Author's Note: Written for Be Very, Very Quiet and The Nightmare challenges over at NFA. The story will contain disturbing imageries. I trust that it would be very graphic, so you, my lovely reader, might not want to read this if you know you may not be able to stomach it. Or, if you do, well, don't eat while reading it.
It's very angsty, too. Maybe just flares, but it's there. Dark themes as well. This might serve as an introduction for a multi-chaptered story I will start for two other challenges. :)
Other than those, enjoy!
Note:
"There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over."
- Gloria Naylor
Disclaimer: NCIS, its characters, and other publicly recognizable movies, shows, etc., included in this fic are not mine.
He stares at the screen in front of him. It demands information—answers—all of which he cannot give at that moment. His fingers rest at the keyboards. He is afraid to move them, to allow them to push the keys. They will just crumble under the pressure. They will only make a noise. He doesn't want that.
Why not?, he wonders to himself. It will only wake him up, will it not? This dream he is in have not been good anyways. He sits in silence there in the bullpen, with Gibbs and Ziva quietly sitting on their desks, too. It is just a usual day. Nothing new.
The synthetic air from the air-condition hangs around him, stingy in giving him of any comfort. He tries to breathe, but it only mocks him by throwing a suggestion of relief for his lungs. The daylight penetrating through the windows is a bit too harsh. It's too bright, too blinding. It's unnecessary.
But he guesses that is fine. It is all just a dream anyways.
Again, he tries to type, attempting to satisfy the wails of the computer. S. A. R—
He stops.
A vague dream claws inside his head, commanding him to let it out, to render it the attention it wants.
A doctor stands in front of him. Doctor. He stares at the steely ID clipped on the doctor's white coat, each letters glaring at him. Doctor Grey. Grey, as in Jean Grey from X-Men. The spelling is the same, right?
Behind him, he can hear people hastily typing at their computers. Too quick. They smile and greet each other. One of them looks at him, and then smiles. He looks away. He doesn't need it. He doesn't like it. Why are they so happy, and he is not?
Probably because Dr. Grey stands there in front of him, holding an apologetic expression on his face.
He knew the doctor in that dream shall not be sorry. There is nothing to amend for. He is a character in a dream within a dream.
Dream within a dream. Perhaps he can use it for his novel later on.
Right now, concentration will be spent on finishing the report. Gibbs will be upset if he doesn't. Tony will tease him if he doesn't. Ziva? Well, she will tell him that there is another day. Tomorrow, he can finish it. However, he will disagree. Soon, he will wake up from that dream. By then, he will not be able to get back to them and finish the report. Then, if the dream does return, he will sure get himself in line for a head-slap. Or, rather, a Gibbs-slap.
When he was little, his father never yelled. So did his mother not. He and Sarah knew when to stop. They got those "evil eye"—or so they dubbed it—and it would alarm them of their rowdiness. Therefore, they were forced to stop. They never did dare to find out what discipline their father was capable of granting them. Knowing he was a marine, they knew it would be tenfold more excruciating compared to what the other kids obtained.
He remembers how helpful his father's facet of sternness was when he came to his school, after his first encounter of bullying.
He appreciates that.
His lips struggle to stretch into a smile, but he doesn't permit it. He will be as horrid as that nurse in his dream if he does so.
Smile. What a weak suggestion. What a lame excuse as a conveyor of happiness.
He snaps out of his reverie, again staring blankly on the computer. Even if the sound of the keyboard will pierce his ears, it is a requirement for him to get it done. Gibbs is watching him. So does Ziva. He can feel it. Their glowers are boring a hole on his skull.
Well, why are they watching him anyways? He will finish his job by the end of the day.
S. A. R. He has those. S. A. R. A. H, he types.
He stops.
That name looks familiar. Well, of course it does! He thinks of what his sister is probably doing. She might be at the library, at the university where she goes to, studying other literatures to hone her writing skills. He have not told her that he is proud of her. He is happy that she wants to be a writer, too. In the future, she will be the greatest author, composing the best literary classics.
She will be better than him. And that is alright.
A couple of years more, she will have her own family. That will be included in the short biography at the back flap of her book. Her husband and children will be mentioned. That, and she is living somewhere also, happy. Maybe in New York. She have said before that she wanted to live there.
New York. She's going there in two months to visit a friend.
Immediately, he lifts up the phone. She may need something. He shall let her know that she can come over to his apartment so that they can go get those things.
As soon as the cold receiver clings to his earlobes, a ghastly tone struck him. A flat line.
He trembles while he stands inside a room where a patient, wrapped by miles and miles of white gauze, lied. From head to toe, she is covered by those miniature nets. A mixture of blood and iodine blur the clearness of her bandages. His eyes lift up towards her orbs. They are closed. Burnt skin, peeling and dark and veins faintly bare, is on her face. She does not hear him anymore.
Because of the bandage in her ears. Because of the screaming flat line overshadowing his voice.
Nurses push him away, doctors shove him on a corner. Typical. That is what people always do to him. Exempt him from important things, like he is not worthy. Like he cannot understand what is happening. He walks out. Incompetent. He's too incompetent to help. Too useless. That fact seems to be universal. Classmates know it. Colleagues know it. Director Vance knows it.
Gibbs knows it.
So when Doctor Grey emerges from the room, posing that expression on his face, he knows what he is going to say. Helpless. Another man, waiting there. Helpless.
He shakes the dream off. That is just too horrible. He has been in NCIS too much that he is being too morbid.
He places the phone down.
He catches a glimpse of Gibbs and Ziva. They look away, although slowly, unafraid of him.
Right. Who will bother to be fazed by him anyways? He's the useless member. All he does is hack and type. Now, he cannot even do the latter.
Ziva looks at Gibbs, anxious of the other's behavior. He came in that morning, appearing confused and lost. He sat down, gathered the files, and stared at his computer. Tony began bothering him, teasing him as per usual, but he did not give any response. It was as if he was floating above, somewhere they could not reach him.
Gibbs glances back at the young agent. In all truthfulness, he doesn't know what the matter is, either. He have sent Tony away earlier, down to Abby's lab, so that he will not bother him anymore. Tony knew that something was wrong, too, so he did not object.
Gibbs knows that he cannot force the reason out of the man. He is becoming more fragile as seconds pass by. He does not wish for him to break and lose it.
It irritates him. His stare. He's setting him as a spectrum, placing him under a magnifying glass, deliberately having him ablaze. His own father will not even do that to him. S.A.R.A.H. She will not do that to him. His mother will not do that to him.
So what gives all of them the right to look at him? Is it not enough that when he is awake, they make fun of him? He stands up, irritated. Stupid dream with stupid people staring at him. His misery might really be entertaining, because everyone's eyes are basking at it. Those bullies. Those fellow trainees. Those nurses. That doctor.
Tony. Ziva. Gibbs.
All of them loves seeing him suffer.
He speeds out of the bullpen, carrying only his car keys. As he heads to the elevator, the sun assaults his face, the cold air slicing his skin.
Gibbs and Ziva watches as he leaves. Gibbs nodded towards him, signaling Ziva to follow.
She stands up from her desk and does what she is told.
He scratches his wrist, pressing his nails to the core of his skin. Stupid bracelet. Why is he wearing one anyways? He punches the button on the elevator, and then he impatiently awaits for the thick doors to close.
Before they completely do, Ziva jumps in.
She stands there, gazing at him. He doesn't do the same. Soon, he will get out of that forsaken cube, and he will leave. By then, he will likely awaken from this dream.
The silence gets into her. She hit the emergency stop button. Dim blue lights burst all around them. She turns to him again, demanding answers. Like that computer. He doesn't have answers, that's for sure.
Again, he irately scratches his wrists. Something fell. Both of them look at it.
Ziva bends down, and then picks up the red wristband. A hospital tag. It had been previously cut off from the patient, but a mangy transparent tape held it together. She reads the name. Lois McGee. Her eyebrows crease. She turns to him.
The name of his mother squelches his anger. Why is it in his dream? He slides his hands inside the pockets of his pants. On the left side, he feels a rough sheet of paper. He takes it out. A newspaper article, a cut-out. It delivers memories again, from another dream within a dream. He doesn't want to remember it. It sears his hands.
He passes it to Ziva. As she opens it, he walks towards a corner, and then he sits down.
She unfolds it, dreading to find out what it reads. Norfolk Daily Newspaper. In bold fonts, it announces a horrible event. Three People Dies In A Car Accident. Her eyes fly over the words underneath, skimming through, but absorbing every detail.
On the night of April 23, a car, bearing three people supposedly heading out for vacation, went off the rail on the road at…police identified one of them as a former marine living in Norfolk…two women—his wife, Lois McGee, and his daughter, Sarah McGee—also met the uneventful fate…Tragic does not even begin to describe…too much impact that the young woman was crushed beyond recognition…man found a few meters away from the car, injured and cannot be revived…wife sustained fourth degree burns. She was admitted to the hospital, where doctors tried to treat her, with her son hopefully watching everything…But two days later, she passed away…
Ziva regards him with an stunned look . She sits down beside him.
He knows. He is being too cruel. Even in his dreams he imagines of those things happening to his own family. But he will make it up to them. He will call them as soon as he comes home and tells them he loves them.
However, as Ziva touches his shoulders, her eyes glistening with tears, something told him he is not dreaming. He remembers when Doctor Grey gave him a sympathetic stare, his hands on his shoulders, too.
Ziva encloses him in a tight hug. Right then, hot tears spilled from his eyes. These sting his skin. They deplete his mind of any other thought. All he can see are their faces. Especially of his mother, who sounded so broken hearted over the phone when he told her he couldn't come with them to the vacation. If he only knew it was the last time. He would have come.
Foreign sobs, held and contained for a long time, clotted the elevator. It scares him to think that it comes from him. That will reveal that all along, he is awake. All along, the dreams within the dreams do not exist. No matter how hard he convinces himself that he will soon wake up, he won't.
But it does not matter now. They're all gone. His family is gone.
And they're never coming back.
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