From the author's desk:
Hello my lovely readers! This year I participated for the first time in the White Elephant Exchange (WEE) on the NFA Forums, and I wrote for the wonderful Fingersnaps. Her prompts were AWESOME, but this one was my favorite:
"[3] Doloroso: (Gen or Het) There's an air of sadness here. Either a case has gone badly wrong, or something bad has happened to a team member. Could be a Het story if Tim feels guilty (whether justified or not), and he is comforted by either Abby or Ziva."
I chose the Gen option, as I wanted to include Tony prominently, but as you'll see, there's a dash of McAbby in there, too!
I really hope you all like what I put together, and as always, feel free to hit me with your constructive criticism! It makes me a better writer!
Happy reading!
Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for some fun. Story title comes from the song of the same name by The Fray.
xxx
How to Save a Life
by dreamsweetmydear
xxx
The alcohol burns as it goes down his throat, but tonight, Tim really doesn't care. He came here with the intention of getting plastered.
Because, really, anything is better if it will help him forget.
It doesn't matter that he's been cleared of a crime because of a single witness statement. It doesn't matter that he saved someone's life.
Dammit, didn't he come here to forget about all of this?
He signals the bartender for another drink.
His head is starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy, his usually one-track mind bouncing from thought cluster to thought cluster, when he senses more than sees that he has a companion.
Turning his head, he sees Tony sitting casually on the stool next to him, speaking quietly to the bartender. He's hunching a bit, because of his bruised ribs, but thankfully there's no other sign of injury.
But after seeing Tony, the events of the day slam into him like a Mack truck.
xxx
What was supposed to be a routine check of a possible new lead in a cold case had turned into a nightmare.
He and Tony had arrived at the original crime scene in late afternoon, the sky darkened to evening by fat, heavy rain clouds.
Not wanting to deal with the weather, Tony had decided they should split up the work, with him taking the east alley while giving Tim the west one.
The alleys were narrow, dirty, and even darker than the streets due to the high brick walls of the buildings on either side.
By the time Tim had worked his way carefully through the alley and back to the car, the sun had set and the first fat drops of rain were starting to fall.
And unfortunately for him, Tony had the car keys.
Tim had then called his partner, with the intention of asking him if he'd like help so that they could get out of the rain and back to the Yard. The rain was starting to really come down, and the sky was getting darker by the minute, the streetlamps the only source of light.
When he didn't get an answer, Tim grew worried, and tried again. When the second phone call didn't get through either, Tim had unholstered his gun, and gone into the alley Tony had been checking, moving down the dark passageway quickly.
Because Tony and trouble generally go hand in hand, and Tim was worried.
What he found stopped his blood cold.
He could faintly see his partner's sturdy frame kneeling on all fours on the grime-crusted ground, getting soaked to the bone in the pouring rain.
A slender young man, his longish hair and his clothes plastered to his almost skeletal frame, was pointing a gun at Tony's head.
Tim could just barely see the boy's hands shaking jerkily even as they gripped the weapon.
"Freeze! Federal agent!" Tim had called out, his gun steady in his hands.
The boy's head jerked in his direction, though Tim couldn't see his face clearly.
Tim remembered hearing a low murmur. The boy—God, he was just a boy—was mumbling incoherently.
All Tim could really hear was the panic and the fear in the kid's voice.
"Hey kid, what's your name?" he asked. He tried keeping his voice calm and low. He was going for soothing, but Tim had a sneaking suspicion that his worry for his partner was making his tone sharper than he meant it.
The boy didn't answer him.
"Are you all right? You don't seem so well," Tim tried again to get the young man to respond to him, but the boy had turned to look back at Tony, who was staring up at the barrel of the gun in his face.
"We can help you," Tim had continued, desperate to get the kid's attention. "We can take you to a doctor, get you looked at. Just put the gun down. No one has to get hurt."
Still the boy didn't look at him, but the volume in the murmuring had gone up. Tim thought he heard the words "monster" and "hurt me," but with the background noise of the pouring rain, he couldn't be sure.
"Kid, listen to me. We don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you! Just put the gun down and talk to me," Tim tried once more, hoping to breach the boy's in his state of delirium or confusion. Tim couldn't be sure what it was, but he had a bad feeling that the boy was flying high on something strong.
"We're not monsters. We're won't hurt you."
He shouldn't have used the word "monster."
What happened next was a blur. He remembered hearing the distinct click of the gun's safety being disabled, and seeing the boy's hands begin to shake even harder.
So Tim let his training take over. He shot, with the intention of eliminating the threat. In this case, he meant simply to disarm the boy, so that Tony could get to him.
He hadn't expected the boy to jerk bodily forward, spewing a litany of incoherent words—"YOUMONSTERYOUWON'TTAKEMEAWAYNOIWON'TLETYOU"—putting his core body mass into the line of fire.
Tim hadn't intended for his bullet to hit the boy in the side of his torso.
Everything happened so fast, though, that Tim didn't realize what he'd done until he saw the young man collapsed on the ground in the mouth of the alleyway, with Tony leaning over him.
xxx
"You realize that there really was no other way for the situation to play out, right?" Tony's voice breaks into his self-pitying recollection, his tone matter-of-fact with a hint of consolation.
"Tony, I shot a kid," Tim spits out scathingly, angry with the situation and how it had played out, but mostly with himself. "Nothing you say is going to make this better. So why don't you take your special brand of trying to make me feel better and go home?"
"And let you have all the fun? Now what sort of friend would that make me?"
Tim knocks the rest of his drink back, ignoring the sarcastic cheer that laces his friend's voice. (He doesn't feel much like having a friend right now, but that's besides the point.)
They sit silently for a few minutes before DiNozzo speaks up again. "You did your job, Tim. You can't really fault yourself for that."
Tim turns his face away, looking off to his right.
Wow, that faux wooden paneling looks so interesting. It goes so well with the rest of the décor of this place.
The silence from his dog-with-a-bone friend tells Tim he's waiting for a response.
He really doesn't know what to say except, "Doesn't change the fact that I shot a kid."
Tim's not sure what answer he's waiting for, but when he hears Tony's voice again, it sounds like he's reading from a report of some sort.
"Dylan Haskell, aged 17. Born May 21, 1994. Mother, Claire Davidson, deceased. Father, Robert Haskell, incarcerated for two counts of first degree rape and murder. Deceased. Age 6, declared an official ward of the state of West Virginia."
Tim slowly looks back at his partner, who begins to skim through the folder suddenly sitting on the counter in front of him. "Bounced from foster home to foster home…spent time in various group homes…suffered physical and emotional abuse of various types in said homes…aha, here we are. Declared missing, November 3, 2009. Suspected runaway."
Tony turns to meet his gaze. "Found today, August 7, 2011."
Tim blinks blurrily at Tony, very confused by the sudden onslaught of personal information. "This isn't making me feel better."
Tony gives him a long-suffering sigh before launching into an explanation. "Look Tim, this kid? Seriously messed up. Before he disappeared, his life sucked. He's been missing for over a year and a half, and from what we saw today, he obviously hasn't been doing so well on his own."
"What's your point?" Tim asks before taking a sip of his drink. (He doesn't remember when it got replaced, or when he asked for a new one. Almost there…)
"My point is that you shooting him might have been the best thing that ever happened to him."
The thought is so absurd that he chokes. Not a pleasant feeling. Ow.
"What?"
Tony rolls his eyes at him, and shakes his head. "Yes, you shot him. But he's in the hospital, Tim. He's not dead."
Tim is taken aback by how earnest and serious Tony is being. Maybe it's the alcohol making him feel surprised and confused by everything tonight.
Or maybe it's because Tony has been almost completely serious for a period of more than thirty minutes for the first time that he can remember in quite a while.
But what Tony has said sounds so straightforward to Tim. It can't really be that simple, can it?
"His being in the hospital means he can finally get the help he needs, Tim," Tony continues, breaking into his thoughts. "The doctors can get him on the road to being clean. He can have a fresh start."
Tim turns back and stares down into the dregs of his glass, watching the ice melt. He feels Tony's hand grasp his shoulder, followed by a gentle squeeze-and-shake.
"You should be proud of yourself, McGee. You saved two lives today. Not just mine, but his, too."
Tim doesn't nod in agreement. Instead, he continues to stare at the melting ice in his glass.
Tony sighs once more next to him. "Look, let's get you home, okay? It's been a long day, hasn't been much of a good day either, and we still work tomorrow. You're gonna be hungover, man. And I don't want to be as nice as I'm being right now tomorrow morning."
Tim snorts at his friend. "Because humor at my expense is better, huh?"
"Exactly! Now you get it, McGiggle! Now c'mon. Let's get outta here."
Tim doesn't remember paying the tab, doesn't even remember much of the ride home. He might have fallen asleep, because the next the he knows, Tony is helping him into his apartment, making sure he's at least made it as far as the couch before doing a Gibbs-like disappearing act.
The next morning he finds himself sprawled awkwardly on his couch, with a crick in his neck, a sledgehammer in his head, and a mouth dryer than the Sahara Desert. Getting ready for work is draining, the Tylenol and coffee isn't kicking in yet, and the drive to the Navy Yard is generally miserable.
But he can't stop thinking about what Tony said to him the night before. That shooting the kid meant a turnaround for his life.
He's not sure he's ready to believe his partner yet.
The hangover makes him a little grouchy, and he silently thanks the stars that Tony's teasing of his sorry state is a little gentler than it would be.
Because everyone knows that Tim McGee doesn't come to work hungover.
Which means that he must be really upset about something if he does.
They all settle into work—or rather, he and Ziva settle into work, while Tony plays computer games. The boss is off somewhere, either in MTAC or the director's office.
His hangover wears off, but he's still feeling upset about yesterday's events.
Probably doesn't help that he's working on the report for it right now.
Work is work, but he really doesn't want to write this. He doesn't want to relive the horror of shooting Riley Haskell again, after doing it so many times yesterday (in the director's office, a Metro police station because Riley is a civilian not affiliated with the Navy, in his head).
So when he sees Gibbs come around the corner, he's hoping for a case. Anything to distract him from this damned report.
But Gibbs sits down at his desk, checks something in one of the files on his desk, and reaches for a pen to write something down.
It occurs to him that Gibbs would know how Riley is doing, if there's been an improvement since last night.
"How's Riley, boss?" It's slipped out before he even realizes he's saying something.
Gibbs looks over at him with his hard, blue eyes. Tim thinks he sees some sympathy for him on his boss's face.
"The doctor says he's still in a coma, but that the scans show elevated function. They're pretty sure he'll wake up. They just can't say when."
Tim nods, unable to respond further.
Riley is still in a coma.
Heput Riley in a coma.
He feels like there's a heavy weight resting on his shoulders.
Tony asks Gibbs a question that Tim doesn't really hear. Instead he uses the distraction to slip away to his favorite hiding place.
Abby's lab is welcoming and cheery, the techno beats of her blaring music oddly soothing. She is bent over a microscope, completely focused on whatever she's studying under the lens.
He slips in quietly, and goes and sits in the corner along the wall perpendicular to the door, so that he can face Abby's back while she works at her main workstation.
He closes his eyes, and the events of the alleyway come back.
His gun discharging.
Riley lying on the ground in the pouring rain.
The paramedics, when they came, trying to revive him, talking about blood loss, brain damage, signs of drug use.
Riley's gaunt, pale face in the lights of the ambulance and police cars as he was wheeled into the ambulance.
The blood. Oh God, the blood.
Tim doesn't realize he's crying until he feels a pair of warm arms wrap around him from his left side, a soft, solid weight leaning into him.
The smell of gunpowder and jasmine assaults his nose, and he somehow manages to wind his arms around Abby's waist, and bury his face into the crook of her neck.
She murmurs soothingly to him, rubbing his back.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but he does feel a bit better after letting it all out.
They sit quietly nestled into each other like that for another couple minutes or so before Tim pulls away from her.
"Better?" Abby asks him.
He nods, wipes his face and eyes with his hands. "Kind of."
"How do you feel about it all now?"
Tim lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans his head back against the wall and stares ahead unfocusedly. "Still pretty bad."
"Why?"
"I can't get over the fact that he's a kid, Abby. I…I shot a kid. How do I move past something like that?"
"By remembering why you took the shot in the first place, Tim."
His eyes snap back to her.
"You weren't trying to shoot Riley to injure him, Tim. You were trying to shoot Riley's hand so you could save your partner."
"Well, yeah, but—"
"No," she firmly cuts him off with a shake of her head. "No more buts. You were trying to save your partner by shooting to disarm an assailant. Doesn't matter that he is kid. Facts are facts. He attacked Tony, you were in a position to help, you thought Riley was going to shoot Tony, so you took a shot first. That's it."
He looks away from her again. "So what do I do now?"
He's not expecting the kiss she gives him on the cheek before she untangles herself from him and starts to stand up. It involuntarily brings a smile to his face, and it stays there as she helps him up.
Only Abby can make him smile when he's feeling blue.
Dimly, he realizes he feels a thousand times lighter than he was a little while ago. He has Abby's special brand of comfort to thank for that. She always makes him feel better.
"We can go visit him. I'll even come with you after work today. From what I've heard, Riley could use a good friend in his life. And you're one of the best friends anyone could ask for, Timmy."
She turns away from him to go back to her workstation.
"Now get out of here. I have work to do if I'm going to come with you this evening, Shoo!" She waves at him dismissively over her shoulder.
He's still smiling as he moves to head back to the bullpen.
Tim is about to leave the lab when he backpedals, and gives Abby a quick, firm hug from behind, and a swift peck on the cheek. "Thanks Abs."
He can hear the grin in her answer. "That's what friends are for."
x
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-END-