A/N: I have no idea what the weed thing is about, I was still half asleep when I wrote this, and extremely exhausted while trying to edit it just now.
Day 27: Write about the frost on the windows.
Ziva runs a finger over the bottom of the window pane. The small line of icy fractals formed there a harsh reminder of why she was standing there in the first place. Her breath fogs up the glass as she peers out into the night.
Everything seems so quiet, and white, and harmless. It must have been so loud, though. And the white snow was anything but harmless.
Her gaze drifts down to the window frost again, and her chest clenches. This could have ended so much worse.
Ziva glances over her shoulder, to where Tony is. The lights in the room are out, but his breathing tells her he's sleeping.
She closes her eyes and leans her head against the window, memorizing his breathing. Reinforcing in her mind that he's all right. That when Gibbs hung up the phone, and told them Tony's car had been hit by an 18-wheeler on an icy road, and her own breath had caught in her throat, that Tony's hadn't stopped as she had initially feared.
A change in his breathing pattern makes her open her eyes.
"You decorated my room?"
He sounds sleepy, and she can't help but close her eyes for another moment as a smile forms on her lips. It's the first time she hears his voice since arriving at the hospital several hours ago. He was already asleep, and she didn't want to wake him.
She turns and walks over to sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in hers. He squeezes her hand tightly, and the force and meaning behind that small gesture make her breathe out a laugh.
"Abby wanted to decorate it. She said it would speed up your recovery if you felt the Christmas spirit."
She runs a hand through his hair. Slowly, carefully, reminding herself that severe concussions don't necessarily cause permanent damage. She's had enough of them to know that. She holds back a chuckle; Tony would argue she is brain damaged for not liking Quentin Tarantino movies.
"Her decorations included skulls and skeletons wearing Santa hats, and lots of flickering lights. I told her I would get something less macabre and less likely to cause a seizure."
He clears his throat, and she hands him a glass of water.
"They wanted to be here, the night nurse kicked everyone out."
"You're still here," he says in a hoarse voice.
She's not sure whether the sparkle in his eye is a mere reflection from the moonlight filtering in, or something more.
"You know I'm hard to get rid of."
"Unfortunately, I do."
He's smiling when he says it, which softens the blow, and makes her think, hope, he doesn't want her to go.
He closes his eyes for a second. "I meant, it's unfortunate that I had to find out…I mean…"
He screws his eyes shut and groans, and she squeezes his hand again. It doesn't really matter what he means. Not right now.
"You're like a weed," he says.
Ziva's frown will most likely be lost on him in the dim light.
"I suggest not trying to flirt with any of the nurses until your brain starts working properly again."
"No, I mean…weeds are hard to kill," he says and takes another sip of water before handing her the glass.
"So are you, thankfully." And her chest clenches again when her mind drifts to the pictures she saw earlier of the crash scene. It's a Christmas miracle he got out relatively unscathed.
Tony releases a frustrated sigh, clearly unhappy with how the conversation was going.
"Weeds can be beautiful, too," he says quietly and yawns.
He has trouble focusing his eyes on her, and as relieved as she is to hear his voice, and as much as she wants to know what he's trying to say, he really should get some more sleep instead.
"Why don't you get some rest. You can talk my ears off when you feel better."
"Ear, singular. You'll be here tomorrow?"
His voice sounds drowsy, yet hopeful, and his eyes are already drooping. She smiles at his correction, and kisses his cheek.
"You said it yourself, I'm a weed."
His mouth curves upwards as his eyes close. "A beautiful weed," he slurs and drifts off to sleep.
