People! I'm so sorry this took so long! Forgive me? Good. Also, because I forgot last time, please thank my friend Astrafiammente and Chemmie for all their love and help and encouragement. Also-also, thank them for being awesome. Thank yourselves for being awesome, too. xo, Mecha
You can't just pass around the pain that comes along,
you'll go dizzy until you fall.
-Chris Pureka, "Burning Bridges."
Gibbs was cleaning up in the basement when Ducky came down the stairs with heavy footsteps. It was obvious he'd put in a long day at the morgue; he was dressed casually in rumpled pair of chinos, shirt untucked, tie long gone, glasses smudged.
"Anthony is asleep on your couch, Jethro," he said by way of greeting. "You will most certainly have to vacuum the sawdust from the furniture when he awakens."
"Or have him do it," he deadpanned, oiling a circular saw blade.
Ducky knew better then to take his gruffness to heart. "It has been a difficult number of weeks for all of us. I heard from Abby that there is little chance for Ziva to walk independently ever again. How are you coping with that?"
Gibbs shrugged. "It sucks."
"It does," he agreed slowly. "But surely you have more complicated feelings about it than that."
He shrugged again still oiling. "I knew the minute I saw her in ICU that she wasn't walking again. Even when the doc said it was fifty-fifty I just…knew. She wouldn't be walking and she wouldn't be back at NCIS."
"I think Timothy has told you before not to make that decision for her, though it will be a long while before she'll be able to rejoin the workforce. How is she coping?"
"She wants to come home."
"That's all very well, but be prepared for the transition to be much more difficult than she anticipates. The world is not as accessible as we'd like to think it is." He paused, watching Gibbs move the rag around the blade. "I understand you received a letter this afternoon, Jethro."
He laughed—a short, dry, humorless noise. "Abby again, huh?"
"She's very concerned."
Gibbs shook his head. "Talked to Eli this afternoon. He made me Ziva's permanent guardian."
Ducky paced, hands behind his back. "Did this surprise you?"
"Nope."
"You have a decision to make."
"It's made," he growled. Ducky still wasn't troubled by his harsh tone. He let Gibbs work in silence for a few moments; he put down the circular blade and went to work with rubbing compound on a rusted hacksaw handle.
"Medical literature compares spinal cord injuries to the early years of a child's development," Ducky said with quiet confidence. "In the acute stages of trauma, a patient must rely on family, friends, and medical staff for nearly every aspect of their care. Patients later report feelings of anger and helplessness, as they had to be fed and turned like infants. And much like an infant, they had to learn the activities of daily living; eating, bathing, mobility, vocation, and the many small things in between. It's a very long and difficult process. However, I talked to a young veteran yesterday who decided to treat rehab as an extended summer camp—he played basketball, attended picnics, made friends, and enjoyed, like children do, navigating the fine line between dependence and independence."
He stopped speaking and stepped closer to Gibbs, who had hung up the hacksaw and was staring at his hands. His chest heaved just once—a barely perceptible motion—and he cleared his throat. "So?"
"So,"Ducky continued, "Ziva has had one childhood stolen from her already, Jethro. Perhaps it is time for you to give her a second." He patted his shoulder. "Goodnight, my friend."
"Night, Duck."
He headed for the stairs. "Good luck with Ziva in the wheelchair clinic tomorrow. Oh, and do tell her that a titanium frame will absorb much of the vibration she'll get on uneven surfaces."
"Yeah," he dismissed. "I'll tell her."
"And give her a kiss for me. I'll be by with an apple galette this weekend. The Braeburns are delicious this year."
Gibbs hung his hacksaw back on the pegboard and folded the rag into a tight square, then took the stairs with leaden feet. He jostled Tony, who woke with a grunt and sat, shaking his head.
"Boss," he ground out, voice gravelly with sleep, "Sorry I came at you last night. I was frustrated."
Gibbs sat on the edge of the coffee table. "Don't apologize. We're a team. We can't agree all the time, but we need to work together."
Tony nodded, yawning. "Yeah. You have a plan?"
He went to the kitchen, where the coffee maker was ready to brew; all he needed to do was press the button. Two mugs sat next to it. Ducky's work, Gibbs thought dully, based on the precision with which the water had been measured. He started the brew cycle and turned around to face Tony.
"I want to do it," he said clearly. His voice was still low.
"You want to be her primary caregiver?" Tony nodded, senses still dulled. "I think you need to ask her about that." He frowned, lost in thought. "But I can't imagine she'll let anyone else do it. Even me—she's shy about stuff."
"She has limits," Gibbs agreed, not really knowing what he meant. "You are her partner, still, in her mind. There's only so much vulnerability she's gonna let you see."
Tony nodded again, eyes a little brighter. "What about NCIS?"
The coffee maker stopped gurgling and Gibbs spun to pour them each a cup. "Retired once, didn't I?"
"And Ziva brought you back. I guess now she gets to take you away."
He took a long drink of coffee. "We need to finish your basement. I can use some of the money Eli gave me to get it done."
Tony blinked. "Sure you want to do that? That's a…commitment." To put it mildly, he didn't add.
"You're gonna get early call-outs, work late, be out overnight. Someone needs to be at the house. I'm not racking on your couch."
He grinned. "You racked on yours for years."
Gibbs shrugged and drank again.
"I'll talk to Ofek. What do you want down there?"
"The basics."
Tony ticked off a list on his fingers. "Bed, bath, coffeemaker, work bench. No problem."
"Put in a stair lift. Ziva needs a way to get down there."
He winced. "That's two or three grand, Boss—"
"She needs a way to get down there," he repeated.
"Fine," he sighed. "I'll ask Ofek about that, too. We're putting his kids though college, anyway." He drained his coffee. "You going to the hospital right away? I have an hour of paperwork to do in the bullpen."
"Go," Gibbs ordered. "I won't talk to her until you get there."
. . . .
Ziva was still asleep when Gibbs slunk into her room, coffee in one hand and the letter from Eli in the other. She was on her side, hands loose, curls wild on the pillow. The sun was just creeping up, so he settled in the recliner with his coffee until Claudia came in to wake her.
"I'll do it," he whispered. "But you'll have to help with the routine."
"No problem." She slid out and closed the door behind her.
"Ziver?" he whispered in her ear. "C'mon. Time to wake up."
She sighed and threw her forearm over her eyes.
"C'mon," he prodded again. "Time to get up. Busy day today."
She harrumphed but didn't open her eyes. "Abba?"
"Yeah. Let's go, Ziver. Time to wake up. Let's get the routine out of the way so you can go to wheelchair clinic."
That got her. "Ok," she breathed, and blinked at him with big, sleepy eyes. She adjusted the bed and looked around, confused. "Um, Abba?"
He tugged the quilt down around her waist. "Hm?"
"I…I need to go."
"We will. Let's get through the routine first."
"No," she argued. "I need to go. Now. You call nurse?"
He punched the button next to her. "You sure?"
"Yes," she huffed, still half-asleep. "I have been learn and I know when I have to go. Means now."
Claudia came back fast. "Let's get you moved," she said, and unhooked the feeding tube so Gibbs could haul her into the wheelchair. She whisked away to the en suite bathroom and he could hear them talking about CCs and indwelling and balloons and soluble fiber. He shifted from foot to foot and sipped his coffee until the nurse reappeared and washed her hands at the auxiliary sink. He tried not to sound as dumb as he felt. "I thought she was paralyzed."
"Her injury is incomplete, that's how she still has some feeling and sensation. Dr. Monroe is certain she has some sacral sparing, which is how she's able to learn when she has to use the restroom. It's also how she can wiggle her toes. We'd like to get her cathing on her own, but we do an indwelling at night and intermittent catheterization during the day, just so she can get all the sleep she needs. By the time she leaves she should be fully independent."
He nodded and Ziva's voice came through the door. "Help, please?"
Gibbs started, but Claudia held him back. "Let me. She's not open to anyone else doing this for her. I'll work on her this week, and maybe next she can teach you how to do it. I think she'll do better if we let her be in charge."
"Fine," he agreed shortly.
She put a hand on his arm. "Sometimes being a parent means letting them struggle once in a while."
She disappeared and reappeared ten minutes later, pushing Ziva in the bulky transport chair, who smiled shyly at him. "Better."
"Good. You wanna eat?"
She shrugged.
Claudia was about to go into a diatribe about her nutritional needs, but Gibbs just shrugged and said, "Ok, Ziver, you don't have to. How about a smoothie instead?" He winked at the nurse as he spoke.
Ziva shrugged again. "Maybe mango?"
"Sure," Claudia said quickly, giving Gibbs an imperceptible nod. "I'll put in an order. Make sure you have a snack between wheelchair clinic and PT."
Another shrug. "Ok."
He shifted her into the recliner and crouched so they were eye-to-eye. "What's wrong?"
She looked at her lap. "I did not want you see that."
He pulled a clean pair of yoga pants and a jog top from the low dresser. "See what? I didn't see anything."
Ziva grasped the hem of her pajama top. "She had to help me and you were here. I did not want you know that I cannot, yet. I am ashamed that I need help with…with…that."
"No shame, Ziver," he said quietly, looking away while she fumbled with a soft sports bra.
"I am trying," she mumbled sadly, holding her arms modestly in front of her.
"But it's hard," he finished for her, and passed the shirt. He kept his eyes averted. "You need help getting this over your head?""
A tiny smile crept across her face. "No. I might be small hungry."
"What do you want? Anything—just name it."
She thought for a long time while he helped her into fresh pressure garments and pants. "Bread," she blurted. "And cheese. And tomatoes. And tea with milk."
He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling DiNozzo. You can have your smoothie while you wait for him to bring breakfast."
She smiled. "Ok. I need socks on, Abba." Socks were tricky; her feet and ankles were stiff and occasionally painful.
He took a swig of coffee and handed her a pair of thick hiking socks—the only kind she could tolerate. "I bet you can do that yourself," he said. She took them from him but seemed to stall, eyes clouded with confusion. "Gear up, David," he prompted gently. "Let's go."
She blanked completely, eyelashes fluttering, hands slack. Her head rolled on its fragile stem and she dropped her socks to the floor. He sighed, steadied her by the shoulders until the seizure passed, then bent and retrieved them for her.
"Ziver? Ya ok?"
She blinked, looked around, and nodded. "I had one?"
"Yeah. Do they happen more in the morning?"
She nodded again. "Two…two days row. I had one when…when someone here for…I dunno…but Tony said I had one. Dr. Monroe saw, too." She was drowsy and only partially coherent; eye heavy-lidded, tongue thick in her mouth.
He cupped her cheek and made her focus on his face. "Let's talk to her about that. Maybe your meds need to be adjusted."
"Maybe," she echoed. She held up her socks again. "I need do this."
"Go ahead."
As she'd been taught, Ziva used her locked forearm to lift behind her knee, propped her ankle on her thigh, and—slowly, clumsily—tugged on her left sock, then lowered it gently and repeated the whole process on the right side. It was exhausting work for someone with her low core strength. She was panting when she was finished.
Gibbs kissed her brow. "Good work."
She cocked an eyebrow at him and seemed fully in charge of her faculties once again. "Do not waste good."
He smirked back. "I'm not."
An aide delivered Ziva's smoothie. She sipped it disinterestedly and listened to Gibbs' side of the conversation with Tony. Wheelchair clinic today; bring food. Yes, with milk. Her head ached—it usually did—but everyone said she was healing, she was improving, and soon enough she'd go home. She watched Gibbs pocket his phone and hoped they hadn't been lying to her.
"DiNozzo's bringing your breakfast," he said. "He'll be here in half an hour. You want to read on your tablet while we wait?"
"No," she replied simply. "I just want to sit."
He bit off a retort—Well good, 'cause you'll be doing that for the rest of your life—and steadied her again when she jumped; the aide had come back unexpectedly. He slid the cup from Ziva's hands and ignored her hey of complaint.
"We need to get your weight before you have any more." He lifted her without permission into the wheelchair. "Let's go."
"Hey!" she blurted again. "I do not…" They were already turned to the door. "Abba?" she begged, clutching the armrests.
Gibbs pinched the aide's shoulder, digging his callused fingers hard into the pressure point. The young man stopped, knees buckling.
"Don't you move her again without permission," he growled, furious. "Not hers and especially not mine."
The man, Joel, according to the scrawl on Ziva's in-room noteboard, nodded, face screwed up in agony. "Sorry," he wheedled.
"You'd better be," Gibbs snarled, voice still low. He released Joel's shoulder and shoved him aside, taking the handles of the wheelchair himself. "Where are we going?"
"Take a right. Last room before the lounge."
Claudia was waiting for them in front of the scale. She smiled and unhooked the nylon patient sling, sliding it behind Ziva's back. Ziva stiffened and clutched the armrests even harder.
"Not ready!" she howled angrily. "You did not say!"
Claudia yanked the sling back. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I'm really, really sorry. We're just off to a bad start this morning. Let's try again." She cleared her throat. "Ziva, I'm going to slide the hoist behind you now."
"Ready," she agreed, and leaned forward.
This was a script, Gibbs realized; any deviation from it sent Ziva into a tailspin. He catalogued that carefully and knew why she declared she wasn't hungry.
"Ok," Claudia said. "I'll undo your belt. Should we let Abba lift you up, or should I call Joel?"
"Abba," Ziva clipped tightly. "I hate Joel."
The nurse nodded but didn't comment on her outburst. "Ok, Abba. Lift her enough that I can pull the edge down behind her knees. Don't set her back down until I have the hardware over the armrests."
Ziva held on to his shirt tightly and he scooped her into his arms. She sighed and he realized she'd been craving the contact.
"Ok, my girl?" he asked against her hair.
"Ok," she said softly, and pillowed her head on his shoulder.
The hoist clips clattered against the sides of the wheelchair. "You can set her down," Claudia instructed. "I'm going to put you under the scale now, Ziva. Ready?"
"Ready," she said seriously, hands fisting the hem of her shirt.
The nurse positioned her under the adjustable arm of the scale, clipped the sling to it, and pushed a button. Ziva was lifted from the wheelchair and Gibbs understood why she complained so often about the hoist—she damn near disappeared when the ropes pulled tight and the sides came up. As everything else at Walter Reed, it was designed for much larger people. Ziva was petite before her injury—his smallest and toughest agent—but now she was tiny, even delicate, with knobby knuckles and protruding collarbones. He pondered their collective loss for a moment, but the sadness he'd been harboring since his conversation with Eli David failed to tighten his eyes and chest. He chuckled internally at Ziva, dangling in the sling with only her sneakers visible.
"Abba?" she called from inside, voice high and anxious.
"Right here," he replied, hoping she could hear a smile in his voice.
Claudia had to wait for the sling to stop swaying before she could rely the digital read-out. "One-hundred-one. You're up two pounds, Zi."
"Do not care until you let me out," she retorted, still hidden in the folds of green nylon.
Claudia pushed the button that lowered her back into the waiting wheelchair. "That's good that you're putting on weight," she said once the clips were unbuckled. Ziva emerged with tousled hair.
"I know," she smarted. "Maybe this out." She brushed at the tube taped to her cheek. The adhesive left welts on her skin that Abby would dab with witch hazel in the evenings.
"Maybe," Claudia conceded. "Let's talk to Ellen first."
"Ok," she agreed. "I am hungry now."
"Good," Tony said from the doorway. "Cause breakfast just arrived."
She beamed at him. "I got fatter." Everyone guffawed and she rolled her eyes. "Back. I want to eat."
Back in her room, Tony lifted her into the recliner while Gibbs slathered fatty farmer cheese onto a piece of dense whole-grain bread and sliced cherry tomatoes into quarters.
Ziva scowled at the plate. "I am not a baby," she scolded. "You do not have to cut so small."
"Eat," he ordered, matching her scowl. "I don't want you to choke."
Dr. Monroe rushed in as Ziva was scooping a tomato. "Hold it," she said firmly. "I want to see you before you start stuffing your face. Tony, put her back in bed."
Ziva unstrapped her fork and threw it down hard. "I am hungry! Why I cannot eat and go to clinic?"
Tony rolled the table away and picked her up in his arms. "Patient," he warned. "You want that tube out of your face or what?"
"Nevermind. Sorry. I lost self-control."
"It's fine," the doctor said casually. She was already lowering Ziva to a prone position. "I want to check your belly and see if we can get that tube out. I know you're not at your target weight yet, but I feel that if we take this out and put you on a low dose of steroids you'll get there faster than if we leave this in and pump you full of formula at night." She palpated Ziva's abdomen and sides, smiling. "You're fine. I'm calling Claudia to help me take this out. No food for two hours after, and no clinic until after you eat. Tell someone right away if you're dizzy or nauseous. You might not feel great for a day or two, but we'll try to stay ahead of you with Compazine and ginger ale."
"Fine," she agreed, waving her hand. She smiled brightly at Tony and Gibbs while Dr. Monroe sat her back up.
Claudia came in with an emesis basin, a syringe, and an absorbent drape. "Let's go, kid. I'm sure you're ready to be done with this." She handed Tony a small tube of antibiotic ointment. "This is for after. Those sore will take a day or two to fade."
Dr. Monroe was already peeling the tape. She handed Ziva the basin. "Hold on to this. And sit tight—this isn't going to be comfortable. Puke if you need to."
"Ok," she said, worrying a little.
Gibbs squeezed her hand and winked. "You're fine," he said quietly.
"Yes," she agreed.
"One-two-three," Dr. Monroe said quickly, and pulled. The tube came out an inch at a time. She paused when Ziva gagged and spat bile into the emesis basin. "Almost done," she said soothingly, and kept pulling.
"How long is that thing?" Tony wondered, arms crossed. He felt awkward and inept, watching his fiancė cough and gag.
"Long enough to go from the IV stand to her stomach," Claudia said, and wiped Ziva's sweaty brow.
The end of the tube emerged from Ziva's right nostril and everyone cheered quietly. She brightened, smiled, and threw up.
Dr. Monroe wiped her mouth and Claudia took away the basin, only to replace it with another. "It's ok, kiddo. It'll pass. Claudia, let's get her some anti-emetics and a small cup of soda."
Ziva puked again, shoulders shaking. There were tears in her eyes. "Um," she started delicately. "Can you put away food? I cannot see it…I…" She glanced at the cheese wrapper and gagged. Tony stuffed everything back in the bag, hands working fast on the utensils and packaging.
Dr. Monroe checked her pulse and blood pressure, then patted her hand. "Hang in there—the nausea won't stick around for long."
She left as Claudia gave Ziva a dose of Compazine and a cup of ginger ale with a straw in it. "Take small sips," she cautioned. "Tony and Abba will keep an eye on you, ok?"
She sipped her drink and furrowed her brow. "I do not need watch."
Gibbs sat on the edge of the mattress, sliding his hip against Ziva's so she didn't tumble into him. "I don't need puke on my boots," he deadpanned. "You ok?"
She didn't take the straw from her mouth. "Fine. Ack, but fine."
He didn't look at Tony. "Ziver, the three of us need to talk."
A heaviness settled in her stomach. She nodded and put the cup down. "Ok. So talk." Her voice was small and he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Tony moved to the other side, sitting on the bed, holding her hand that wasn't clutching the bowl. He wondered if she wasn't going to panic, feeling trapped.
"So I talked to your father yesterday," Gibbs started. "He wanted to know how you were doing."
"Fine," she interrupted, nonplussed. "I am doing fine."
"I told him that. I also said that it would be a while before you came home. He understood."
"Why you say this?" she demanded, scowling. "I do not care. He left."
Gibbs pressed on. "He did—he didn't deny that. But he still felt like it was his job to make sure you were in good hands, so he wrote a letter that gives me the responsibility of making sure you have everything you need."
"He gave me to you," she said candidly. "He gave me away. And I do not need watch. I am fine. I am learning do things myself."
"I know," he replied.
Tony squeezed her hand. "You ok, Zi? Not everyone would handle that information so…calmly."
Tears burned her eyes but she swallowed and looked meaningfully at both of them. "He is my father, but you are Abba." She paused sniffling. "You came for me. You stayed. He just…came…and he look…and then he left and now you have to…to…" She faltered, shaking her head in disgust. "I will never be same as before."
"We know," Gibbs said lightly.
"You do not!" she snapped, but her anger faded quickly. "And now you feel you must do what he cannot. It is not fair."
"Life ain't fair," Tony supplied.
Ziva dissolved into quiet tears and put her hands over her face. She didn't resist when Gibbs pulled her against him. He hugged her tight to his side and stroked her hair.
"I know," he whispered. "It's so hard."
Tony slid a little closer and wove their fingers together. "Zi, can you listen to me for a second?" She didn't lift her head, but took a breath and looked at him with sadness in her big, dark eyes. "Do you remember anything from the first few days after you got hurt?"
"No," she said thickly, and began to cry all over again.
He waited for her to calm down before speaking again. "Well I lost my shit one evening," he said offhandedly, "and I went out in the hallway and maybe I kinda cried on Gibbs' shoulder." She looked at him in disbelief and he smiled. "I said maybe, didn't I? Well Gibbs gave me a headslap and said get your ass in there and tell your girl we got her six. Do you remember me saying that to you?"
Ziva squinted, thinking. "Maybe. It was so…hard, then."
"Tell me about it," he deadpanned. "But what I said was true—we got your six. Don't forget that, ok?"
"Ok," she agreed.
"I love you," he blurted. "I love you a lot. I know healing is difficult and discouraging, but…just remember that."
She nodded against Gibbs' chest. "Love you, too." Gibbs said nothing, but tightened his arms around her in a silent gesture of support.
Claudia came back in and smiled at her. "How's your belly, Ziva? Still tossing your cookies?"
"No," she said, still not moving.
"You got another hour and a half before you can eat anything. Want to try some more soda?"
"No," Ziva said again.
"All right, kid. Ring if you need me."
She disappeared again and Gibbs brushed his lips over Ziva's hair. "You need a few more minutes to collect yourself? 'Cause DiNozzo and I aren't done hashing things out with you yet."
She gave him a wary look. "What else?"
"You're going to need some help at home, especially in the beginning. How would you feel if I was the one to do that?"
"You?" she asked incredulously. Her eyes narrowed. "Because of letter my father gave? No. That is not fair. You are important at work."
Tony poked her chin with his index finger. "You're important, too."
She gave Gibbs a hard look. "I always take away from what you love. First Mexico and now…this."
"I belong with my team," he replied. "And I'll be with them, whether I'm in the field or at your house."
She was quiet while he sifted through his fingers through her hair. "Ok," she finally said. Her voice was soft. "It is…ok. I will learn."
Tony and Gibbs shared puzzled glances, but shrugged and turned back to Ziva. She was falling asleep, hand limp in Tony's.
"Will learn," she murmured again.
"Learn what?" Gibbs asked.
"Learn be…yours," she slurred, and fell asleep still curled in his arms.
. . . .
Adi shoved open the door to the wheelchair clinic just as Tony was lifting Ziva from the transport chair onto a pressure-reading mat. Gibbs greeted her with a nod and a smirk.
"I thought I would be much later than this," she said by way of apology. "Is Ziva having some hesitation about receiving a manual chair? Should I speak to her?"
"Nope," he said easily. "They removed the NG tube this morning. We had to wait until it was ok for her to eat."
She took in the wide smile on Ziva's face and the way she leaned eagerly toward Ryan, the exuberant and knowledgeable wheelchair technician. Nodding once, she spun and pinned Gibbs with a hard glare. She had beautiful eyes—almost golden in color—and they were sharp as a predator's.
"Her father turned his back on her. You had better not do the same."
"I won't," he said simply.
She came closer. "She will have bad days. She will cry. She will scream. She might even hate you. But you cannot leave because she will die. Mark my words."
"I hear ya," he replied. "I'm not going anywhere and neither is DiNozzo."
"Fine," she acquiesced, but the fire in her eyes continued to blaze. "I am going to help her with the fitting. You had better pay attention; there are things that you will need to know."
She sped off, bound for group gathered around Ziva in the opposite corner. He followed, footsteps light and even on the gym-stile floor, and watched them exchange hello kisses.
Adi leaned back and examined the wheelchair simulator. "How many inches of seat dump are you giving her?" she asked the tech.
He made a motion with his hands. "Four inches. She's pretty unstable between the waist and hips. She needs more squeeze to keep her upright and help her propel easily."
Ziva frowned at them. "I am here," she said pointedly.
"I know," Adi told her. "Do you understand what he just said?"
She shrugged. "Small. I know he needs to tilt because I do not sit all the way."
"You have poor trunk control."
"Dev said I will learn," she defended quickly.
"You will," Adi agreed.
Ryan knelt at Ziva's right side. "Put your hands down for me, Ziva. I want to see where your center of gravity and floor-to-seat height will be."
She complied, leaning hard to watch what he was doing. Devorah, quiet so far and taking notes on a portable computer terminal, gave Ziva's shoulder a pat. "Sit up straight. Leaning like that will change the measurements."
Ziva sat up as tall as she could and put both hands on her knees. "This?"
She nodded. "We'll get you measure for a backrest next."
Ryan rattled a bunch of numbers off to Devorah, who jotted them down and handed him a white measuring tape. "Back rest and seat depth," she ordered without looking.
"No armrests," Adi informed him. "She won't be able to get under desks if you're going to put her up that high."
Dev nodded again and took more notes.
Ziva shivered when the edge of the measuring tape tickled her neck, then froze, eyebrows up. "That high in the back?" she asked nervously.
"No," Ryan said quickly. "I'm just taking measurements. Your backrest won't be as low as Adi's, but it won't be up on your neck, either. I'll probably bring it up to here." He drew a line with his finger across the bottom of her shoulder blades. "We want you to be able to balance on your center of gravity without having to lean forward or back."
"We don't want you falling on your head," Devorah added.
"Fall?" Ziva repeated. Vulnerability and helplessness crashed over her like rogue waves. How would she get up if she fell out of her wheelchair? What if she was alone? What if she fell outside, in the cold or heat? Would someone find her? What if they weren't strong enough to pick her up?
Tony cleared his throat, having read the faraway look on her face. She looked at him wide-eyed and he cocked his head toward Gibbs. "On your six," he said lowly, smiling.
She smiled back, exhaling. She would be fine; Gibbs promised once before that he wouldn't let her fall. Not while I'm around, he'd rumbled. She'd hold him to it.
"Want to try a few demos?" Ryan asked, drawing her back to the present. The wheelchair clinic was set up like a bike shop, with display models lined up for new users to try out. There were four rows of chairs, all different sizes, colors, and configurations.
Gibbs was walking up and down the aisles, arms crossed, builder's eye sharp in his silver head. He pointed at two on the left and three on the right. "These ones to start."
Tony moved Ziva into the first one but she stiffened, arching her back and refusing to let go of his neck. "No," she said tightly. "I do not like this one."
He pulled her up immediately and held her in his lap until Ryan pushed the second one forward and set the brakes. She sat for longer, but shook her head.
"No. Too…too…something. I feel mixed."
He picked her up again, balancing her weight on the top of his thighs. She snuggled up close, brushing their cheeks together, and goosebumps rose on his skin. He put a sneaky kiss on her cheek before Ryan came over with the third demo.
"Here, Ziva. Take this one for a spin."
This time she actually let go of Tony's neck. "I do not know how," she stated simply.
Devorah and Adi coached her through a proper stroke cycle and followed along as she rolled from one corner to another. Adi taught her how to flick her wrists and turn before she rammed her knees against the far wall.
"Sabra!" Dev called. "What do you think about that one?"
"I want try the others just in case," she pondered aloud. "Maybe one is better for me."
Tony transferred her into a fourth chair and she lit up, grinning and nodding. "This," she announced, shifting herself back and forth. "I like this best."
Ryan looked a little nervous. "That's a custom titanium build. Most insurance companies don't cover that—not for a first chair, anyway."
Gibbs nearly snarled. "Ziva gets what she wants," he warned.
The tech didn't need a rabid father on his hands. "Ok," he said, hands up. "I'll call one of their reps to come out tomorrow morning and do the CAD for her. Then they'll need ten days to build and ship it."
Ziva deflated. "Ten days? That is forever."
"You can use that one until yours comes. There's another demo in the back. We'll get you on your own cushion in the meantime. Come," Devorah motioned to the back wall. "Pick out which one you like best."
She followed, ignoring the fatigue in her hands and eyes, and selected a composite cushion with a soft neoprene cover. Tony picked her up so Dev could switch the demo for the permanent one.
"Nice," she mumbled, poking at the corner that stuck out behind her left hip.
"Very," Devorah agreed. "You've chosen only high-grade stuff so far."
"She deserves the best," Gibbs said tightly.
Adi recognized the anxiety and tension in his posture. "She will be ok," she said lowly, and put her hand on his. "She is adjusting fast and happy to have some freedom. You do not need to be so nervous."
"Can't help it," he replied easily. "She's barely been out of my sight for six weeks."
"She isn't yet out of your sight and she may not be for a long time. Relax. Let her be happy."
Ziva was circling the edges of the room, practicing her stroke pattern. Devorah and Adi worked with her on starting, stopping, how to set and unlock the brakes and she smiled and smiled, thrilled to be moving independently. She made a tight circle around Adi and Gibbs and came up short on his right side. Leaning a little, she rested her head on his hip.
"I am tired, Abba," she said lowly. "I might need back for a rest."
He twirled her ponytail around in his hand. "Ok. Think you can make it back on your own?"
"I put integrated push handles on your order, sabra," Devorah interrupted. "That demo doesn't have them. Let me put some on before you go."
Ziva prickled. "No. I will do it myself."
"You can," Dev agreed mildly. "But your stamina is pretty low. You'll need help once in a while, and fold-down handles aren't strong enough to bump you over curbs or uneven ground. I'll order the integrated ones and we can have them removed when you get stronger."
Ziva rolled right up to her, face red in rage. "You take everything from me," she growled.
Devorah stared back, unruffled. "Show me what you can do and I'll cancel the order."
She slumped, exhausted, and tears welled. "I am sorry," she said stiffly. "I lost self-control."
"I know. Like I said before—use the anger, don't abuse it. You look beat. Let's do an evening session in the gym. You, me, Abba, and Tony, after dinner."
Ziva wiped her eyes and nodded. "I want to swim."
"You have a suit?"
"No," she lamented.
Devorah shrugged. "So we'll do that another day."
She shook her head. "No, I want to swim. I will call Abby. Maybe she can bring for me."
"Check with her. If not, we can work on independent transfers."
Ziva nodded. "I need lunch and rest."
"I'll go back with you. I want to see how you handle going all the way back to the sixth floor."
She bid Adi goodbye, who promised to return the next day to oversee the design of Ziva's custom chair. "It is a good company," she praised. "I will help the rep and make sure you get exactly what you want."
Ziva blushed. "Thank you. I do not know how repay you."
Adi kissed her cheek. "Not necessary. You are paying my boys' tuition."
Gibbs held the door open. "Let's go, Ziver. You need to eat and get to bed if we're doing a night session."
She rolled out, blinking in the hallway light. It seemed so far to the elevator—around the corner, through the vestibule, down another long hallway. Then up six floors and down another long hallway before Gibbs or Tony would bear-hug her back into bed. She sighed and pushed off, but the demo was faster than she thought. One push got her halfway down the hall, the second the corner. Her entourage was far behind and she felt a tiny thrill of victory—she was winning, in a sense. She waited for them to catch up, then zoomed ahead again, turning quickly to smile at them.
"Careful, Ziver," Gibbs warned.
She ignored him and shoved harder at the handrims, sending herself flying down the hall, elated. Grabbing the rims to stop when she reached the elevator, she misjudged and got her fingers tangled in the spokes. The back wheels slid out from under her and she hit the floor with a fantastic crash.
"Ow," she yelped like a kicked puppy. "Ow! Owowow! Abba!"
Gibbs, Tony, and Dev sprinted to where she lay. Tony rolled her into Gibbs arms while Devorah sat the wheelchair back up.
"I can't believe that happened," she rushed. "She has anti-tip tubes on the rear axle."
Gibbs held Ziva tight and shushed her while Tony spoke to the nurses who'd run over when they heard the crash.
"They want to take you for x-rays, Zi," he said gently.
"No," she sputtered, crying. "I need to go to bed."
"I'll call Ellen to check her out," Dev said softly. "Sabra, want to get back in? Abba can push if you want."
"No," she cried, hiding her face in his shirt.
Gibbs pulled her into his lap and sat against the wall. "Give us a minute." He shushed her again and craned his neck to whisper in her ear.
Ziva calmed down little by little and was only sniffling when Dr. Monroe skidded to a stop next to Tony.
"You took a spill, kiddo?"
"Yeah," she sniffled. "I fell back. My hand got stuck."
"That's awful," the doctor commiserated. "Can I look at your head and your hand?" Ziva nodded, and Dr. Monroe probed around her scalp.
"You got a goose egg," she announced gently, "so I want to do a scan. How about your hand?"
Ziva held out her middle and index fingers, whimpering.
"Not broken," Gibbs said. "She bruised 'em pretty bad."
The doctor nodded. "Yeah. We'll get some ice on them once you're back in bed."
"Ok," she sniffled.
Tony brushed a finger down her cheek. "You're ok, sweet cheeks. Let's get that scan over with so you can eat and take a nap." She nodded and shifted so he could put her back in the wheelchair, then tucked her hands in her lap. "You wanna do it yourself?" he asked.
She looked down at the handrim on her right side. "Ok. But stay behind."
"On your six," he said, grinning, and they set off together at a slow pace.
Gibbs stood and brushed off his pants, looking up with the doctor didn't move. "What?" he snapped.
"You're a good father," she said, smiling.
He crossed his arms. "I wouldn't have to be if she'd had a shot the first time around."
"Well, you're here now," she countered. "Keep doing what you're doing. It's good for both of you."
. . . .
Ziva returned from the scan with Tony pushing and her hand on an icepack in her lap. She was smiling, though her eyes were red. "Hi," she said. "I am ok. I have a bump but is fine."
"No more heroics," Tony added. "They lowered the anti-tippers on the rear axle."
Gibbs pulled her from the chair and put her on the bed, then sat down next to her so that she could lean against him. Tony joined them on bed, propping Ziva's free hip against his own.
"You have officially given me a run for my money, Zee-vah. I'm whipped. I might nap right along with you."
She smiled and drooped a bit, but wound an arm around each of them. "I never had like this," she said quietly. "Not anyone who would be here for...for this. I did not know...anything." She blinked, eyelids heavy. "I love you both very big."
"We love you huge," Tony murmured in her ear.
Gibbs just swallowed and looked away. She yawned and blinked hard, and he swept the quilt aside with his free hand."In," he ordered, steadying her with one hand. "DiNozzo, move it so she can lie down."
Tony stood and lifted Ziva's legs onto the mattress. She hugged a pillow and sighed. "Owl?"
He stuck it under her arm and kissed her cheek. "Sleep."
She hummed and faded out, exhausted. Tony twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers, swaying slightly, lost in thought.
Gibbs shoved him toward the chair closest to the bed. "I said on her six, DiNozzo." He rolled his eyes. "Tying your damn shoes," he muttered under his breath.
Tony sat, slumped, and put his feet up. "Nice," he sighed, smiling. "You sticking around, Boss?"
He found the morning paper he'd left on the windowsill and put it on his knee, heart light and pumping steadily in his chest. "Who's gonna have both your sixes if you're asleep?"