A/N: I wanted to write something in memory of everyone who died in the 9/11 terror attacks, and for everyone who lost someone. It was a terrible tragedy. I wasn't in New York that day, so I went on YouTube and watched film of it happening to try and get the right POV, and I cried my eyes out. Anyway, today is the tenth anniversary, so... Here you go. Please tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or Timothy McGee. If you really want to sue me for writing a tribute to the victims of 9/11, go ahead. I'm standing by this.
XXX
A small car pulled into the parking space and quietly turned off, its owner exiting and greeting the nearby guard by name. He gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. This man didn't turn and go with the crowds, though. He wasn't there for a tour.
No. After passing under the arch that read Arlington National Cemetery, this man turned down a smaller, little-used path towards the heart of the grounds. There were more than 300,000 graves here, but he knew exactly where he was going.
He took his time in walking, seeing no reason to rush. It was a surprisingly nice day, contrasting with the mental overshadow that every American felt. As he walked, he thought about he reason he was here.
Ten years earlier
September 11th, 2001
8:32 a.m.
New York City
"Tim? Tim, wake up."
His eyes opened after a moment, squinting in response to the light. A weathered yet smiling face greeted him. "You got in late last night."
"Yeah," he answered, blinking his tired eyes. "They had a lot of coding for me to do."
"I thought you might want to sleep in a little, but I had to tell you that Gary isn't feeling well today, so I'm covering for him."
Tim sat up a little more. "Today?"
"Yes, today. I know we had plans tonight, but I should be off by then."
He sighed. "Dad, the last time you said that, a Wachovia caught on fire and you got in at 2:30 in the morning."
"I said I was sorry about that."
Tim stood, rubbing a thin hand over his face. "I'm not after your apologies. I moved to New York to spend more time with you."
"You moved to New York because you thought it was a good career move."
"No, Dad, I moved here because I thought I could handle a job and keep an eye on you at the same time."
"You don't have to keep an eye on me. I've been on my own for-"
"-Thirty-nine years, I know."
"Do you think I can't take care of myself, Tim? Is that it? Do you think I'm an old man?"
"You're fifty-six years old, Dad. You're a divorced volunteer firefighter and ex-Navy Commander. You hardly manage to pay your rent every month, and how you did before I came, I'll never know." He sighed, pausing for a moment. His tone softened a bit. "I'm trying to help you."
"Why?"
"Because I care. Because I'm your son. Because, no matter how much you don't want to admit it, you still miss Mom, you still have nightmares every night about Vietnam and Grenada, and you still keep a bottle of whiskey in your dresser for nights I'm working late, and you're alone."
It took him a moment to collect himself, but when he did, he took a deep breath, not believing he had really just said that. Ben was speechless.
"…I…"
Then something seemed to register. You could see it on his face. "I may be just a retired vet, and I don't know whether that means anything anymore or not, but I am still your father, and you still have to treat me with some degree of respect."
"I know you were always disappointed I didn't join the Navy. I know you always regretted that I wasn't more like you, but I'm doing my best to make sure that you don't have to worry about anything, Dad. It might not be what you want, but I'm trying." He began to walk away, but turned back.
"I do respect you. I just don't understand you."
A few minutes later, the door to the apartment quietly closed. As soon as it did, he began to shake, breathing in slowly. He had never talked to his father like that.
He was ready to go to work within minutes, and noticed a note in the mailbox as he left.
I'll be back.
He felt guilty, now more than before. He would call around noon, he decided, when Ben was on lunch break.
Waiting at the bus stop, he noticed it was late. He glanced at his watch. 8:52. It was supposed to be there at 8:45.
The faint smell of smoke slowly pulled his attention away from the late Greyhound.
That's when he heard the screaming.
He immediately stood, looking in the direction it was coming from. A moment later, a crowd of people came running around the corner and past the bus stop, many shrieking and entering the street. He stopped one man in a suit, holding a briefcase above his head.
"Excuse me, sir, what's going on?"
The man looked terrified and shaken. "A plane crashed into the North Tower. The Twin Towers are on fire."
His mind went completely blank for a moment, and he couldn't comprehend what he had been told. Then the shock was replaced by a steadily growing horror. Strangers ran past him, yelling and shoving their way further from the scene. He was about to join them when a thought struck him.
"The Twin Towers are on fire."
Dad.
With that, he turned and fought his way in the opposite direction. It took nearly ten minutes to reach the street parallel to the World Trade Center, from where he gazed in dismay at the billowing black smoke and visible wreckage. He could hear sirens, almost drowning out the screams. Almost.
He saw a few fire trucks and police cars there already, and knew there were more on the way. He turned to approach the trucks when the air was filled with a high-pitched whine. He turned, and what he saw made his breath catch.
Another plane.
All he could do was watch, horrified and helpless, as the South Tower was hit.
After he regained thought and use of his body, he sprinted towards the buildings. Several news vans were already there, and even more were pulling up.
"It is now 9:03, and another airplane…"
"…the South Tower has been hit by another…"
"…as more police and firefighters arrive…"
"…evacuation plans for the other towers have accelerated…"
"…leaves us wondering anyone can do…"
He tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the voices. Glancing over, he jumped out of the way as a fire truck squealed into the area. Then he saw Ben's Captain in the vehicle, and addressed him as soon as he exited.
"Peter!"
Peter looked around and spotted Tim. "What are you doing here? Get somewhere safe! Go!"
"Where's Dad?"
"He went in with the second truck!"
"Where?"
"You need to get out of here, now!"
"Peter! Where?"
He looked frustrated, but said, "Evacuations, South Tower. Now go!"
Tim didn't even hear the demand that he leave. He was off, running as fast as his legs could carry him to the skyscraper. Once he got in the door, though, he nearly doubled over. There was dust everywhere. Several people were coughing and choking, and he helped them out of the building before tearing a section of his coat off to cover his nose and mouth. Taking one last deep breath, he went in.
It was terrible.
Dust covered everything. It burned in his eyes and snuck through his makeshift mask, and he struggled to hold back an asthma attack. Everywhere there were people too scared to move, asking what had happened and if it was safe to leave. He didn't know what to tell them.
He did his best, though. He told some disoriented workers where the doors were, found a lost child's mother, directed the police to a blocked room with people inside and lead an elderly man to an officer. But his ultimate goal remained finding his father.
"Excuse me," he asked a fireman occupied with prying a door open. "Do you know how much of the building had been evacuated when the second plane hit?"
"A few floors, tops."
He swore to himself before thanking the man and taking off in search of a map. He found one in an elevator. The doors were hanging open.
Of 110 floors, he had no idea where to start. So he went up.
Up the stairs, as far as he could go. He kept the cloth pressed tightly against his face, but didn't stop until he reached level 55. That's when it hit him that he had just run halfway up the building. He entered the level through a partially splintered wood door.
It was eerily silent. Flames were raging and things were scattered everywhere, and there was a gaping hole in the wall. There were sirens and screams and the sound of fire, but somehow, it was quiet. It took him a moment to realize that all the walls were gone.
The majority of the dividing walls on that floor were gone. Flattened. He began to choke, but not from the dust. There were bodies everywhere, some dismembered, others bloodied. There had to be at least ten.
He went up a floor, and things were worse. He could see the bottom of the 767 above his head, mangled and destroyed. Then he heard a moan.
It came from above. Through a hole in the ceiling, he saw a pile of debris, and a hand reaching out, trying to move some of it away. He went back to the stairway and climbed up to level 57.
The debris was heavy, but he worked as hard and fast as he could to shift some of the weight away from whoever was trapped underneath. Once their head was visible, he froze.
"Dad."
The paralysis lasted only a moment. Now with renewed energy, he was pulling up desks, concrete, and twisted metal, until finally he uncovered his father completely.
"Dad, wake up."
"No."
Tim laughed with relief, swallowing back a sob. "Sorry, Dad. I need you to wake up, alright? Come on."
"S'too early."
"I know, I know. I just need to ask you something, okay? So just try to stay awake." The relief was short-lived. Tim lightly touched the shrapnel sticking through Ben's midsection. The firefighter uniform was colored with a growing red stain.
"What is it now, honey? I'm on leave."
He thinks I'm Mom. Hallucinations aren't good.
He gently tried to lift Ben, but this was received with a subconscious cry of pain. He didn't know what to do, and no one was around who could help him. No one was around at all.
He tried again. "No, no… please stop," begged his father.
"Dad…" Tim's voice was thick with tears. "I don't know how to help you."
"Take cover! Here comes Charlie!"
Vietnam.
"Dad, please… I need you to tell me what to do."
"I missed you too."
I'm not getting through to him. If I leave the shrapnel in, I can't move him, but if I take it out, he could bleed out before I get him help.
"God, Dad… I'm so sorry…"
He rocked back onto his heels and looked out at the sky, wishing – no, willing himself to wake up. It was foolish, though, and he knew it. No one escapes nightmares.
"Tim."
Is he lucid, or still hallucinating?
"Yes?" His cheeks were wet with tears as he returned his attention to Ben.
"…I was never disappointed in you."
Now
Sunday, September 11th, 2011
3:46 p.m.
Arlington National Cemetery
He still remembered every inch, every detail of that day. It still plagued him at night, and sometimes still consumed his idle thoughts. Memories came at the strangest times.
He had sat with his father for four minutes, holding him when he died. He had carried the body to the 30th floor before a police officer had helped him out of the building and a fireman had taken Ben's body. He had walked back to the apartment they had shared and retrieved the bottle of whiskey from the dresser. Then he had cried on the kitchen floor with only Jack Daniels to keep him company.
A year afterwards, he had gone from a hundred and ten pounds to a hundred and ninety, and had many a late night with alcohol as his companion. It wasn't until he was offered a job in Norfolk, Virginia with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service that he began to straighten up his act. He wanted to make the Navy proud.
He wanted to make his father proud.
So now, he approached the light gray headstone that looked the same as all the rest.
Benjamin Ford McGee
July 30th, 1945-September 11th, 2001
Valued husband and father
His feet made little noise on the grass, and no one else was in this section of the cemetery today. Not many ever were. There was a tree nearby, and a small bird chirped within it, oblivious to the meaning that day held. Unconditional happiness is something many strive for and none have truly achieved, though some have come closer than others.
"It's ten years today, Dad."
The bird quieted for a moment, as if to hear what else he was going to say.
"I… I still can't quite believe that it happened, you know? It kind of seems like I can still call you and ask for advice… And sometimes I wake up, and I think I'm in our apartment in New York. And I… I remember you talking to me, sometimes. The conversations we had."
He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. The bird remained silent.
"I remember the fight we had, before you left that day… I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so sorry. There hasn't been a day that's passed that I haven't regretted what I said to you, but I know regret doesn't make a difference. I just… I wish I'd known."
He reached for his pocket.
"They gave you a medal today, Dad. They came to my work and told me that you'd been awarded a Medal of Excellence. You know, you saved more than thirty people?"
He pulled the award from his coat and stared at it for a moment.
"Anyway, I…" He lost his voice for a moment. "…I miss you, Dad. I really do. And I want you to know that I meant it when I said I respected you. I still do. I… I always looked up to you. I wanted to be just like you for a long time."
He took a deep breath. The bird moved to a closer branch.
"I did until I realized that I wouldn't do you justice. You're the only one who could be you, and I'm the only one who can be me. We were different people, and I think… I think that I'm finally okay with that."
The bird, satisfied with what it heard, resumed its happy tune. Tim stepped a little closer and laid the medal on his father's grave.
"I wanted to give you this. They said I was supposed to keep it in honor of you, but… It belongs to you."
He began to walk away. The little bird stopped singing and flew to another tree, where it proceeded to chirp rapidly at Tim.
"What?" He asked, before glancing back at the grave. Then he smiled.
"I'll be back."
XXX
A/N: Well? I had to end it on a at least semi-happy note, or I may have killed myself. Semper fi.