Rifiuto: Non Miriena
A/N: You find out in this chapter that Tim and Keavy have a connection... a very specific connection.
"Abba! Ima!"
The sight that met the four- for Keavy and Zipporah had stopped their conversation when they'd heard Asher's scream- seemed to stop all time, if momentarily. Asher sat on the grass, Jethro's head in his lap. The dog was bleeding, trying desperately to get up despite the wounds in his leg and side. "Zipporah, call the vet, ach'shav. Did you not hear me, Zipporah? Now!" She demanded, turning to her daughter. Once the girl was gone, Ziva rushed to her son, kneeling beside him as Tim and Keavy came back with a bowl of water and towels.
"Ima-"
"What happened, angel? Asher Malachi, look at me!" Ziva demanded, taking her son's face in her hands, forcing him to look at her instead of the dog as Tim and Keavy kept pressure on the wounds. "Talk to me!"
"I... I... got the mail and... and... some... I didn't see his face... he... held up a gun..."
"Abba?" The others turned as Zipporah came back outside. "He said to... to bring Jethro in..." Tim nodded, standing. After several minutes and some coaxing, Tim was able to get Asher to let go of the dog, and he and Keavy lifted the animal into the car. Once they were gone, Ziva led her children back into the house, leading them upstairs and pushing Asher into the bathroom just off the master.
"Now what happened, my angel?" She asked, taking a seat on the bed. Zipporah curled up on the bed beside her, snuggling into her mother's side. Silence followed, before Asher finally came out of the bathroom. He'd taken off the shirt and washed the blood off his hands; Ziva held out one of her husband's shirts. The boy snatched it up; it had become habit, not long after they'd arrived in America and had moved in with Tim, back when Ziva was still a Mossad officer, that if the boy was truly upset, he'd slip into Tim's room and pull a shirt out of his dresser, pulling it on. The first time he'd done that had been when they thought Tim would got to jail for killing that Metro cop, and every day after, when they had a major case, or if Tim was hurt, he would curl up in one of his father's shirts.
"I... I went out to... to get the mail..." He took a seat beside his mother, pulling the shirt on and then curled into her other side. "And... and Jet went with me, like... like he always does... and..." He sniffled. "And there was a guy... walking down the street and... and he... he pulled out a gun and... and he... he aimed it and..." The boy swallowed. "He shot... I didn't realize that Jet had jumped at him until I heard the second shot... and then he ran, and I... I looked down, and... and Jet was laying there..."
Ziva gathered her son to her chest, rocking him gently. She pressed a kiss to his head, before brushing her fingers through his hair and turning to Zipporah. She pressed a kiss to her daughter's head. "Stay with Brother, my songbird. I'll be right back."
By the time Tim and Keavy returned, the kids were both asleep on the bed in the main room, and Ziva was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up as the other two entered. "How's Jet?" Tim sighed, going to his wife. Keavy poured a cup of coffee and set it on the table, pushing Tim towards it before pouring one for herself and taking a seat.
"'twas lucky we go' 'im there so fas'." Keavy told her. "'e los' a lo' o' blood, bu'..."
"But he survived, Zi." Tim replied, taking a seat beside her and taking her hand.
"But?" She knew the tone her husband used when there was something particularly painful he was reluctant to mention. "Tim, what is it?"
The two Irish-born shared a glance, before he said,
"They had to... amputate his right front leg. They had no other choice, Zi. He'd barely survived the shot to his side; if they hadn't removed his leg, it would have killed him. We're lucky he's alive as is." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's a strong dog, Jet, but... but one of these days, his body's going to give out, and I don't blame him when it happens."
"As long as we have him when Liron comes home, that's all I care about, Tim." Ziva whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek and squeezing his hand. Then, she stood. "I'll go tell the kids." They watched her go.
"Ye dinna say anythin'."
Tim swallowed. "Not my place."
Keavy scoffed lightly, raising an eyebrow. "T' tell yer wife tha' yer son may nev'r come 'ome? Tha' she may well be buryin' yer boy as welcomin' 'im through th' fron' door?" She leaned close. "Ye an' I both know, Tim, tha' the world does no' work like tha'."
"So does Ziva." He replied. She narrowed her eyes, studying him.
"Ye los' someone close t' ye."
"Haven't you?" He asked, sipping his coffee.
"Aye, I did. Me aunt."
He raised an eyebrow. "Small world. So did I."
"Oh really? Who?"
"You tell me first." She shook her head. "Fine. On three?" She thought a moment, before nodding. They counted down softly, before both blurted out,
"Fiona McGee."
Tim narrowed his gaze. "Fiona McGee was my father's oldest sister-"
"And me Ma's bes' friend. 'twas me godmother-"
"And mine." He replied, but something struck him as odd. "Who was your mother?" A flash of pained sadness skittered across Keavy's features as she whispered,
"Suzanna Wilson. Yers?"
"Elizabeth Harmon." His whisper was soft, almost feather light, and Keavy noticed the bitterness that flashed in his eyes. "John McGee is... was my father. He disowned me when I was eighteen."
"I rememb'r meetin' John once. t' be 'onest, 'e scared me."
Tim chuckled softly. "He scared a lot of people. Passed away last year from cancer; can't say I'm sorry... after what he did to my sister and I-"
"I know, Tim. Fiona told Ma once, wha' 'e'd done t' ye." She reached out, squeezing his hand. "So..." They lapsed into silence for several minutes. "I guess... I guess we're..."
"God siblings." He whispered. She nodded, chuckling softly. A moment passed, before she bit her lip, meeting his gaze.
"I always want'd a brother." The former agent rolled his eyes, but grinned back at her.
