Title: Any Given Moment
Disclaimer: None of these characters are my creation. No infringement intended.
Rating: Hmmm… we'll say T.
Pairings: This isn't a shipper story, but McAbby and Jimmy/Ziva (an odd couple to my stories, I know, but completely feasible on the show, if you think about it).
Summary: Ducky is never alone, as he lays in his hospital bed.
Author's Note: This is a oneshot.
As Ducky lays in his hospital bed, hovering much of the time in the realm of semi-consciousness that precedes deep sleep, he is only dimly aware of his companions, taking turns holding vigil by his bedside.
Had he opened his eyes at one given moment, he would have seen a slightly built young woman, her long, wavy dark hair framing her warm brown eyes, and slightly olive complexion. Had she spoken, he would have recognized her accent – strong enough to be exotically beautiful, yet subtle enough to still provide absolute clarity and understanding for those she spoke to. He would see her sitting, to his shock and amazement, closely – almost intimately so - next to a young man, whose furrowed, worried brows framed his green eyes – hidden, as they always were, behind the round lenses that perpetually graced his boyish face. He would have recognized the mop of dark curls on the top of his head – kept from becoming unruly only by virtue of frequent visits to the barber, and a forceful confinement beneath a surgical cap, while at work. He would have been amazed to see the woman, clutching the young man's hand in desperate, worried vigil, their tangled fingers resting almost forgotten in his lap.
At another given moment, he might have opened his eyes to see another young man, formerly closely cropped sandy hair now allowed to grow out, to more resemble the young man he had become acquainted with too few years ago. The warm olive green eyes would be crinkled with concern and uncertainty, in fear of having to say a premature and permanent goodbye to him. His pouty mouth would be down-turned in a worried frown. Next to him, not surprisingly, clutching her young man's hand in much the same way that the previous young woman had clutched the hand of her companion, he would see a young woman, familiar dark hair in familiar dark pigtails; familiar vivid green eyes framed with familiar dark makeup, her lips stained by a harsh shade of crimson, so dark as to resemble the blood that he himself was so terribly familiar with, in his chosen profession.
Another moment would see him open his eyes to find, in his company, another young man – well, relatively so, at least. This one would sit with a frown, his normally laughing blue eyes crinkled with worry, his silver hair slightly askew from half-hearted, distracted attention. Now and then he would hear, with his eyes closed, a familiar sipping from a familiar take-out cup, and eventually, the gentle plunk of the empty container hitting the bottom of the waste basket sitting next to the bed.
Most likely, if the relatively younger man were not alone, he might be accompanied by any, or all, of the above mentioned people. Perhaps he might be accompanied by one other, yet another green-eyed friend and colleague, who has seen too much and not enough, both at the same time, and who has himself knocked on death's door, but not quite stepping over the threshold when the door was opened to him. He is the one who observes things quietly, never missing a trick, and voices opinions loudly – depending on the situation, sometimes with passion and insistence born of hard-won experience, and sometimes with a sort've blatant disregard for tact, born of his inner juvenile. Ducky might hear the soft mutterings of, "How's he doin', Boss?" breaking the silence now and then, as he would softly walk into the room and join the silver-haired man, in quiet, patient vigil.
When he would fall into deep slumber, in the company of any combination of these people he might have seen keeping silent, desperate vigil by his side, he might have observed himself, in an oddly detached sort of way, in the situation that had brought him here.
The relatively normal day in autopsy, with Mr. Palmer out for a moment to deliver samples to Abby for analyses… The sudden and overwhelming tightness in his chest, the feeling of not being able to breathe, a searing pain overtaking him. An involuntary clutching at his shirt and a failing heart he cannot reach through flesh and bone. His legs giving way, knees buckling, the sharp jolt of impact, and the coldness of the floor blanketing his back, as he collapsed. A vague awareness of returning footsteps, quick and frantically assured.
A calling out for help, a second set of footsteps – Anthony's – rushing to his side. A voice - Timothy's - calling for an ambulance. The feel of hands – Jimmy's – caring for him with frantic urgency, until help arrived, with the assistance of his two companions, all three too hopped up on adrenalin to realize that they should be scared to death.
Voices – Jethro's, Abigail's, Ziva's – full of fear and apprehension, asking if he'll be okay. A shaky voice – Jimmy's, his adrenalin rush clearly over – saying, "I don't know, Agent Gibbs, but we got to him quickly, so at least there's that." A muffled voice – Abigail's, crushed into Timothy's shoulder - insisting that Ducky can't possibly die. A prayer in Hebrew, nearly breathless in its desperation, muttered in Ziva's unmistakable sultry voice – over the shoulder of his young assistant, as she clings to him tightly, not caring anymore who knows about them.
And one morning, he awakens find himself surrounded by all of the above mentioned faces, and voices.
"Are you ready to go home yet, Duck?" Jethro.
"You scared the crap out of us, Ducky." Anthony.
"Try not to do that again, please?" Timothy.
"Jimmy and I had fun in autopsy while you were gone. It's not that bad, once you get the hang of it." Abigail.
"And yet, Doctor, the morgue is still intact, in spite of Abby's help." Jimmy. A small whapping sound of fist meeting flesh, as Abby punches Jimmy playfully in the arm.
"I have lost too many people I care about already, Ducky. Please don't do this to us again?" Ziva.
A small smile, offered in gratitude and relief, to the people who had taken turns watching over him, never leaving him alone. Making sure that, in spite of the yappy protests of Contessa and Tyson, his mother was cared for, and not forgotten, in spite of her confused abrasiveness, and sometimes fear-inducing ramblings.
"Thank you all, so very, very much," is all he can manage to say, as caring, helpful hands reach out to help him to his feet, and to take him home again.