A/N: Yet another ficlet for the Help Haiti auction. The prompt was "thoughts of mortality". I managed to work in information from the course I taught last semester. Everyone loves Antoni van Leeuwenhoek. Right? It's a bit different style but I like it.
Disclaimer: I am not the owner of NCIS nor am I making money off it. Too bad though.
Life = Motility
by Enthusiastic Fish
There was a motion, just out of the corner of his eye. He shifted to see it but then it vanished. Tim slumped back. It was funny how important movement was. Life equals motility...at least according to Antoni van Leeuwenhoek. That was what Ducky had told him not long ago. Was it yesterday? Life equals motility.
There was so little movement right now. So...if life equals motility, what does that say for the person in a coma? Or a person who is asleep? ...ah, but there is movement. The heart within is beating, slowly perhaps, but still beating. The lungs expand and contract. There is movement.
He thought he saw someone close to but when he blinked it was gone. Movement. Life. There needed to be more movement, more life here. There wasn't enough. He thought that Gibbs would probably agree, but he couldn't see him right now. Tim wanted to turn to look for him, but it didn't seem important; so he didn't.
What did that mean about death? The body stops moving. No life...but what about the soul? Does it fly away somewhere and keep moving, perhaps in a different dimension? Tim liked the idea of souls existing in a different dimension. That was why scientists hadn't ever been able to find them. They existed on a different plane! That was the solution! Tim wanted to tell someone about his epiphany, but there didn't seem to be anyone around.
He wondered where they had all gone. Only a little while ago, he had seen them. They had all been there, but now they were gone. Where were they?
Life equals motility. They had moved somewhere else. They were alive. He wasn't moving, Tim noticed suddenly. He himself was staying rather still. Did that mean he was dead? He didn't feel dead. Was he on that different plane? If so, he didn't want to be there yet! ...but why would he be? Why would he not see them? What was going on?
There was a sensation of discomfort. Of distinct discomfort. Sounds. He was hearing sounds. When had he stopped? He still was only catching very brief glimpses of movement. It was like a speeded-up video. Whoosh and gone. Like when he had tried to catch butterflies with his mother. That had been fun, but the butterflies always seemed to land where he wasn't. They would fly around his face, flutter on his cheek, but when he swung the butterfly net, they were elsewhere.
Am I dying?
Then, as if from very far away, he heard an answer.
"No, McGee, you're not dying."
Who was that speaking? Should he know? Was it a stranger? ...was it a soul?
"Are you sure?"
Tim was wondering the same thing.
"You're not dying, McGee!"
There was something pressing down on his chest. Pressing down really hard. It was uncomfortable. He didn't like it at all.
What's going on?
It was funny how the voices seemed to read his thoughts.
"Just stay calm, McGee. You'll be all right."
Where was the movement? He thought there was someone near to him. Close by. He could feel his own heart beating now, but it didn't seem to be beating very well...certainly not very efficiently. ...but there was movement. ...and movement meant life.
"Carefully. Carefully. We're here, Timothy. Don't give up now."
Now? As opposed to when? If this was life, he wasn't all that impressed. He kind of longed for the silent...feeling of...of a different movement.
Where am I?
"We're about to move the tree, Timothy."
Tree. Tree. Tim thought about that and he thought he could remember something about it. Violent movements. Loud movements. Life indeed...but life that was about to be snuffed out. A tree. Wet roads. The roar of his surroundings suddenly began to beat a deafening cacophony on his eardrums. He blinked and blinked again. There was more to see...but not much.
"Ducky?" he asked.
"I'm right here, lad. Can you feel my hand?"
Tim thought about it and yes, through a maze of confusion and what he was now recognizing as intense pain, he could feel the pressure of a hand squeezing his own.
"Yes."
"Oh, good lad. Very good, Timothy."
"What's...happening?" Tim asked, and wondered why it was so hard to speak.
"We're getting you out. Don't worry."
"Ducky?"
"Yes, lad."
"Am I dead?"
"No!"
That wasn't Ducky's voice. Tim thought he might know whose it was, but it would take effort to figure it out.
"I'm not moving."
"No, you're not, but right now, that's a good thing, Timothy."
"You told me...before..."
"Later, Timothy."
"Life...equals motility."
Ducky laughed. "Yes, that's true, but as long as you're breathing. That's enough movement for life. Leeuwenhoek would agree, I think."
"Steady him. We're ready."
"He's as steady as he can be."
"You ready for this, McGee?"
"For...what?"
"Just hang onto my hand, Timothy. When the time comes, you'll see the others."
A grinding sound which hurt his ears. Then, the horrible pressure on his chest vanished...leaving agony in its wake. ...but suddenly, there were other people around him. He still couldn't see them very well, but they were there...seemingly swarming around like bees. He was becoming more and more aware of what was around him...but he still couldn't see it very well.
"Ducky?" he asked and heard the fear in his own voice.
"Not just yet, Timothy. You'll be all right. The ambulance is here and as soon as we get you stabilized, we'll get you out of here."
"Ducky?" he said again, not knowing what he was asking for.
"Everyone else will be fine. You would have been, too, if hadn't been for the tree."
"The car crashed," he whispered.
"Yes. It did. On the way back from the crime scene. There was a pileup. The sedan was forced off the road, into the trees."
Tim could remember it now. He remembered the individual moments as if they were from one of the old filmstrips from elementary school.
More movement.
"Boss," Tim said softly as someone's face finally came into his rather limited vision.
"We're here, McGee."
"I'm alive?" he asked as he felt his body being moved onto a stretcher.
"You're alive," Gibbs said.
Tim felt a very light hand over his heart.
"Your heart is beating, Tim. You'll live."
Life equals motility.
FINIS!