A/N: 'Cause I love you all and it's still premiere night! Much love, keep the peace, Kit!
DISCLAIMER: Nope.
XIII.
"One step closer." A Thousand Years, Christina Perri
The following morning, he and Ziva go to visit the hospital bound. He isn't entirely sure what he's expecting, but when he walks through the door and into the private room, he honestly was expecting worse.
McGee is not-quite-propped up in the hospital bed with half a dozen wires and tubes disappearing under the pristine linens. Cuts litter his pale face from where the windows had been blown into him, though only a few gashes were deep enough to warrant stitches: Most of the scrapes have been left unbandaged, all thin red lines crisscrossing his forehead and cheeks. Bruises mottle the skin on his shoulder where his hospital gown has slipped down, and Tony winces internally at the dark purple shadowing his collarbone. His head had been shaved, though a few random patches escaped the shearing and poor McGee looks like a mange victim.
His eyes brighten, though, when he sees that he has company, the left side of his mouth twitching up in a half-grin. "Hey," he whispers croakily as Ziva makes a beeline to his side, her own smile so radiant that Tony thinks planets should revolve around it.
"Hi," she returns warmly, her accent thick with emotion, and she leans down to press a kiss to the side of his head. "How are you feeling?" And it's such a ridiculous thing to ask and Tony knows this and she knows this, but what else is there to say?
McGee blinks and several seconds pass before he replies, slowly, "Much . . . better." And Tony's heart is somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes because the younger man's words are slightly slurred, almost as if he's had too much to drink.
Or as if he's had a stroke, says the little voice in the back of Tony's mind.
"You look like hell, kid," he says loudly, if only to drown out that niggling little voice. Ziva glares over her shoulder and McGee does that smirking thing again.
"That's what . . . Gibbs . . . said," he replies, clearly un-offended. Tony relaxes slightly.
"Sounds like the boss. How's the food?"
McGee glances at Ziva and rolls his eyes. She just smiles back at him and winks.
"Dunno, 'Nozzo . . . Can't have . . . any . . . thing . . . solid."
"Do you need something to drink, McGee?" Ziva asks, noticing the hoarseness in his voice. And Tony had forgotten that he'd been on a respirator for almost three days.
McGee gives her a grateful smile, "Please."
There's a Styrofoam cup and a plastic spoon on the tray near his bed, and while Ziva dutifully feeds McGee ice-chips, Tony watches quietly, unable to shake the fact that McGee isn't telling them something . . .
"I shall go get you some more ice, yes?" Ziva asks and Tony comes out of his reverie with a shake of his head. McGee is thanking her softly and she smiles at him, shrugging off his gratitude. "I do not mind, McGee, really."
Ziva stands up and looks over at Tony, cocking her head to the side as she sees the contemplation on his face. He's looking directly at her when he asks, "Hey, probie? Where's Abby?"
McGee closes his eyes, clearly thinking. "Chapel . . . pro'ly."
"Then I will go find ice and Abby," Ziva says with a nod. She tosses a quick wink over her shoulder at McGee and brushes up against Tony as she passes in front of him to get to the door. And soon as Ziva's gone and the door snicks shut again, Tony turns to McGee with raised eyebrows.
"Okay, what aren't you telling us?" he demands gently, eyes raking over the younger man, all pale and tired looking in the hospital bed.
McGee meets Tony's gaze with an unwavering stare that would make Gibbs proud, before surrendering without much protest. "I don't . . . want . . . you . . . to worry."
"Worry? Me? About you? Come on, Probie, when have I ever worried about you?" Tony asks in mock surprise.
"Tony," McGee says seriously and the older man sobers considerably.
Because he knows; he knows that McGee knows that Ziva isn't as impermeable as she once was, and he realizes McGee is trying to protect them, his team and his friends, from the pain that comes with the truth. And while Tony would rather shield Ziva from the cold hard facts, he needs to be in the know.
"Lay it on me, kid."
McGee takes a deep breath and focuses somewhere just beyond Tony's shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is as even as it can be, completely complacent and utterly unperturbed despite the slur to some words. "I had . . . bleeding . . . in my . . . brain . . . it did . . . some . . . damage."
"What kind of damage?"
"Kind . . . that may . . . may . . . not . . . go away . . . with time."
"McGee."
"I hit . . . the back . . . my head . . . occipital lobe . . . part . . . controls . . . vision."
"And?" Both men ignore the crack in his voice.
"Can't . . . see you . . . too good . . . D'Nozzo." And it's the rueful half-smile that nearly breaks Tony. He opens his mouth to say something –he doesn't know what- but McGee interrupts him with another blow: "Can't see . . . out . . . left eye . . . at all."
"Jesus, McGee-"
"S'okay."
"No," Tony murmurs, sinking down into the molded plastic chair beside the bed. "No, it isn't, Tim. It isn't okay."
"Hey," and Tony looks up to see McGee staring at him. "It is . . . We're . . . gonna be okay."
Tony takes these words and clings.
. . .
She decides to find the ice chips after she finds Abby because returning to McGee with a cup of water would be counterproductive.
She has always hated hospitals ever since she was a small child in Israel, and no matter how many years older she is, or what the circumstances are that even warrant the hospital visit, she maintains her dislike. Therefore, she doesn't waste time in trying to find the chapel on her own, instead opting to solicit the assistance of a kindly matron in Peanuts scrubs.
Seven minutes later and Ziva finds herself standing outside a small room tucked away in a quiet corner of the hospital, a simple plaque beside the doorframe reading: CHAPEL. She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.
The air in the room is cool and still, and a palpable reverence seems to cling to the walls. There are small electric candles in little glass votives to the left of the door, the faux-flames flickering softly in the dimness of the room. On the right wall hangs a painting of the Christ, standing with his arms outstretched and rays of light streaming from Him. And it's a painting she's seen before, in several places, including the Church Tony had met her in the other day.
There's a small altar at the front of the room with two more flameless candles flanking the ends. A plain wooden cross is mounted to the wall just behind the altar, and Ziva finds that she likes the simplicity of it. Abby sits just to the left of the space in the first of the five rows of chairs. Her head is bowed and, as Ziva sits down beside her, she realizes that cherry red lips are moving soundlessly in prayer. A rosary is tangled in Abby's pale fingers and Ziva watches as she seems to touch a certain bead for several seconds before moving on to the next.
Eventually, Abby becomes aware of someone watching her and she opens her eyes, peering out from under a fringe of black bangs. When she realizes who is beside her though, she abandons her praying and launches herself at Ziva, practically climbing into the younger woman's lap.
"Ziva!" she whispers fiercely, squeezing her tightly. "It is so, so, so good to see you! How are you?" And if Abby's enthusiasm is inappropriate in this quiet place, neither woman seems perturbed.
"Hello, Abby," Ziva returns, laughing. "I am well; I missed you."
"How's your wrist?" And now Abby draws back, scrutinizing Ziva at arm's length and then picking up her right wrist, surveying the plaster cast.
"It is better," she replies dismissively. "How are you doing? You've had a rough few days."
"Um, I was unscathed," and her tone of voice and the tilt of her head suggests that she doesn't understand Ziva's concern.
"You were blown up," Ziva points out gently.
"So were you!"
"Yes, but, you've been here with McGee-"
"Oh! How am I emotionally holding up? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes."
Abby looks thoughtful. "I'm still going through the five stages of grief, you know? I think I'm close acceptance, but still slightly depressed –though not, like, super depressed, just, like, sad."
Ziva blinks and studies the Goth for a moment; she's dressed as plainly as she's ever seen her: Black skinny jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, Abby-issued boots and spiky dog collar. She doesn't seem depressed . . . "You are mourning Agent Dorneget?" she finally asks, confused.
"No . . . Well, yeah, of course, but I'm talking about McGee."
"But McGee isn't dead," she says slowly, emphatically.
"No, but-"
"Abby," Ziva says seriously, her heart suddenly in the vicinity of her shoes. "Is McGee dying?"
And Abby's eyes go wide, wide, wide. "What? No!" she says quickly, shaking her head. "No, no, no, no, no. I'm mourning what we used to be, as a team," she explains. "Especially since he probably won't get to go back into the field." And at Ziva's stricken expression, Abby recoils, asking quietly, "Tony and Gibbs didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Ziva demands, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut.
Abby's face softens. "Tim's showing signs of brain damage, Ziva. Right now he's paralyzed on one side."
She has a bit of trouble rationalizing that.
. . .
The hospital doors swish shut behind them and she stops right before they step out from under the awning and into the sunlight. He pauses beside her, casting her a curious glance, and she tilts her face up to look at him. "You did not tell me about McGee," she says.
Her voice holds no accusation, but he's guilty all the same. "Are you mad?" he asks cautiously, fighting back the urge to step out of range.
She releases a little sigh. "No."
He nods. "You okay?"
She looks away from him, stares out into the parking lot where the waves of heat rise off the asphalt. "I'm not the one who is likely paralyzed," she says after a pause, and her voice sounds slightly embittered.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly, taking a chance and reaching out, cupping her face and tilting her chin up gently so she'll meet his eyes once more. And her dark gaze is so sad his heartbreaks a little. "Abby said he's gained some mobility back," he tells her, hoping his voice is reassuring. "That's a good sign." And neither of them are sunny optimists –because that is Abby's area of expertise- but Ziva leans her face into his palm marginally, and suddenly everything seems a tad more sanguine.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks softly.
"Honestly? Because I didn't want you to be upset."
She seems to accept this; seems to be anticipating it, almost. "You were . . . protecting me?"
"Yes. I thought you said you weren't mad."
"I'm not mad." And she isn't, he can tell.
But he has to make sure: "Really?"
"Really, Tony." She sounds exasperated, but not mad. And he'll take her exasperation over her wrath any day.
He's still cupping her face as they stare at each other. And they've got to look ridiculous, standing before the main entrance of the hospital, clearly having a heart-to-heart as the wail of far off sirens meanders through the humid air.
"Go to dinner with me," he says suddenly, and while he would have expected the unexpectedness of his question to surprise him, it doesn't.
And the fact that it doesn't, in the end, doesn't really surprise him either.
"I went to dinner with you Friday," she says slowly, but he can tell she understands where he's going with this.
"No," he explains, lowering his hand from her cheek. "We went to Samson's on Friday. I'm talking about a nice dinner with you in a dress, me in a suit, and a bottle of wine."
"Tony . . ." And she's saying no.
"Go out on a date with me, Ziva," he insists, not ready to let this chance go. Don't have those regrets. "A real, honest-to-God date."
"Tony-"
"Say yes."
A look that he's secretly dubbed her thinking face passes over her features: Her eyebrows draw together, and the skin there puckers while the edges of her mouth slip down as she worries her lower lip between her teeth.
He finds himself panicking. "I won't quit asking you until you give in," he tells her jokingly, trying to alleviate some of the tension. And he's silently berating himself for ruining their moment.
She relaxes, a small smile gracing her lips. "I'm going to hold you to that, Tony," she tells him seriously, and his heart picks up as he realizes that the hesitation he saw, wasn't necessarily about him. "I need to take care of something first, though."
He nods, "I understand." And he does.
"That wasn't a 'no,'" she clarifies, eyeing him carefully.
He can't help but smile. "So you will go out with me?"
She smirks. "That was implied, yes."
"So that's a 'yes'?"
"It isn't a 'no.'"
And he's grinning like an idiot. "I'll take it."
And they've got to look ridiculous, standing before the main entrance of the hospital, smiling at each other like teenagers as the wail of far off sirens meanders through the humid air.