Author's Note: Wellll, my first chapter didn't get a whole lot of reviews, but judging by the (admittedly small) number of you that added this story to your alert lists, I think it generated a little interest! Concerning the first section of story below: I realize that the grammar and syntax may be dodgy; indulge me. I hope you enjoy chapter two, and do drop a comment, if you feel so inclined. ;)
Flat-Line
Chapter 2
She remembered snatches of things at first.
Like peeling herself off the pavement after what—hours? minutes? Waking blanketed by a thick black cloud of smoke, pinned by twisted metal, struggling to her feet. Hearing gone, equilibrium shot. Stumbling blindly around the wreckage, her burning, streaming eyes unable to see past her hands. The tanned skin was stained and glistening with fresh blood. Her own?
Tali's.
Her mind screams. That she can hear perfectly well, now and forever. The familiar figure of a man appeared suddenly, running, catching her in his arms as the ground swirled up to meet her.
Next: hearing everything as if she were underwater. Lying on a gurney, watching ceiling tiles blur, moving fast, too fast. Foreign sounds, foreign voices, foreign faces hovering over her own. Bright lights, needles, syringes, tubes, monitors, alarms, silence. Silence and darkness.
It felt like a dream. A sick, delirious, wretched dream. Vainly, she hoped it was. Ziva returned to consciousness slowly. Still, the crushing silence pressed on her, broken only by the ringing in her ears and the sound of her rapid, shallow breath. Everything hurt. Her head, back, chest, legs. She felt a thin band pressing against her cheeks, wrapping around the back of her head. A plastic mask rested over her nose and mouth, digging in to sensitive skin. Expending tremendous effort, she reached up to try and remove it.
A pair of warm hands wrapped around her wrists and gently pulled her feeble fingers away from her face.
"No," he remonstrated as if speaking to a child. The sound of his voice was muddy. "You need the oxygen."
Ziva's eyes finally fluttered open. She struggled to bring in to focus her brother's face. His eyes narrowed slightly, gauging her. Defiantly, she pulled a hand free. Before she had time to pull at the mask again, Ari had gripped both of her hands in one of his, and with the other held the call remote.
"If you're going to be difficult, I'll have the nurse come and sedate you."
Ziva glared. Her brother's slow, deliberate drawl grated like sandpaper on her raw nerves. But she dropped her hand and her gaze submissively.
Ari sat back in the chair he'd pulled close to her bed.
"You're in the hospital," he informed her needlessly. "You suffered serious injuries."
Ziva's bleary eyes flicked to his face. He continued in his doctor-voice. "You have a severe concussion, numerous abrasions and contusions, and two cracked ribs."
Her eyebrows knit questioningly. He understood. "The oxygen was prompted by prolonged smoke inhalation and bruised lung. You…" His voice trailed off and he hesitated momentarily. "You are lucky to be alive, Ziva."
She turned her face away. Her gaze wandered over the sterile room. Though dazed and disoriented, she heard everything he wasn't saying. She heard it loud and clear. A tear fell across the bridge of her nose.
When next Ziva woke, she didn't have to struggle for consciousness as she had before. She stretched stiffly, moaning as her body protested the movement.
"Easy," Ari cautioned. He still sat beside her.
"How long have I been out of it?" Her voice was unusually deep and raspy.
"Two days. You woke a few times, but I doubt you remember."
She didn't tell him that she remembered some; and he didn't tell her that when she had woken, it was because she'd been screaming.
Ziva looked at the IV line was taped to her right hand, the needle spearing painfully into tender flesh. With her free left hand, she felt along her face. A nasal cannula replaced the oxygen mask. She opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. Much to her dismay, the simple action triggered a violent coughing spasm. She lay clutching the sheets tightly, gasping, trying to subdue the attack. The room spun and shimmered black around the edges. Ari slipped his hand beneath her neck and helped her sit up.
"Here, drink," he instructed, holding a plastic cup to her lips. She sipped the cool liquid gratefully and collapsed onto the pillow when she finished. Her brother eased back in the chair. Ziva swallowed convulsively before trying to speak.
"Ari," she rasped. "Tell me." Her eyes pleaded with him for the truth.
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, sighing heavily. She noticed for the first time that he looked utterly exhausted. "Tali is dead, Ziva." His voice was low and sorrowful.
Ziva nodded; she hadn't expected to hear anything else. Still, tears dimmed her vision. The next words were harder to force from her lips. "Wh-when is the—"
"Yesterday," Ari interrupted, knowing the rest of the question. Ziva blinked in disbelief.
"Yesterday?"
Slight hesitation. "Father thought it best."
"Of course he did!" She spat contemptuously, flushing. She shook her head, refusing to accept it. Her mind whirled dizzily. "You—you held her funeral without me? You let him?"
"There was nothing I could do," Ari said quietly. Ziva stared hard at him and for a moment saw reflected in his eyes the same pain she felt in her heart. But then he affected that sullen, listless expression and his eyes were empty to her. She hated that look—right now, she almost hated him. She wanted to scream and swear and say a thousand hurtful things, things that would cut him to the quick, wanted to ask him a dozen probing questions, the first being, How could you?
But she couldn't make her mouth form the words. She just couldn't do it. Tears gushed unbidden from the corners of her eyes.
"Get out," she choked. "Leave—right now."
He stood wordlessly, respecting both her contempt and her desire to be alone in her misery. But as Ziva watched him leave, reality hit her harder than the blast had. Her mother was gone, her sister was gone. Her father—absent. He hadn't even come to visit her in the hospital.
She and her brother didn't see eye-to-eye on much anymore; his sense of ethics was much different than hers. But they were family, and now Ari was all she had. She couldn't lose him, too.
She called out to him, and he turned from the door. A second of silent communication passed, and he was sitting on the bed. He took her in his arms and smoothed her hair as she sobbed. He whispered things in Hebrew to calm her, as if she were no more than a child again, five years old with a broken ankle. The moment was one that neither of them would ever forget.
As a rule, Ziva never cried and Ari never displayed emotion; tendencies adopted years ago, because tears and weaknesses had not been tolerated by Father, even when they were children. But they made exceptions for each other in their shared grief, thinking not of the past, or of the future. Ziva knew that the past was irrelevant, and the future uncertain. The present was all she had. Ari was all she had. And that was enough.
For now.
A/N: Grrr! I know this was really short, but it's going places, I promise. Don't give up on me, 'cause it's gonna get really good! Review, review, review! Especially to give me advice as I try to write the Haswari character. I'm attempting to give him a different dimension than that of the turn-coat, homicidal maniac we saw on NCIS. I'd love your opinion!