Dark…
Dank…
Damp…
Hot…
Stuffy…
Itchy…
He awakes to these sensations. His mind is clouded; this, he assumes in his struggle to regain full consciousness, is what it must feel like to have your head stuffed with cotton. His brain feels light, weightless. His entire body, in fact, feels as though it is floating through space, no gravity to pull it back down to Earth.
Despite this, there is a gentle throbbing located beneath his temples.
Sweat rolls down his face, tickling his skin. He wants to wipe them away and attempts to do so. He then realizes there are two things stopping him. The first is the rope which binds his hands behind his back and to the chair in which he is currently seated. The second is the sack or bag which has been situated over his head. It itches and makes the air hot and stale. He tries to gulp in a few breaths but finds it difficult.
He searches for his voice and finds it eventually. "Hello?" he croaks.
Silence.
His throat is parched, but he continues calling out to people who may or may not be there. "Where am I? Who are you? What do you want with me?"
More silence. It's almost deafening.
His tongue juts out, moistening his chapped lips. The haze is beginning to lift and, with it, the weightlessness. He is coming back to Earth. He can already tell that the landing will be a painful one.
He scrunches his eyes closed, pulling forth memories of a recent sequence of events.
The job offer in L.A.
A week of agonizing consideration.
Telling Vance.
Not saying good-bye.
Getting on the plane.
The man waiting for him; his name on the sign.
Sitting in the van…phone coming on…the hand from behind, catching him off guard.
He'd put up a fight; he had lost.
If he had just stayed put, been happy with his lot in D.C…if he hadn't gotten greedy and been dazzled by fancy techno-toys, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't be here, bound to a chair and blinded with a sack which made breathing difficult; he would be sitting at his desk while Tony snapped rubber bands at him and Gibbs slapped him on the back of the head for feeling it pertinent to divulge in great detail just how he'd managed to track down someone wanted for murder. He never thought he'd actually miss that, but rubber bands and head slaps were heaven compared to his current situation.
"I screwed it all up," he says softly. "I've screwed up everything."
"Yeah, you did, Agent McGee." The voice makes him visibly jump. He inwardly curses himself for the knee-jerk reaction. Gibbs and Tony and Ziva wouldn't have jumped. Of course, they probably wouldn't have gotten themselves in this situation to begin with.
He hears footsteps clicking nearby. The owner of the voice is approaching him. Tim breathes evenly, not wanting to show his fear. In…out…in…out…
In a flash, the sack is torn off and the darkness is replaced by a light so bright Tim has to squint and turn away.
"Now," the voice says, "we're going to give you the chance to fix it."
AN: I've finally completed my long-awaited sequel to Doubts! As per usual, one chapter per day!