Deep Lacerations: Chapter 25

Agent Sonja Gracy paused just outside the drawn curtain of the ICU cubicle, not sure if she should proceed. When a low snore told her that the room's occupant was asleep, she gently moved the curtain aside and stepped in.

She was at the monitor with the vital signs, scrolling through the commands to get the display of the twenty-four hour ranges, when she nearly jumped in surprise. "Hey," she heard a quiet voice from the bed say.

She spun toward the source to find Agent Tony DiNozzo watching her. "Scheisse, DiNozzo, you—"

"Shh," he whispered, his finger to his lips. He tilted his head slightly. "She just fell asleep about an hour ago. At least, that's when her snoring woke me up."

Her eyes just adjusting to the dim room, Gracy could see Officer Ziva David curled up under the blanket next to DiNozzo, her dark curls running over his arm. If DiNozzo was upset at being caught with her in his bed, he hid it well; in fact, he seemed comfortable with the situation, as if it were completely natural and familiar. Gracy felt a pang of jealousy; it had been too long since she experienced that kind of intimacy. One year, six months, two weeks, and five days, in fact, since Scott had gotten out of bed next to her, dressed in his ACUs, kissed their children goodbye, and headed for Iraq. "What are you doing, anyway?"

Deciding that if DiNozzo wasn't bothered by David sleeping in his bed, Gracy wasn't going to be either, she replied, "I offered the medical student a venti triple-shot from Starbucks and breakfast if he skipped your room for pre-rounds this morning. I told him I'd get your overnight vitals." She shrugged. "The last thing you needed was to be woken by a med student asking inane questions about how you're feeling after he wakes you up at 0530."

He chuckled lightly, careful not to disturb the sleeping Mossad officer next to him. "I'm a bit concerned that Navy ensigns can be bribed with as little as coffee and breakfast."

She grinned. "That's because you've never been a fourth year medical student on an ICU rotation. For the first two days, it's really cool, the feeling that you have control over life and death and your action—or inaction—really makes a difference. Then, after that, you realize you'd be willing to pull the plug on your own mother if it means another five minutes to sleep or eat."

He nodded. "Kinda like a stakeout," he remarked. "Only in stakeout, you'd shoot your own mother just to alleviate the boredom. So, I take it your varsity collegiate sport was swimming?"

She glanced down at her Texas A&M Varsity Swimming and Diving sweatshirt that Gibbs had brought from her house, which she had tossed over the ultra-thin thermal clothes that had replaced the electric garments when her temperature reached an appropriate degree—ultra-thin thermal clothes that she was strangely proud to discover had been developed by Army researchers during the Cold War. "It's no wonder you're senior field agent, with those kind of observation skills."

He grinned. He should have realized it earlier. Not only did she have the tall, lean build of a swimmer, with the required broad shoulders and long torso, she also had the intensity. Despite their lack of recognition in the national sports scene—with the exception of a couple of weeks every four years for the Olympics—swimmers were hard-core athletes, practicing for hours a day, lifting weights a couple of times a week, with no off-season. They were a favorite for basketball players to hit on in the weight room; of course, that might have more to do with the fact that they were comfortable wearing only tiny scraps of fabric without care for the audience… He shook his head quickly as if to get his mind back on track. "I was referring to the mad Baywatch skills yesterday, actually."

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, "Would you believe me if I told you I really was a Baywatch girl?" She chuckled at his surprised expression. "I'm kidding. Baywatch was in California…I think. I grew up in southern Florida. I was a beach patrol guard until I left for college, and then I worked a couple of shifts a week as a lifeguard during the school year for extra cash, so the lifeguarding thing was really more of a reflex. Although I don't remember the water being so damned cold during my last rescue."

They both smiled at that, although DiNozzo couldn't help but notice that Gracy's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well, thanks," DiNozzo said sincerely. "Reflex or not, that was a really brave thing to do, especially considering you have two kids to go home to."

She waved the platitudes aside. "I didn't exactly have time to consider my children before deciding that if I didn't get in to get you out, nobody would be able to—well, not alive, anyway. Really, Tony, you don't have to thank me. You would have done the same thing."

He chuckled, almost nervously. "I think you're overestimating my altruistic qualities."

"Actually, I'm impressed you know what 'altruistic' means."

DiNozzo decided to let that one slide. "I heard your kids were around last night."

She smiled slightly at the mention of her children. "Sorry you missed seeing them. They should be here again in a couple of hours when Gibbs comes by to pick me up."

He brightened at that. "We're being discharged today?"

"What's this 'we'?" she asked. "I'm being discharged. You're going to be observed for at least another day."

"What? Why?"

"Because I've never had the plague," she replied simply. "That, and my temperature was up to 97 before I made the intern take out the pulmonary catheter probe, and yours still reads 94." She gave him an exaggerated-thoughtful expression. "Odd, considering your methods of conserving body temperature."

"It's because she's completely cold inside," DiNozzo replied, not missing a beat. "You know, the whole unemotional Mossad spy thing."

"I am awake, Tony," Ziva commented dryly, her voice still hoarse from sleep, her eyes still closed.

"Good luck with that, DiNozzo," Gracy said, smiling slightly as she rose from her chair and headed back to her own room. That was another thing she missed: being close enough to another person, knowing all of their quirks and likes and dislikes, to be able to joke around like that.

Maddie Gracy had her attention focused on the book in her lap when Agent Gibbs glanced in his rearview mirror, which was hardly unusual; since he had picked her and Nate up from their townhouse the day before, she had spent most of her time reading. After their stop by Bethesda, he had taken the Gracy kids back to his place. Nate had been immediately fascinated by the boat in the basement, especially after Gibbs taught him how to sand, but Maddie had remained perched on one of the lower steps, her book on her lap and her eyes down. He had caught a few almost wistful glances as she realized that her brother was having fun without her. Gibbs had to invent some reason why he specifically needed her help, for which she feigned reluctance and gave a rather large, exasperated sigh, but she did put her book aside to work on the boat. If she regretted that action, she hid it well.

Despite that moment of creative "parenting", he realized upon waking that it had been far too many years since there were children in the house, and he was woefully unprepared. He somehow managed to find some pancake mix in the back of his under-stocked pantry, which the expiration date assured him was still good, and discovered that he still knew how to make pancakes. Fortunately, being kids, they didn't realize that pancakes were one of the easiest breakfasts to make, and they both—well, Nate more than Maddie—seemed excited by the "special" breakfast of pancakes and orange juice. He almost slipped up and offered them coffee.

"Agent Gibbs?" His reverie was broken by the small yet serious voice. He glanced in the mirror again to see Maddie no longer looking at her book, now studying him. "Are you and my mom working on a case?"

"And Agent DiNozzo and Officer David," Gibbs added with a nod.

"Are the bad guys after you?" He frowned at her phrasing, wondering if Gracy had mentioned something about the case, maybe to warn her—no, she wouldn't have done that. She was too concerned about her daughter's already fragile state to even hint that the man who killed Major Gracy was still out there and now killing again.

Her statement made more sense when he remembered how simple the world was for children; everything was right or wrong, black or white, good or bad. The planet was just one big battleground for the warring armies: The Good Guys and The Bad Guys, an idea enforced by endless cartoons of Superman and Batman and whatever other superheroes were on Saturday morning TV these days. "Yeah," he finally said. "But we're going to get them, Maddie. We're stronger and smarter than the bad guys are."

"Do you promise?"

He looked her in the eye through the rearview mirror. "Yeah, Maddie, I promise."

Abby Sciuto blinked hard a few times, trying to clear her vision and her head. Not enough Caf-Pow, she mused, wondering for what had to be the twenty-third time that morning where Gibbs was. Not that she had anything to report, but—. "Oh," she suddenly murmured as her computer beeped. She grabbed for her phone.

The call to the squad room went, not surprisingly, unanswered, as all of her previous calls had been. No surprise there; Tony and Gracy were still hospitalized, which meant that Ziva and Gibbs were probably still there. Still, she had to try.

Thinking that her next attempt would be just as fruitless as the last several times she tried it, she dialed Gibbs' cell phone number. He hadn't been answering that, or his home phone number, or— "Gibbs."

"Gibbs!" Abby exclaimed in response. "Oh my God, I can't believe I actually reached you! I mean, I've been trying to get a hold of you for, like, hours, and you haven't answered any of my calls. I was starting to worry that—"

"Abby."

"Right. Sorry. So where are you? I know Tony and Agent Gracy are still in the hospital, and you gave Ziva guard duty, so I thought you would have been here all night—"

"Maddie and Nate were at my house last night, Abs. I'm on my way to take them to Bethesda now."

"You answered the phone when you have children in the car?" Her tone had changed from slightly concerned to upset. "I would ask if you're using a Bluetooth, but since you haven't even figured out how to work voicemail yet, I figure hands-free technology is at least fifteen years in your future. Of course, by then, we won't even have cell phones anymore, just little implants in our brains that lets us communicate directly with another person—"

"Abby, why are you calling?"

"Gibbs, I hope you're not trying to distract me from telling you how irresponsible it is to be talking on a cell phone while driving."

"You called me."

"Oh! That's right." Abby shook her head quickly, amazed at how quickly she could get off track when she was going on very little sleep and not enough caffeine. "The fingerprint from your mystery shooter at Norfolk? I got a hit."