A/N: Okay, so disclaimer: I have no inside information into Season 10; and I highly doubt any of my speculations will yield reality. That being said, everything in this story –as far as who dies, who's injured and how badly- is made-up. Okay? Okay. Moving on then: I cannot wait until the angst-y-ness is done because, believe it or not, this was supposed to be a more healing, let's-make-everything-happy-again story. But you know what? It just isn't going there quite yet. I wonder what happens next? (Seriously folks, I just write it as it comes to me. I honestly have no freaking clue where this is gonna go.) So, uh, much love and keep the peace, Kit!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine!
Chapter IV
"At every occasion I'll be ready for the funeral . . ." Funeral, Band of Horses
He feels a headache coming on as he disconnects his call from Palmer. If today gets any worse, he doesn't know what he's going to do.
He wanders back to the examination room he left Tony and Ziva in, not wanting to put off the conversation any longer. The door is open so he doesn't bother knocking, but just sweeps in, the pungent smell of antiseptic contrasting sharply with the bitter aroma from the stale hospital coffee he's gripping like a life preserver.
Tony is sitting in a molded plastic chair pulled up alongside the examination table Ziva is perched on. There's a thin line of stitches across his cheek, and a Band-Aid on the side of his neck, and he's washed the dust from his face, but he doesn't look much better. Ziva has a butterfly stitch above her left eyebrow and there is an impressive bruise blooming across her temple. Somebody has scraped her hair back into a ponytail, but that just seems to make her look so much younger all of the sudden.
"Hey, Boss," Tony greets lightly, trying in vain to infuse some enthusiasm into their dismal situation. He fails by leaps and bounds.
"Any news on McGee?" Ziva asks, ignoring her partner's brave attempt at levity.
Gibbs takes a deep breath, and says frankly, "He's in critical condition."
And for few heartbeats, nobody speaks.
"How bad is it?" And now Tony has surrendered to the circumstances, his voice adopting the hollow quality of a man expecting nothing. Which Gibbs supposes is fitting, since they must be out of miracles by now.
"Bad," he says, wishing that he could give them something, anything, to cling to. Alas, though, he has nothing to offer. "He's got bleeding in his brain. The doctors are worrying about pressure building up."
"Can't they do something about that? I mean, it's treatable, right? People survive that kind of thing, don't they?" And Tony sounds so helpless.
Gibbs blinks, utterly at loss, and so very exhausted. "I don't know, Tony. Best case scenario is a he has mild brain damage."
Silence descends on the group and then Ziva says, slightly hysterical, "That is the best case scenario? Mild brain damage? Gibbs . . . Gibbs . . ." Her face crumples and she presses her good hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. And before Gibbs can even move toward her, Tony is already standing, wincing as he shuffles closer to his partner. She leans into his shoulder, her uninjured hand fisting in the fabric of his rumpled shirt, her slender frame trembling with silent tears. Gibbs watches wordlessly as Tony rubs her nape, attempting to soothe her.
"Excuse me?"
The two men glance over to the young nurse now standing in the doorway, her warm smile and bright pink clipboard seeming too cheerful to the three agents drowning in despair.
"I need a Ziva David to come with me for an x-ray."
And Ziva lifts her head from Tony's shoulder, swiping her eyes roughly with the heel of her good hand. She slips down from the examination table without assistance, composing herself in a few shaky breaths as her old façade slides into place with minimal effort. This is her brave face, Tony thinks, watching as she nods to him and Gibbs in turn before following the nurse from the tiny room. He wonders absently how long she can maintain the pretense this time around.
Gibbs waits until he's certain Ziva is out of earshot before he turns back to Tony to deliver the –pleaseGodletitbe - final blow of the afternoon:
"I got a call from Palmer."
"Yeah?" And it is obvious DiNozzo is somewhere else in his headspace so Gibbs pauses for a few moments. "Shouldn't he be on his honeymoon, or something?" Tony asks absently, his brow furrowing as he tries to integrate this new information. Why would Palmer be calling Gibbs-
"Ducky's had a heart attack, Tony. He's having double bypass surgery right now."
He waits for the younger man to say something, half expecting some utterance of disbelief, but instead DiNozzo surprises him by suddenly striding toward the door. "I gotta go . . . I gotta . . . I," He pauses and looks to Gibbs from over his shoulder. His eyes appear grey in the overhead lighting as he looks pleadingly at the older man. "What do I do, Boss?" he whispers, clearly at a loss. And Gibbs can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Anthony DiNozzo this uncertain.
Gibbs sighs. "Go. Your partner needs you." And you need your partner.
Tony nods, squaring his shoulders, and leaves, presumably to find radiology and the one person in the world who can help him through this.
Ziva's wrist is broken, something the doctor referred to as a distal radial fracture, and while Tony doesn't think that that sounds very good, the doctor assures him it will heal just fine. While Ziva's cast is setting, Tony decides to locate Gibbs to give him an update and inform him that he and Ziva are taking a cab home. And after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly throughout the labyrinth of hospital corridors, Tony finally finds him in a deserted waiting area, sitting beside a civilian Tony has never seen before, talking quietly.
"Um, Boss?" And while he doesn't want to intrude, he really wants to collect Ziva and get the hell out of the hospital because, frankly, it's starting to freak him out. Both Gibbs and the stranger look up at interruption, though neither give him verbal acknowledgement; Gibbs merely arches a silver eyebrow and excuses himself.
"What?" he asks gruffly when he's in earshot of only Tony. His blue eyes are tired and his face drawn as he waits impatiently for an answer. And Tony is struck by how old his boss suddenly looks.
"DiNozzo."
"Sorry, Boss. I, um," he takes a deep breath, shakes his head. Regroups. Tries again: "Ziva's getting a cast put on and then we're heading out; I called a cab. Just thought you'd want to know."
And Gibbs blinks and nods slowly, "Yeah, okay. She staying with you tonight?"
The question catches Tony off guard -he's mentally, emotionally, and physically drained at this point- and he ends up stumbling over an answer in his head for a few moments before stammering out a pitiful, "I don't know."
Gibbs' lips quirk up in a sad half smile of understanding. "Watch her six, Tony."
"I will," he assures, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. He nods toward the guy Gibbs had been talking with and asks quietly, "Who's that?"
Gibbs glances over his shoulder at the man sitting beside the window, staring forlornly out into the view of the parking lot several stories below. Gooseflesh erupts across Tony's arms as he realizes that the man has been crying: His grey eyes are red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears, and there's a crumpled tissue clutched tightly in his fist.
Another wave of foreboding crashes over Tony, bringing with it an odd wash of déjà vu. And haven't they met their crises quota for today?
"Michael Rodriguez," Gibbs replies softly, blue eyes flickering back to Tony. "He's Ned Dorneget's partner."
Tony just looks at Gibbs blankly, clearly not understanding the significance of Michael Rodriguez's presence . . . Then he suddenly remembers that the word partner doesn't always have the same context as it does when applied to his working relationship with Ziva or McGee. And then he remembers that the detonation would have affected other people, other agents, outside of the MCRT . . .
"God, Boss, is Dorneget okay?" But he knows, somehow, before he's even been told the answer.
Gibbs glances back over at Michael Rodriguez before looking Tony in the eye.
"Special Agent Dorneget passed away an hour ago, Tony."