Story Notes: Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." Very AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.

Chapter Notes: First published December 23, 2012.

(two)
Twenty Questions, Closed Book

They were out of water. Tony had refused to drink the remaining eighth of the bottle claiming the presence of "backwash filled with McCooties," so Tim had. His tongue had been burning for some liquid, and he couldn't imagine how Tony felt, despite his futile jokes.

The sun had already arced high in the sky, still obscured by the ash. Its rays were weak and pale, failing to adequately warm their bodies. Tony hadn't made any lasting effort to get up yet; he wasn't well enough to do anything right now, let alone walk, which would have helped ward off the chill. He remained in the leaf litter like something already dead.

Tim sighed. He'd already taken daily inventory of the bag. It was one of his obsessions as of late. Granola bars, empty water bottles, a dirty NCIS ball cap, strike on the box matches, a Swiss army knife, a rag, a note pad and stubby pencil, McGee's phone, DiNozzo's wallet-useless now. He supposed if they got hungry enough, they could chew on the leather. The thought of that was more than a little chilling, but then again hunger could make a man do strange things. They also had a few spare magazines for their guns, which they kept on their hips at all times while traveling. They didn't have much. Just the clothes they wore, their shoes - a precious commodity, their guns, and this bag.

McGee carefully repacked the bag, cataloguing everything for a third time. But one fact was infinitely more pressing than anything else. They were still out of water.

If Tim remembered, there was a stream further down the ridge. He'd heard it a few times while they had been following the road. It would probably take an hour to get to it, and more than an hour to get back, with the weight of the bottles in the backpack and the steep grade of the hillside. Then there was his shoulder, which throbbed and throbbed and throbbed some more in the cold.

Tim looked towards Tony, and then anxiously up at the sky. He should have thought about this earlier, but he'd been denying the fact that he would have to leave Tony for a few hours. Fact of the matter was, they needed water and they couldn't wait until tomorrow.

"Hey." Tim kneeled close, resting a cautious hand on Tony's side. He had quickly learned that a startled concussed DiNozzo was on occasion a feisty DiNozzo.

Tony was dozing, hovering somewhere between sleep and dim awareness. He barely stirred when Tim softly nudged at him. "Mmf," he groaned.

"We're out of water, so I'm going to go find some. Okay?" Tim was whispering. He didn't know whether or not loud noises were disturbing for Tony, but he imagined they would be.

"'Kay," Tony forced the simple word out. He blinked once, listlessly.

"Just… don't go anywhere." Tim didn't really think that would be a problem, judging by Tony's current state. He leaned forward a bit and carefully observed the wound on his head. It looked unchanged. Still disturbing. Blood and damaged tissue had congealed and hardened into a scab. It was enough to keep infection at bay, at least. Tim shivered before looking away, at the movement of Tony's side as he breathed in and out. Steadily.

Getting up with a grunt and rubbing at his face, Tim shouldered the bag full of empty bottles and started hoofing it down the ridge. With any luck, he wouldn't trip on a root and break his neck.

Tim hated the Bad Days. He hated being the sole being responsible for looking after DiNozzo. On any regular day, both of them looked after each other. That, he could handle.

McGee had spent nearly half of an hour filling water bottles in that stupid creek. In order to avoid introducing muck into their supply, he had taken off his shoes and holey socks, rolled up his jeans, and waded into the center of the calf-high flow. He had nearly dropped a bottle or two, but luckily he made off with all the bottles he came with.

But now his legs were numb and rubbery, the backpack was heavy, and he had yet to climb back up the steep hill to get back to Tony. Heaving a sigh, Tim began the arduous hike.

After two hours spent toiling through slick and rotting leaves, Tim thought he was lost. He looked around desperately, searching for where he left Tony. He swore this was where they had spent the night. In a sudden panic, Tim searched the nearby area, breaking into a trot only to slow when his frozen legs attempted to tie one another into a knot. He nearly fell over in relief when he finally found his wayward friend. For whatever unknown reason, Tony had made the Herculean effort of dragging himself roughly twenty feet away. He was slumped over, shaking. He'd vomited, not far enough from his own face apparently.

"God, Tony," Tim muttered, actually saying his friend's name for once. "You're gonna make me waste one of these bottles of water, aren't you. You know how heavy this bag is?" he chastised Tony, but he didn't mean any of it. He kept his voice soft, almost gentle. Tim shook his head and opened the bag, pulling out one of the bottles.

"Lefff," Tony slurred.

Luckily Tim had since picked up on DiNozzo-scrambled-brain-speak. He responded patiently, "Yes, I left; I told you where I was going."

Awkwardly and with a fair bit of muted disgust, Tim washed his friend's face. He couldn't not do it. He couldn't make him lie around in his own vomit. Tony couldn't help it. Plus, that bat shaped dent in the man's head had been a product of their own escape. Both of their escapes. Together. They were alive because they stuck together. Tim didn't want to forget that. Especially during the times he flirted with thoughts of leaving DiNozzo behind, when things got really bad. When he thought Tony would die. When he thought they both would die.

"Didn' piss myself," Tony then said. "A' leas'." He was blinking up at Tim now, owlishly. And he was grinning weakly. If DiNozzo were a dog, his tail would be thumping against the leaves right now.

Tim let his lips quirk into a smile of his own. He squeezed Tony's shoulder not without friendly affection. "Yeah. Way to go, buddy."

Tim slaved away the afternoon constructing a small fire for the night. DiNozzo hadn't really stopped shivering, and although he was a bit more cognizant now and he even managed to walk around their makeshift campsite in one lazy circle, tonight felt like it would be even colder. While collecting bits of tinder from the surrounding trees, Tim kept a watchful eye on Tony. He had layed down again, shivering under both his and Tim's jackets.

It would be a relief to them both to have some warmth. Usually a good day walking on the road kept them running hot, but with the whole day wasted by DiNozzo's busted head, they both needed a little help.

By the time the sun sank behind that same distant hill, Tim had a good blaze going with a decent bed of coals. Tony watched the orange flames lick the cold air, while Tim heated up two granola bars just for the sake of eating something hot. The both of them chewed in silence.

"Twenty questions," Tony murmured with his mouth full of chewy granola and chocolate.

Tim licked some melted chocolate off of his fingers. "Not tonight."

Tony must have been feeling better if he wanted to play one of his silly games. He was always the one to initiate them, said it would help pass the time. Tim preferred to spend his time in silence, but he joined in to humor Tony. Sometimes it was fun. Other times Tony, through no real fault of his own, would pry too deep.

But tonight, Tim was just tired, and he wanted to do nothing more than stare at the fire he had worked hard to create.

"Oh come on," DiNozzo then scoffed. "I'll let you ask the questions."

Tim shook his head but smiled a little.

"I'll be an open book. Ask and I shall answer."

"You'll never be an open book." Tim looked over at Tony. The fire flickered orange light over his face. His eyes were still glassy and unfocused. "Tomorrow night. Okay?"

"We might be dead by tomorrow," Tony argued.

"Yeah, we might be."

"Don't say that!" Tony suddenly cried as if he'd been burned.

Tim stared at him, unnerved by the sudden and nonsensical burst of emotion. "You're the one who mentioned it."

"Still..." Tony was looking around as if confused with where he was. He shook his head and winced.

"Tony-"

"You have chocolate on your lip," Tony interrupted. "Looks funny."

Tim frowned as he swiped at his face several times.

"Missed it," Tony grinned.

Tim now tried to find it with his tongue, reaching as far as he could with it. Suddenly he stopped because Tony was trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh. Tim's face fell into a glare. "You're an asshole." He started to get to his feet. The fire was throwing off enough light to allow him to write in the notepad for a while.

"Aw, c'mon you," Tony protested. "Twenty questions. You ask, I answer. I'll be an open book."

"You already said that," Tim said while digging for the notepad and stub pencil.

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did."

"Oh."

"Go to sleep, Tony. Tomorrow you'll want us to walk again."