Inhale.

Silence. A sort of peaceful calm floated above and flowed into his veins. He could not remember the last time it was this quiet. He half-expected to hear a clock ticking, but there was only the sound of breathing.

Exhale.

Every time he heard it, relief gripped him. He did not want to admit that his partner was dying, but his heart could not ignore the possibility that soon, very soon, he might not be able to hear her at all. His fist clenched and unclenched with every rise and fall of her weakened body. It was exhausting and relaxing at the same time, this resigned waiting.

Inhale.

Her head was resting on his lap, her body curled partially beside him, partially on top of him. Instinctively his hands wrapped around her upper torso, linked together in protection and desperation. As partners the two were never intimate, but he thought nothing of it, platonic or not. He needed her the way she needed him – they had nothing else.

Exhale.

It sounded labored, like something clawing at the inside of her chest, but she was still breathing. He couldn't bring himself to force her to stay awake, because he knew (oh, how he knew) that it was only a matter of time anyway. Small mercies.

Inhale.

This time he felt her muscles tense and instead of exhaling she exploded into a nasty hacking cough, her lungs and mouth burning with dryness and pressure. Her body convulsed and she heaved, but there was nothing left to come up. The silence passed as she tried to calm her lungs and ease the taut muscles in her core.

She cleared her throat and shifted her body to look up at him, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Is there no more water?" she asked quietly, thin and hoarse.

At the look of sheer need and veiled pain written on her face, his heart sank and threatened to break. He found he had only the strength to shake his head. She swallowed heavily and shifted again so that she was facing the other wall, her face hidden from him.

(She'd taken to doing that. Hiding.)

Exhale.

He reasoned, with a surprising amount of disregard, that he was probably dying now too. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and went back to idle listening.

He figured it had been what, six days? Seven maybe? Certainly he had been graced with some bad weeks before, but this was undoubtedly the worst week of his life. And, conveniently, he didn't even have much life left. He didn't waste his energy on bothering to count the days anymore. Every hour that passed, something inside him went colder and colder, but the sticky heat of their cramped room hadn't lifted, not even for a second.

Inhale.

Somewhere between Ziva being thrown back at him and night falling, he stopped thinking about home.

Exhale.

Outside their trusty steel door, he heard voices. Muffled, indiscernible, and not something he would trouble to try and understand anyway. Still, those were voices, and he could not help but feel some anxiety at their proximity. He glanced down at his partner to see if she heard them too, but she made no reaction and her eyes were still heavy with sleep.

(Sleep? Eh.)

The voice level rose a little and he gently moved her to the floor, pulling his legs out from underneath her stilled form. She didn't respond.

His head spun and squeezed at the sudden change of position, and he had to use the wall to steady himself as the pulsing and stinging ache in his leg returned with a fresh burn. He shut his eyes and waited for the feeling to pass, biting down on his lip to prevent himself from making any noise.

The sounds were getting closer now, and as his heart rate sped involuntarily, he realized that it made no difference whether he was sitting or standing – he still had nothing to fight with. No way of protecting them.

Out of habit he glanced around at his surroundings, his frantic gaze passing over Ziva (still out of it) and landing on the dusty crates in the corner, one of which he had destroyed in an effort to remove the rope binding his hands. But that was many days ago, and he had been isolated and hurting for too long to realize their lack of efficacy.

But if all he could manage was to smash a piece of wood against Ponytail's face, he'd take it.

He limped over to the corner they lay in and picks one up, surprised at how much energy it took to lift something so simple. He gripped it as firmly as possible and braced himself, completely still as he listened to the bolt twitch and the door being pushed open quietly. Deep in his bones he had given up on a lot of things, but he refused lay down and take it willingly, not yet.

Is that not what he told Ziva? Was this not what he had to do?

The black lead of a gun barrel appeared around the corner, and he took an awkward step forward, wooden crate raised, fist and heart closed.

When the opening of the door revealed its shadowy guest, he stopped in his tracks and reached for the stability of the wall, chest pounding as the crate clattered to the ground and breathing became a lot more difficult.

What the fuck?

"Boss?" he asked, voice cracking in utter disbelief and the inability to comprehend.

What in the absolute fuck?

Immediately Gibbs's hand was on his shoulder, commanding with his strong presence (the firmness of his grip must be real, right?) that he calm down. Inhale. Exhale. He checked Tony over and almost laughed, the relief from the tension close to palpable.

"DiNozzo, what were you gonna do with a box?"

Tony opened his mouth to say something, but his mind was completely empty and still reeling silently, so he just closed it again, still trying to catch his breath. The corners of his mouth turned a little, his shoulders shrugging.

"I don't know, I thought…" he trailed off, suddenly feeling blindsided and out of place and stupidly ashamed.

"Hey," started Gibbs, his voice softer than before. "You're good now."

He just nodded, still dumbstruck, looking blankly at his boss. He did not realize that the hand was gone from his shoulder. Gibbs held his stern gaze for a short moment before turning away again.

"Tobias! Take him outside to the medics, he's shivering."

Tony bit back the joke he had about Egyptian winters, secretly thrilled to be relieved of the burden of supporting all of his weight on one good leg. He smiled (or - tried to - it felt weird on his face) at the two friendly faces that extended a hand, allowing him to drape his arms around them. He registered the light flow of Agent Krieger's voice, unable to truly hear what she was saying.

(He'd be fine, or others dead, or something like that.)

He was content to let the two practically drag him out of there, his own mind focused on not letting his emotions wash over him.

When he was sure that DiNozzo was going to make it, Gibbs turned to the darkness of the room for his next problem, the one that had his heart pumping and his feet moving of their own accord, determined and frenetic. Fear and need.

He found her curled on the filthy ground, face bruised, marked by soiled brown and crimson. He crouched down and ran a gentle hand over her neck, fingers seeking a pulse. Her eyes cracked open, but his outline was blurred as she lifted her head to see him better, her tired mind working overdrive. Instinctively, her hand sought his reality, and in a second her palm was connected with his, his warm grip assuring her.

He was not so sure what he was expecting, but this, this was not it. Her obvious suffering simultaneously put fire in his veins and turned his gut.

"Come on, Ziver," he whispered, and her hand relaxed. She felt her eyes start to slide closed again, the edges of her vision swirling and compressing. He lifted her up, head clinging to his chest and arm hanging, carrying her toward the door.

McGee, who had been watching tentatively from the entrance after completing his task of clearing the bunker, almost dropped his jaw.

"Boss – her hand," he said fearfully, shocked at the sight of her mangled wrist, bent at a sickening angle.

"Time to move," replied Gibbs, ushering Tim out of the way and heading for the stairs as fast as the extra weight would allow.

DiNozzo had already been whisked away by the time the bright light of the outside hit them. Gibbs only made it a few steps before he was relieved by the paramedics, their indecipherable words meaningless.

She felt something cool and wet on her face, and then nothing at all.

Fucking hospital coffee.

At least in Cairo they gave it to you for free, unlike the cheap crap they force you to fork over cash for back home. So, he mused bitterly, that was one thing these guys had on the Americans. He just hoped they were equally generous when it came to family relations and news delivery.

News delivery. The thought turned his stomach. That's what had him running for the coffee in the first place.

He'd spent seven days searching for his missing agents. Seven days. Hours and hours upon frustration, dead ends, and far too much wasted time.

He had broken many suspects and caught many criminals and solved many cases, but the personal ones? The threats? He never allowed them to take this long. And this case – if he could call it that – was about as personal as it got. He'd sweated and punched and shouted his lungs hoarse for this case, even after he began dreading that they were already dead. Seven days. And the sleepless nights weren't any easier.

And oh, he felt guilty, sure. He practically dragged them overseas into this mess, and it took him a whole damn week to drag them out of it. His best just wasn't good enough, as he one day feared it wouldn't be. But this, this was so much more than guilt. This was just wrong. It was like there was an anomaly somewhere, an error. This wasn't supposed to happen; they'd already dealt with enough shit. Guilt was part of it, but there was also a certain air of doubt and vulnerability that crept up into his veins as well. This was wrong.

How much more of this was left in the tank? How many more chances did these two have?

And when he found them…they were a mess. Tony had almost succumbed to a breakdown when he had seen his boss in front of him, and Gibbs couldn't even begin to think what must've been going through his head. He'd looked lost, frightened. Entirely too disconcerted to be completely attributed to the pain and hunger. And Ziva – those absolute bastards. Ziva had been close to death.

His stomach clenched and he didn't want to think anymore.

(Seven days.)

"Never thought I'd say this Jethro, but I think I understand your taste in coffee now," came the voice of Fornell, entering through the door on the right of the hallway and taking a seat next to his colleague. From the looks of it (eyes a little bloodshot and suit hanging a little loose), he had been working all night.

Gibbs released a thin chuckle as Fornell tossed his wasted cup in the trash.

"Any word?" asked Fornell, breaking the pensive silence.

Gibbs never asked what he was doing here – he knew Tobias was almost as invested in this as he was. He sighed a little and glanced down at his own cup, searching for the right response, hesitant of how much detail he should reveal.

"Nothing significant. Both critical at the moment."

"DiNozzo too?" asked Fornell curiously, apparently surprised. Sure he was limping and sweating, and he was quieter than usual, but Fornell figured with some fluids he would be pretty stable. But if DiNozzo took after Gibbs as much as people said he did, then he was in a lot more pain than he was letting on.

"Leg was infected, plus the dehydration. He'll bounce back."

"Physically or mentally?" asked Fornell, his gaze as keen as ever.

Gibbs genuinely laughed this time, cocking an eyebrow.

"You only worrying now about his mental health?"

Fornell let out a small laugh of his own, shaking his head. He did have a point.

A few seconds of patient silence passed, neither person saying anything. They weren't tense, exactly, but there was a certain quality of expectation that permeated the air between them.

"David took quite a hit," said Fornell after a minute, his tone implying that the topic needed some elaboration. He knew the woman's general background and training, and if this can happen to someone like that, then…

"Yeah, she did," replied Gibbs, his eyes open but unfocused on the present.

"That's it? Last time this happened – with Todd – you didn't stop until the man responsible was six feet under."

Gibbs turned to face him now, his eyebrows raised both in affirmation and confrontation. He wondered what Fornell would say if he knew that the person actually responsible for "last time" was lying in a hospital bed, bleeding and alone.

"He already is. All of them are. Can't kill 'em again."

Fornell shifted in his seat a little, taking off his glasses and speaking to the man next to him in low, earnest tones.

"Well some of the pieces don't add up. Like how they knew you left the States, or how they managed to capture your agents so quickly. Hell, we don't even know what those two were doing in Egypt to begin with!"

"We won't know until they're ready to talk."

"This isn't over, Jethro," he replied, speaking in a way that sounded like he absolutely meant it.

(He wished he didn't.)

"Never said it was. You talk to Vance?" asked Gibbs, changing the subject both by choice and necessity. Fornell nodded and proceeded to fill him in, comfortable with his friend's no-nonsense approach towards the whole matter.

"I have McGee checking local security cameras and phone records, but your director says Mossad is officially taking over the responsibilities. Vance says Director David hasn't been out of his office in two days."

Gibbs nodded, accepting, but didn't say anything. Somehow he doubted that it would be long before David showed up here, and he did not relish the idea.

"That it?" he asked, turning toward his FBI-friend once again.

"One more thing. PFC Jason Walker, the Marine who tried to assassinate David on a highway, is under surveillance by another team. But they won't take him down just yet, and when I asked they claimed they were only monitoring his movements. Say they've been instructed to wait for more…indulgent circumstances. That mean anything to you?"

Gibbs stood up, his smirk gone and his stoic and determined expression back in place. He forcefully threw his cup of coffee, now cold, into the trash as he rose from his chair.

"Yeah, it means I can arrest the guy myself."

"Where are you going?" asked Fornell, surprised at his sudden departure. He rose from his chair himself, not wanting to wait alone for an update he wasn't authorized to receive. And it wasn't really his place anyway. Those were things he could do without hearing.

"To get some real coffee," replied Gibbs, offering no other explanation, knowing he didn't need to. Fornell reluctantly followed him out the door, falling into stride with the focused ex-Marine as he went.

Another sleepless night to add to the tally.

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