember?"
Sara watching Abby closely for a moment, then turned to Gibbs, eyebrows raised.
"That's Abby. You can trust her, Sar; she's my friend."
"And yours, too!" Abby chimed in. "We brought you some stuff to keep you busy while you're stuck here in this boring bed. How about a puzzle?" She grabbed a stack of wooden puzzles from the table and sat gingerly on the bed next to Sara. "Which one, kiddo? Ooh, a frog! Gibbs told me you like frogs. Let's do this one." She tipped the pieces out of the frame and they clattered together on the bedclothes. Sara jerked her head up and stared at Gibbs, eyes wide, mouth a little o around her thumb.
"Hey, it's ok. Play with Abby—she a lot of fun." He tucked an errant curl behind her ear and hoped the nurses would teach him how to wash and tame her hair sometime soon.
Sara turned her gaze back to Abby. Gibbs pushed the button to sit her up a little—the angle was awkward for her—and she winced a little at the motion. Ziva retrieved a cold, damp washcloth from the bathrom and lay it on her brow.
With a broad smile, Abby demonstrated puzzle building; she turned the pieces in her hands, deliberately tried to fit the wrong ones together, and kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation about the merits of frogs versus toads. Sara just maintained her steady gaze, thumb anchored between her lips, cold compress on her head. Abby finished the puzzle and held it up with a flourish.
"Ta da!" She crowed. "I bet you can do it, too."
Sara traced the edge of the frame with one finger then jerked her hand back, eyes wide. She took her thumb out of her mouth.
"Me too?"
"Of course, kid! It's your puzzle. They're all your puzzles. You can play with them as much as you want." Abby's tone was friendly, like she belonged on a television talk show for toddlers. Sara's eyes darted from Abby, to the stack of puzzles, to Gibbs, and back to Abby.
"No tricking," she said softly. Ziva growled softly and Gibbs put a restraining and comforting hand on her shoulder.
"No, we're not tricking you. These are yours. You can play with them, or we can read a story or play a game. We brought all sorts of things for you. Look." She got up and went to the windowsill. "Gibbs said you liked these ones," she held up the owl book and the farmer book. "So Ziva and I thought you'd like these others, too." In her other hand were some other colorful picture books. Gibbs didn't doubt that he'd be able to recite them from memory soon enough.
"No tricking," Sara repeated, gaze steady, eyes clear.
"No," Ziva interjected. "No tricks. You're safe here."
That seemed to do it. Sara lifted the corner of the puzzle frame and two pieces slid out onto the blankets. She toyed with them, squinting, before abandoning them and resting her head back on the pillow. She lifted her hand, intent on rubbing her still-swollen right eye, but Gibbs grabbed her wrist.
No, Sar. You can't rub your eye. If it hurts we'll get some ice for you."
She whimpered, and, as if she'd been able to hear it from the hallway, Tatiana appeared.
"I was passing by. You need ice? What hurts, Sara?"
Ziva looked up. "Her eye is bothering her and I think her headache got worse when we sat her up. Can she have some pain medicine, too?"
Tatiana nodded. "Of course. Dr. Levine put in an order for her to have some clear broth for dinner, so that should be up in an hour or so." She turned to Abby and Gibbs. "You two need anything?"
They declined and she skipped out, returning seconds later, holding a fresh hanging bag of medication and fluids, an ice pack, a cold juice box in her hands, and with Tony and Tim at her heels. Tony greeted Sara warmly, Tim presented a soft stuffed rabbit. Sara's eyes went round and she put her hand out only to jerk it back, as she had moments earlier. Tim lifted her arm, laid the rabbit underneath, and lowered it again. Sara didn't resist. It was almost comical, the way she kept glancing back and forth between Tim and the rabbit.
With a deep breath she said, "Thank you," and it was so clear and precise that Gibbs stopped his conversation with Tony and Abby to study her. She was still staring at Tim, but had wrapped her hand around the rabbit's foreleg. The veins in her hand bulged and her knuckles turned white. Tearing her eyes from Tim, she frowned at Gibbs worriedly.
"No tricks," she whispered.
He shook his head. "We've all told you there are no tricks here. We want you to play and be happy."
She wasn't convinced—he could tell, of course—but she laid back in the bed, idly rubbing the rabbit's soft fur.
"Bunny," she muttered, sighing, drifting, yet again, on the medication. While Tramadol wasn't a narcotic, the pain relief provided an opportunity for her synapses to slow their relentless firing and she often fell asleep after a dose. Before that could happen, Tatiana appeared bearing a tray of soup, crackers, and juice—cranberry this time, rather than apple. Sara's eyebrows went up.
"Wanna eat, Sar?" Tatiana uncovered the bowl and rolled the table toward her. Sara debated for a moment; should she relinquish the bunny to eat the soup? Gibbs was there in a flash, propping bunny up by the guardrails and unwrapping the plastic spoon.
"C'mon, Peanut. It's about time they gave you something to eat, huh?"
Only Ziva remained with Gibbs when Dr. Levine returned for rounds at nine that evening. Sara had eaten her whole bowl of soup and a few bites of cracker, been read two stories, and was conked out again within an hour of dinner. She'd stirred only once—when everyone had readied themselves to leave—and slept soundly through a check of her vitals and the removal of her dinner tray. Dr. Levine and the night nurse, Laura, performed their standard analyses under Gibbs' watchful eye.
"I'm going to give Sara twenty-four hours to wean her off intravenous painkillers and then we'd like to send her home," he said suddenly.
Gibbs' eyebrows shot up. "What?" he gasped.
The doctor sat in a visitor's chair. "She's progressing nicely; eating, drinking, interracting with you and your...family. With older children, I usually prescribe a week in a rehabilitation center to adjust to a new routine, but it's not necessary for Sara. We'll assign you a team of physical and occupational therapists. A social worker will work with you on obtaining the proper counseling, and before you know it, you'll be settled into a nice routine from the comfort of you own home." Sensing the trepidation, he softened his tone. "Agent Gibbs, I wouldn't release her if you were incapable of providing proper care. I'll meet with the team at first light and we'll have a plan in place right away. Just relax. You're doing a great job with her." He looked around at all the toys, then at Sara, clutching her rabbit even in sleep. "And it looks like you're getting good support from your family and friends. I'm glad to see that. Goodnight."
He left and Gibbs scrubbed at his face tiredly. The hospital had provided a safety net; he and Sara were protected from probing law enforcement officers and incompetent social service providers. Now he would have to face CFSA, NCIS, and DCPD. Just the acronyms were enough to make his head ache. There would be interviews and disruptive home studies once they left. He let his chin fall to his chest but, what seemed like only a moment later, a noise from the door startled him. The lights had been lowered and Ziva slept silently—for once—in the recliner next to the bed. Leon stood in the open door, silhouetted by the bright hallway lights. He offered a cup of coffee bearing the logo of the only all-night place on the GW campus.
"Kettle's case is shut."
Ziva woke as soon as he'd spoken. She sat up, alert and listening.
"Thought nothing was conclusive?" He sipped and sighed.
"Ducky found something fairly obvious in autopsy; apparently Godwin shoved him hard enough to cause his zyphoid process to break off and lodge in his heart. They're charging him with Murder-Two in the morning."
"And?"
"And NCIS can't do anything about the child abuse charges. That's up to DCPD, but they're waiting on the medical reports and an interview with you and Sara. Apparently the hospital won't release the reports until she's out of here."
"Good," he spat.
"How's she doing?"
Gibbs sighed. "Ok, I guess. Physically, the doc says she's doing really well. He wants to release her on Wednesday."
"That's great. What about otherwise?"
"She's...confused, I think. She barely speaks. She's nervous all the time, and doesn't believe me when I tell her that no one here is going to hurt her. Abby and Ziva bought her toys and games but she seemed to think we were trying to trick her with them."
Leon scowled. "Trick her how?"
"Dunno. That we would take them away, maybe? Take her back to any one of her abusive foster families? Tim gave her the rabbit. He just stuffed it under her arm so she couldn't refuse it. Now she won't let it go."
"Don't worry, I'm sure she'll put it down long enough for you to walk her down the aisle."
Gibbs sucked in a breath. He'd spent the last three days mulling over adoption versus permanent placement. Logical processes were always overridden by the image of CFSA breaking down his door and tearing Sara from his arms. Twice he'd had nightmares about it—he knew the sound of her cries, how she pleaded his name, how he'd woken each time like he'd been punched in the stomach.
Leon apologized immidately. "I think of her as yours, Jethro. I think you do, too. Now go home and get some real sleep." Leon stood and rousted Ziva, who'd fallen asleep again, as Gibbs bent to kiss Sara goodnight and sweep the same errant curl behind her ear.
His phone was beeping but he couldn't find it. Had the light over the stove burned out? No. He was upstairs, having fallen asleep in his actual bed, which resided in his actual bedroom. The right leg of his sweats had twisted around his knee and he fumbled, stupid with sleep.
"Yeah," he growled. "Gibbs."
The new bedside clock read three-fifty-one in the morning.
"Agent Gibbs, this is Laura, Sara's night nurse. We really need you to help us out."
His heart leapt into his throat and he had to clear it twice before he could respond.
"What happened?"
"We're not sure. Sara is very upset right now and we're having trouble calming her down. Could you come help us?"
He was yanking clothes from the closet before the question was fully asked. His shoes were somewhere, right?
"Agent Gibbs?"
"I'm on my way," he replied, and hung up.
Gibbs could hear Sara from the elevator; apprently "very upset" had been a vast understatement. She was crying wordlessly and with an intensity he'd heard only a few times in his entire life. He rushed down the hall and into the room, where Laura and an aide in blue ER scrubs were fussing around ineffectively, administering medication, checking and re-checking for the source of the pain. He couldn't restrain himself.
"What the hell is going on?"
Laura stepped over to him and laid a restraining hand on his forearm. "Agent Gibbs, she woke up crying about forty-five minutes ago and it's escalated ever since. We can't figure out if she's in pain or if she had a nightmare. She won't respond to our questions and when we try to find the source of the pain. We've given her all the tramadol we can, so we paged Dr. Levine to see if we can try a sedative. He should get back to us shortly. He got called into OR two hours ago after a motor vehicle accident."
Sara was writhing on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she screamed and sobbed and arched her back like an infant. She was drooling, her nose was running, and her eyes were swollen shut again. He stared in turns at her and the medical staff in the room. Fury set a fire in his chest.
"She was fine all afternoon. What have you done?"
Laura gave him a push toward the recliner. "Sit," she ordered. "I have an idea."
While he got himself situated, Laura unhooked all the tubes and wires, draped them over the bedside closed to him, and in one smooth, practiced motion, scooped Sara and all her equipment into her arms. Stepping around the bed, she desposited Sara in his arms. Once he had a comfortable grip, Laura grabbed a pillow off the bed and slid it under his left elbow, where Sara's head was propped.
The shift took only a few seconds but it took him far, far aback; it hadn't occurred to him, not in all the medical procedures and clinical discussions, that Sara was, essentially, his kid, and he had the same right and responsibility to hold and comfort her as any other parent would for their own child. He wanted to cuddle her closer, to settle her across his chest like a baby, but the fixator across her pelvis prevented that. He cursed the titanium rods and the sharp screws drilled deep in her hipbones. He shifted again so one arm was free to stroke her hair, and an old switch—a dusty one in a rarely-used breaker box—was flipped. He began to croon quietly in Sara's ear, murmuring soothing, nonsense words in an almost-lullaby. Daddy mode, he thought numbly, and rocked in his seat.
To his surprise, Sara's terrified and terrifying screams stopped instantly. She hiccuped a few times and jerked once, limbs flying, but went quiet—shockingly so. When the nurse assured him that he had not hurt her, that she had simply cried it all out, a sigh of relief sounded from the entire floor.
Dr. Levine rushed in. "Is everything ok?"
"Yeah, now. She had some kind of meltdown an hour ago but we got it under control." As if to demonstrate, Sara jolted in his arms and cried out once more. He shushed and rocked her, murmuring quietly, and she settled again. Dr. Levine looked her over for any obvious changes. None presented themselves.
"I don't think the sedative is necessary. I'd rather not give it to her if she's comfortable now." He braced himself against the wall, removed the surgical cap, and scrubbed at his eyes.
He lifted his head to make eye contact and Gibbs could see his own exhaustion reflected in the doctor's weary posture. "I'm thankful you came down to help. Most foster parents won't do that."
Gibbs narrowed his eyes, leveling Dr. Levine with a steely glare. His voice was terse when he spoke again. "I'm not most foster parents."