NCIS Fic: "Lullaby"
Disclaimers: Don't own Ziva/Tim/Tony/Gibbs. Or the universe in which they operate. I'm just playing in DBell's and Shane Brennan's sandbox.
Rating: FRT- References to blood, gunshot wounds, pain, hostage situations.
Spoilers: None
Genre: Angst/Hurt-Comfort/Friendship
Characters: Ziva POV; Tim, Tony, and Gibbs.
Pairings: None
Note and Summary: Written and originally posted at comment_fic for First Words Mandag, for a prompt by my b'loved jack_infinitude :
"NCIS, McGee/Ziva, 'McGee was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor'."
*****
McGee was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor, Ziva thought. Her mind rebelled, even as one hand kept a makeshift bandage pressed to her friend's stomach.
This was not how the universe worked. It just wasn't. And if-and when they got out of this, Ziva and the universe Were Going To Have Words.
He was supposed to come through unscathed. Bathed in the luck that (in Tony's words) protected small children, drunks, and geeks. He was supposed to be scared but brave. Ready to hack the mainframe, knock out the power, do something,.
Tim was not supposed to be half-conscious, head lying on Ziva's lap, trembling with pain.
As she sheltered behind one overturned desk, Ziva looked across to Tony and Gibbs behind the other. Tony looked shaken, but unharmed; her boss had obviously gone straight into Gunny-mode. He motioned towards Tim, and she tried to wordlessly convey "one bullet to the gut, no exit wound, going into shock" as best she could.
Because any loud sound would convey their position, to the...terrorists? gang members? Who knew. To the men who had decided this day to attack *her* office...her home. The place that was more her home then the apartment she returned to each day.
She wanted to hurt these men. She wanted to kill them. She wanted in on whatever Tony and Gibbs were planning over there. She wanted to know if Abby and Ducky and Palmer were all right, or if they were already...
Ziva did not want to finish that thought.
She wanted to do violence, to do what she did best. But she couldn't. Because right now, Tim needed her more.
Ziva felt him stir , slightly; she looked down. He was conscious again. Her heart rose, even as she knew what was coming. Conscious was good, but conscious also meant pain. A lot of pain.
He opened his mouth. To question, to cry out? She did not know. Keeping one hand on the pressure bandage, Ziva shifted so that the other hand could cover Tim's mouth. As gently as she could, she shushed whatever he had been about to say.
His eyes darting about, Tim immediately recognized the situation. He squeezed his eyes shut, obviously trying very hard not to allow the agony to overtake him.
Gentle and soothing did not come easy to Ziva. She had to work at it. But this was what Tim needed now.
Ziva leaned over and kissed Tim's forehead. It was fevered; she tried not to allow visions of infection to spiral in her mind.
She sat back, and moved one hand to stroke his hair. Later, Ziva couldn't figure out where it had come from, but an old Israeli lullaby popped into her head. She started crooning it, very very quietly. He calmed a bit.
If she could take away some of Tim's pain, it was worth the risk.
Amidst the chaos, as they waited for rescue or death, or both, this is what she could do. And so Ziva would do it.
*fin*
Rating: FRT- References to blood, gunshot wounds, pain, hostage situations.
Spoilers: None
Genre: Angst/Hurt-Comfort/Friendship
Characters: Ziva POV; Tim, Tony, and Gibbs.
Pairings: None
Note and Summary: Written and originally posted at comment_fic for First Words Mandag, for a prompt by my b'loved jack_infinitude :
"NCIS, McGee/Ziva, 'McGee was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor'."
*****
McGee was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor, Ziva thought. Her mind rebelled, even as one hand kept a makeshift bandage pressed to her friend's stomach.
This was not how the universe worked. It just wasn't. And if-and when they got out of this, Ziva and the universe Were Going To Have Words.
He was supposed to come through unscathed. Bathed in the luck that (in Tony's words) protected small children, drunks, and geeks. He was supposed to be scared but brave. Ready to hack the mainframe, knock out the power, do something,.
Tim was not supposed to be half-conscious, head lying on Ziva's lap, trembling with pain.
As she sheltered behind one overturned desk, Ziva looked across to Tony and Gibbs behind the other. Tony looked shaken, but unharmed; her boss had obviously gone straight into Gunny-mode. He motioned towards Tim, and she tried to wordlessly convey "one bullet to the gut, no exit wound, going into shock" as best she could.
Because any loud sound would convey their position, to the...terrorists? gang members? Who knew. To the men who had decided this day to attack *her* office...her home. The place that was more her home then the apartment she returned to each day.
She wanted to hurt these men. She wanted to kill them. She wanted in on whatever Tony and Gibbs were planning over there. She wanted to know if Abby and Ducky and Palmer were all right, or if they were already...
Ziva did not want to finish that thought.
She wanted to do violence, to do what she did best. But she couldn't. Because right now, Tim needed her more.
Ziva felt him stir , slightly; she looked down. He was conscious again. Her heart rose, even as she knew what was coming. Conscious was good, but conscious also meant pain. A lot of pain.
He opened his mouth. To question, to cry out? She did not know. Keeping one hand on the pressure bandage, Ziva shifted so that the other hand could cover Tim's mouth. As gently as she could, she shushed whatever he had been about to say.
His eyes darting about, Tim immediately recognized the situation. He squeezed his eyes shut, obviously trying very hard not to allow the agony to overtake him.
Gentle and soothing did not come easy to Ziva. She had to work at it. But this was what Tim needed now.
Ziva leaned over and kissed Tim's forehead. It was fevered; she tried not to allow visions of infection to spiral in her mind.
She sat back, and moved one hand to stroke his hair. Later, Ziva couldn't figure out where it had come from, but an old Israeli lullaby popped into her head. She started crooning it, very very quietly. He calmed a bit.
If she could take away some of Tim's pain, it was worth the risk.
Amidst the chaos, as they waited for rescue or death, or both, this is what she could do. And so Ziva would do it.
*fin*