Chapter 4

He stayed in the park all night long, watching the recovery efforts. It was cold...not bitterly so, but cool enough that Tim pulled his tattered jacket close around him as he watched the tireless efforts of the emergency crews. It wasn't enough and Tim felt cold all night. That didn't matter, however, because he could no more leave than he could cry. All his tears were locked up inside him at the moment...and he couldn't help. He could only watch.

Unbeknownst to Tim, there was a witness to his presence. Someone had noticed Tim standing and staring, but because of all the work there was to do, he had put that information to the side and focused only on the search. Tim was alive. He was obviously okay enough to be on the Yard. That was all that mattered...because there were others still missing...possibly dead. That took precedence...

...until he noticed that Tim had not left once during the long night, nor had he moved much. He was just there. He knew what Tim did when bad things happened: he shut himself off, avoided the pain as much as he could, kept it inside as long as possible. It was easier for him than expressing his emotions in an environment that too often dismissed emotions as weakness. He hoped, all through that long night, that Tim would leave, that he would show some semblance of independent thought and go home...but he didn't, and even if he had been well enough to leave the hospital, he still looked a mess. Every time he looked over at Tim, standing in the remains of the park, he couldn't help noticing the ruined and bloody clothes he was wearing, the maze of cuts on his face. He couldn't help knowing that there were more lacerations on his arms, legs, torso, and that the bruise covering Tim's right cheek was merely one example of a mass of contusions running all over his body.

Finally, at around 5:30 a.m. when most of the crews were taking a break, getting coffee, resting their bodies and minds for more searching, the one person who had noticed Tim walked over to the park, two cups of coffee in his hands. When he got there, he held one out in front of Tim's folded arms. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on NCIS, nothing else.

"McGee."

Tim didn't move...but he blinked.

"McGee, here. You look like the living dead."

Tim blinked again and finally moved his eyes down to the coffee. A trembling hand reached out to take it.

"You cold?"

Tim didn't speak, but he took the coffee and slowly sipped at it.

There was something that seemed like martyrdom in Tim's expression and it was annoying. "What are you doing here?"

Tim shrugged but he was watching the few workers still poking around in the rubble. A couple of cadaver dogs were on duty as well. Cadavers.

"Tim...talk to me."

Another sip and then a sigh. "You're alive."

"Yeah. So are you."

"You took me to the hospital."

"Yes."

"Why did you leave me there?"

"You were in good hands."

"You left me alone."

"I had work to do."

"You left me alone. I thought that the only way I'd be alone is if everyone had died. You didn't...but you left me there."

"I couldn't do anything at the hospital. You know that, Tim."

Another sip...and another. "I watched Michelle Lee die. She was alone, too. Jimmy is dead. So is Cynthia. I thought I saw...is Director Shephard dead?"

"Yes." He tried not to remember his view of Jenny's mangled body. He failed miserably. The blast had got her from the side...one whole side of her body black...and red.

"I thought so." Tim's voice was dead. His eyes never moved from the sight in front of them.

"Why are you here?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Home?"

"I spend more time here than I do at my apartment. I know more people here than I do anywhere else. Why would I go there when everything and everyone important to me is here?"

"Because you're injured."

"Not enough."

"Not enough for what?"

"I'm not leaving until they find everyone. I don't care how long it takes. I won't leave."

"Tim..."

"I won't leave."

"Fine." It was too hard to argue, and he wasn't in the mood. "Enjoy the view." He started to walk away.

"Is anyone alive?" The voice didn't change, but the question made him turn around to answer.

"I hope so." Then, he walked away.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Enjoy the view... Tim couldn't react. He couldn't let himself react to that condemnation. All he could do was watch. But the words whirled around in his head. It wasn't that he had hoped for more. He didn't want pity. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted what couldn't possibly be given...and so he wanted nothing at all. There was so much to feel and to hear and to see and to know...that he couldn't do any of it. He just had to stand there and wait for something to happen...inside him.

A thick covering of clouds hid the sun and made the day even more gloomy than it would be normally. As more bodies were found, Tim's heart seemed to sink a little deeper. It was as though his whole life depended on them finding someone alive and whole...but he knew that wasn't it. Someone was alive and whole. That wasn't enough.

Nothing would be enough.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We got a live one!"

Tim perked up at the cry. He took a step, but he couldn't go any further. He just waited and watched. A stretcher was rushed into the area in the middle. They'd begun digging about an hour before. Someone was alive...for now. He walked a few more steps, but at the road, he stopped and watched from a distance as a limp figure was pulled out and placed onto the stretcher. He couldn't tell who it was, but he watched. As the group got closer, he saw... wristbands...wristbands with spikes. Only one person wore those at NCIS.

Abby. His mouth shaped the syllables, but no sound came from his lips. She had worn pants that day...yesterday. They were ripped and torn...black, but then, they were generally black anyway. She wasn't burned that Tim could see, but he was still not very close. Her shirt had red blotches...but that could be the way it looked anyway. Abby had shirts like that. She could be okay...after more than a day buried alive. She was loaded onto an ambulance and whisked away.

Abby was alive...for now. She wasn't dead yet, but Michelle had been alive in the ER before she died. Tim saw him as the ambulance left the Yard. They stared at each other but neither one moved toward the other and Tim retreated back to the cannon.

However, he'd barely taken up his position when another called dragged him unwillingly back to the road.

"Here's another one!"

"Another stretcher! Now!"

This time, Tim found himself climbing over the rubble, weaving his way to the location that would have been Abby's lab. As he did, he stopped. He saw a hand, missing an index finger sticking out of a pile.

"There's someone here," he whispered. No one heard him. All the panic, the fear, the grief, all of it burst out of him in a single cry. "There's someone in here!"

He didn't see half the crew detach themselves from the group in Abby's lab and join him as he began carefully trying to move the cinder blocks, the metal struts, anything. Tim didn't get to help for very long. They pushed him out of the way...as if he was nothing. Tim backed up and watched with fear. The person to whom the hand belonged couldn't still be alive. It was impossible...and Tim was afraid to find out who it was. He didn't even see the other survivor get taken away. He didn't see who it was. All he saw was the continuing efforts of the men and women to free another body.

There was a hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. Tim was glad of the contact, but he couldn't spare the attention.

"Tim, you don't have to see this." It was a whispered statement...and utterly false. Tim didn't even bother to respond.

The minutes stretched by. Tim was forced to stand further away as they brought in equipment to pull off some of the larger pieces. They brought in braces and jacks to keep the detritus from falling onto the body...it had to be only a body. Tim watched and watched, the hand still on his shoulder, but then, as they were removing the last pieces, Tim realized that he couldn't watch. He couldn't see who else had died. It would tear him apart. He turned and tore away from the hand. Slipping, tripping, he clambered over the piles, the rubble, the sad remains of his place of employment. He kept walking when he got out. He crossed the street, walked by the cannon, around the cars and the fence, walked to the edge of the Anacostia...and stopped.

There was the USS Barry. It was all right. Dusty, ashy, but all right. Closed, of course...but it was still there. Tim sucked the air noisily into his mouth as he walked along the dock. It hurt to breathe, but that pain was nothing. It barely registered. It didn't matter. He had run away. One of his colleagues had been buried in the rubble and he had run away from the sight.

I'm a coward. I'm a weak, worthless coward.

He kept walking along the dock until he reached the last pier. No ship was moored there and he turned onto the pier, walking as far as he could. When he reached the edge of the pier, he stared out at the Anacostia, willing himself to feel the pain, the physical pain, in the hopes of blocking out the mental and emotional agony running through him. He wanted the pain of his bruised ribs, the surgery, his contusions, his lacerations. He wanted to feel them all. He wanted to feel the injuries he'd received, the injuries that were so much easier, so much lighter, than those received by his friends.

"Tim."

The voice behind him was like receiving tonic and poison at once. Comfort and censure. Forgiveness and condemnation. Tim couldn't decide what he wanted to do. He wished he had the courage to throw himself into the Anacostia...but he wouldn't. That was the worst of all: he still wanted to live.

"Tim, look at me."

Tim turned around, green eyes staring into blue.

"Dead?" he asked.

"Yes."

Tim couldn't face those eyes. He started to turn around again.

"No, Tim. Don't turn away. You can't deal with it like this."

Tim looked at him...looked at his boss...looked at Gibbs. He heard the compassionate note, but...Gibbs had left him. He knew what Tim was like. He knew Tim's worthlessness. He shouldn't be pretending that Tim wasn't being weak. He shouldn't act like he cared.

All these thoughts ran through Tim's head, but the only words he actually spoke formed a question.

"Who was it?"