Warning: Dark subject matter. Graphic violence.
(ten)
Flesh and Bone and Yellow Valor
"Is that a horse?" Tim asked as he hitched Tony's backpack higher up on his good shoulder. His other one still ached on days like this. Wet days that weren't cold enough to turn drizzle to ice, but still not warm enough to provide much relief for their chilled bodies. These kinds of days were growing more frequent. Most of the snow had melted, leaving brown-gray tracts of dead earth and black pools of muck that coated their boots.
The sky remained gray. The sun appeared only briefly, and when it did, only as a hazy, sick yellow shape barely visible through the thick cloud deck.
Tony followed Tim's gaze. And from the corner of a quarter-mile-long stare, Tim noticed him cock his head in curiosity. They both stared. Both curious. The brown shape moved, and then stopped.
After departing (escaping) the Wal-Mart and discovering that Tim's battered phone had finally run out of juice, they'd given up the vague idea of GoogleMaps leading them anywhere. Instead, they consulted a paper map - battered, dirty, a few tears here and there, but readable. Together, they'd chosen this shortcut that might shave a day - or at least a few hours - off of their journey. The road was rural, and mostly still snow covered. No tire tracks. No other tracks to speak off. Pine trees and a bare mixture of oaks, maples, and beech trees spread out on either side of the road. Occasionally the woods gave way to large plots of land. Farm fields, pastures, barns, and farm homes.
"Yeah, I think it's a horse," Tony said.
"There's a barn and a house. too. Maybe there's something to take." Tim started forward.
But Tony grabbed onto the back of the pack, pulling Tim into a premature stop. "Wait."
"What?"
"There might be something to take," Tony reasoned, "but there also might be somebody living there."
"I know that."
"So have we learned nothing from the Wal-Mart clan?" Tony asked, voice tight and nervous.
"Yeah. To rely on only ourselves. We're already running out of supplies. You're cold and hungry. I'm cold and hungry. We can't sit out here in the woods all night with nothing."
Tony didn't look completely convinced.
"Hey," Tim stepped up to him and took ahold of his elbows. In the time before all of this mess, DiNozzo would've ripped himself away. But now, the touch fed into their simple, familiar communication. Tony knew better than to shove Tim away, because Tim fought for both of them, just like Tony also fought for both of them. No more chain-of-command. No more power struggle. Not out here. They couldn't afford it. "I know you're afraid, but we have to see what's there."
"Okay," Tony relented. "And I'm not afraid."
"Yeah you are," Tim said. "But so am I."
Closer, Tim saw that the horse was skinny and partially caked in mud. The animal dug halfheartedly at a rotten round bale of hay. As they neared the fence, it watched them with baleful suspicion, hooves sunken deep in thick mud.
"It has a friend," Tony spoke flatly, before correcting himself, "Had a friend."
The second horse - maybe it had been gray at one time - lay dead in the dirty snow, its emaciated body working slowly towards eventual decomposition. Brown blood stuck to its hide and the ground around it. The horse's throat was a gory mess, torn and mutilated, and a nostril had been ripped, the flap of skin peeled back to reveal white bone.
Beside the horse was a dog. Big and brown and muscled. Short fur. Huge head that was now caved in and crushed, gray matter pushing between fractured skull. The dog was dead, too, obviously enough. Stiff, unmoving, a small white marking on its chest.
It wore a collar. Weeks ago, it may have been someone's pet in someone's house. Maybe it was loved. But now, starving and desperate, it had died in a brash attempt to survive.
Tim had to stop, and he had to stare. It was the kind of grisly and hopeless sight that threatened to overwhelm. He thought he would have gotten used to the steady parade of misery, human and animal alike. That wasn't the case. It still hit him in the gut, each and every time. This unfettered violence.
Tony waited for him at the end of the fence, his face blank, unaffected by anything but the potential danger just standing here could bring. "Come on," he urged. "Hurry up."
The house was empty and, surprisingly, largely untouched. The windows were intact, and the kitchen cabinets - although far from fully stocked - contained a few things of worth. As Tim pulled out the most useful items and lined them up on the countertop, Tony asked something odd: "Should we take the horse?"
"Should we what?"
"Take it with us."
"Why?"
"For one, it could carry that backpack. You have a bad shoulder."
"You could carry the backpack every once in a while," Tim said.
"I do sometimes, and you know it."
Tim didn't look convinced.
"My head's got my balance all fucked up," Tony said in excuse. He hadn't admitted that before, although Tim already suspected as much.
Tony's stupid busted head was the source of all sorts of issues. Luckily, today and the day before had been good days. Good days spent without the transient nausea, loss of coordination and coherence, the drooling stupidity, the paranoia - all of which gripped Tony hard and never ceased to bring their journey to a grinding, and at times dangerous, halt. And although Tim worried about Tony during such times, he knew to be cautious of him as well. He'd never forget the feel of Tony's hands on his neck - back at Gibbs' house, back when Tony'd shot the head off that old man. He'd never forget grabbing ahold of that pot full of boiling water to defend himself, either.
"If we take all this stuff," Tony gestured to the things on the counter, and to things elsewhere yet undiscovered, "we can't carry all of this. The horse can."
"I don't know anything about horses."
Tony shrugged. "Neither do I. How hard can it be? A little 'hi ho Silver' and away we go. We can figure it out."
"You saw it. That animal is skin and bones. The kindest thing we could do is set it free from that pasture. Let it find something new to eat, fend for itself-" Tim stopped talking because Tony was staring at him with an odd look on his face. 'Odd' wasn't the right word, maybe. 'Unfamiliar' fit better.
"What?" Tim screwed up his face because he now recognized that expression. That small, barely there smile. Warm green eyes, crows feet at the corners.
It was affection.
Tim turned away and busied himself with the groceries. "Stop it."
"What?" Tony shot back.
"You can make fun of me later. Not here," Tim said. "I can't just ignore all of this fucked up shit that keeps happening. I know you can, but I can't, okay?"
"Okay."
Tim considered him. "You think the horse is a good idea."
"I do."
Tim nodded. "Alright. Fine. We can take more with us then. Maybe it'll get us to Stillwater. Maybe we won't have to do this again."
"Do what?" Tony asked as he opened a closet and removed a working flashlight.
"Loot somebody's house. Just doesn't feel right." Tim refused to look at Tony again, because he couldn't stand that bald look of affection from him.
"You're so good, Timmy. How d'you stay so good?"
Tim cracked a rare grin as Tony bumped him with a fist.
They named her Kate. Actually, Tony named her Kate, and Tim just nodded and smiled at him. It fit, according to Tony. The horse had intelligent brown eyes, straight dark brown hair, a standoffish personality.
It was true that neither of them knew much about horses, but Tim revealed that he had once spent a week at a Boy Scout horseback riding camp. That mixed with Tony's few and far between pony rides and that one-time Arizona back-country excursion with Gibbs, led to the both of them managing to fashion a workable packing system with the horse.
Luckily, Kate had a docile and hardworking character, and she wasn't prone to spooking. They took turns "doing the horse wrangling," as Tony liked to say, and Kate followed behind without complaint.
Morning came slowly. Pitch black turned to a gray dawn. Despite the rising sun, the air grew no warmer than it had been during the night. They were very close to Stillwater now. So close that less than a week's worth of walking would get them there.
Tim woke first, spurred by the singing of a bird. It was odd these days, listening to the simple song of a bird. It was soothingly familiar. He could remember waking in his own apartment - a lifetime ago - and hearing the birds through a cracked window. That was when he'd been spoiled by the comforts of a mattress, and high-thread-count sheets and soft comforters, and a roof over his head. Carpeting to step on. A kitchen to make a hot breakfast in. He could flip a switch and there'd be light, regardless of the sun's position in the sky or the time of day. Things weren't like that now, and maybe they'd never be like that again.
He felt Tony's breath on his neck. Every night, they slept close. Closer than they ever would if their world was still normal. They took comfort in this closeness. This shared warmth and shared breath. Maybe they should have spent more time analyzing it, but they hadn't the time or the energy. Surviving together made sense, everything else was just a by-product of that desire. That desire to live through this hell, to conquer it.
Rubbing grit from his eyes, Tim rolled away from Tony and onto his stomach. He looked toward last night's fire, and then at their pile of gear and supplies. Kate should have been standing just beyond that, lipping at some dying grass, shaking her ratty mane, looking out toward the wood line, waiting for the day to begin. Waiting for Tony to wake and feed her a treat of canned carrots and stroke her between those wide, soulful brown eyes. Tim loved seeing that rare tenderness from Tony.
They never tethered her; she never strayed far while they were resting. Where would a horse go?
But this morning she wasn't standing and waiting for them, and for a moment Tim thought she'd finally found some place to go. As he sat up, he wished that was the case, because the horse was lying down, flat out on her side.
Tim crawled free of his sleeping bag and went to her. The mare barely seemed willing to raise her head. She stared up at him with a courageous sort of resignation in her one visible eye. But Tim wasn't willing to let her give up like that. He took a hold of her halter and tugged. "Come on. Get up!" he urged. He clucked and made kissing noises in encouragement. Kate raised her head obligingly, but did not move to get to her feet.
"Tony!" Tim called out.
Already up, Tony stared at Tim and the horse with unreadable eyes.
Tim stepped away and put his face in his hands. "We killed her," he said.
"No," Tony countered. "She was probably sick before we started."
"We shouldn't have forced her."
"We didn't," Tony said. He was standing now, trying to talk reason at Tim. "We never forced her."
"She won't get up."
"We'll have to get going at some point."
"We can't leave her."
"I know." Tony frowned. He looked tired. Not only physically, but emotionally. Mentally. It was a bone-deep tiredness.
They were both thinking the same thing. Tony's gun. They had plenty of bullets. They could spare one for the mare. For Kate. The thought made them sick.
"You don't have to, Tony," Tim said, his voice barely loud enough to cross the space between them. "I can do it."
"Don't be stupid," Tony snapped. He wrapped his arms around himself to ward away both emotion and the morning cold. "The horse was my idea."
"Tony..."
"Take the stuff and figure out what we can carry between the two of us."
"Tony..."
Tony ignored him and grabbed the gun from the outer pocket of his backpack. He checked the chamber with practiced hands. Tim watched from where he hovered over the packs of gear and supplies, pretending he couldn't hear.
Tony knelt at Kate's head and stroked the flat patch of skull on her forehead. "Guess this is the end of the line," he whispered. "Better this way, though. This world is messed up, Katie. You shouldn't suffer."
It had been stupid to name the damn horse Kate. The joke should have stayed a joke. It should not have turned into reality, with the horse named Kate, dying from exhaustion or hunger or some other kind of horse ailment neither Tim nor Tony knew about. Gibbs might have known what to do, if he'd been here. He had a thing for horses.
Tim tried to act like he wasn't listening, but it was impossible not to. He shuffled the stuff around, but his mind was locked on the drama Tony was engaged in. Finally, he saw Tony stand. Aim the gun.
He knew it was coming, but the gunshot still made him flinch.
The crack echoed in the valley. Tim hurried up with the reorganizing. They'd have to skip breakfast in order to get moving. Most would consider the gunshot a warning, but Tim knew that others might see it as an invitation. He had no intention of finding out who those others might be.
There was no way all of this stuff could go with them. Even if Tony carried more than his fair share, it was impossible, considering Tim's bad shoulder and the new and creeping feeling of nausea making him weak and unsteady on his feet. No, most of these things wouldn't be coming with.
When he finished, Tim looked for Tony, but he'd moved away from the dead horse to sit on the muddy grass and stare into nothing, or maybe into the sun, safely tucked behind that curtain of unnatural clouds. Maybe he was trying to feel some of that warmth.
The landscape had been robbed of warmth and sunlight; it was only a matter of time before everything turned to ash and crumbled into nothing.
Tim left him alone; he couldn't think of anything nice to say. Tim had a feeling Tony would never feel that warmth ever again. The feeling was ugly, and Tim knew that. There was nothing but ugliness left here.
They walked.
And walked.
Walked, slept, and walked some more. They'd each taken two packs, including Tony's backpack. They rationed the food, the water, everything. They even rationed conversation. Tony hadn't said much since the morning he shot the horse, and Tim hadn't given him any encouragement to open up.
On the third night, they didn't bother lighting a fire. They ate cold granola bars and drank lukewarm water. Stillwater loomed within grasp; the road sign said twelve miles. A day's worth of walking in their current weakened condition, and they'd start out early the next morning.
While Tim re-organized and re-packed the bags, Tony set out the tarp and the unzippered sleeping bag, two things they'd decided were absolutely necessary for the sleeping arrangements.
"Who wants the gun tonight?" Tony asked.
"I'll take it," Tim said as he set up the packs close to where they would sleep. "And I'll carry it tomorrow, too, if that's okay."
"That's fine. Night." Flat. No real emotion.
Tim watched him lay down, facing away. "You okay?" he asked.
Tony grunted. "I'm fine."
"Is your head bad?"
"It's always bad." Tony then turned over, and they looked at each other for a long while in the near darkness, no other noises but the crickets and the frog croaks coming from a nearby marsh.
"We're almost there," Tim whispered. "We'll get our answer tomorrow, I guess."
"Come to bed, Tim. It's very comfy."
Tim chuckled as he slid under the sleeping bag, relieved to see a small shred of Tony's old humor coming through. Facing the moonless, starless sky, with Tony breathing close to his neck, Tim kept the gun close.
Tomorrow, they'd get their answer. Tomorrow, everything could change.
Barely two miles into the next morning's trek, the stomach pains started, and the fever that had lurked for the past couple days came out full force.
He knew that Tony had slowed for his benefit, although Tony didn't seem much stronger, both of them gaunt from near constant hunger, both dehydrated, feet blistered and sore. Going on seemed like torture.
Tim clutched his stomach as he sank down onto his haunches. He flung the two packs from his back and crawled further into the roadside ditch where he vomited the pithy contents of his stomach. Water, crackers, and stomach acid. He gagged and gagged, feeling as if his whole stomach, and maybe his intestines too, might follow the dribble of what was now only bile. He felt Tony's eyes on him, steady and watchful, but he didn't hear footsteps come near him. There was hesitation, as if Tony was waiting for Tim to quickly recover and get right back up to continue.
But Tim's body had other plans. It began to boil itself from the inside out as his gut twisted again. There was no more left to throw up. Shakily, he stood up and went for the packs he'd unceremoniously dropped. Tony was still waiting. They had to get going, fever and sickness aside.
"Get going. Get going," Tim chanted at himself, under his breath.
"You're sick," Tony said, as if the obvious hadn't already presented itself.
"I can go for longer," Tim said, grabbing for one of the packs.
But Tony grabbed his hand before he could heft it up. "You're really sick."
Tim looked up from the crumbling asphalt and right into Tony's eyes. And I'm really worried, they said. Tim was getting better and better at reading Tony's face, not as if he hadn't been any good at it before all of this.
This.
He yanked his hand away. Going on might be torture, but he could handle that. They were almost there. So close. Gibbs was waiting for them. The others, too.
They were waiting. There was no alternative.
"I'll carry your things," Tony offered. It was as if he knew there was no use in arguing with Tim in his present state. If he was willing to keep moving, they'd keep moving.
Tim took the smaller of the packs, and Tony took the bigger, adding it to his own burden. An unspoken compromise. Tim knew there was some reciprocity in their current arrangement. He couldn't forget the Bad Days, during which Tim took care of Tony. No matter what.
Five miles gone and then it was lunchtime, although it was hard to tell as the clouds had thickened into a menacing graphite gray.
The air had slowly warmed into a balmy, humid day. It took the edge from the dying winter, although somehow the atmosphere felt tense, as if it might split open at any moment. Tim swallowed the pasty saliva that had gathered around his leathery tongue. He'd ignored his thirst, despite Tony's near-constant pushing. Every time he drank, even if it seemed no more than a thimble's worth, he'd gag and vomit. He was so sore from it, the mere thought of liquid upset him.
Forget about food.
He sank to his knees and then into a sit, shivering despite the day's new found warmth and the raging fever inside of him.
"You need to drink something." Tony had relieved himself of his load, and was fighting for the open water bottle tucked inside one of them.
"No," Tim said, voice scratchy. "I'll just throw it up."
"You need to try." Tony sat heavily beside him and reached to touch his forehead. Tim let him. "Jesus..."
"That bad, huh."
"You're like a furnace."
"Just let me be still."
Tony nodded, and they decided to rest for a few minutes, Tim lying down to help quell the nausea. Tim shut his eyes and let the weak sun gently warm his already burning face. He heard the crinkling of paper, more than likely Tony pulling out the map.
They'd passed a few houses, even a gas station, windows broken, gutted and looted. They saw a few other people, too. Tim and Tony always made sure to melt into the woods before they were spotted. People weren't safe.
"There's another shortcut," Tony said. "Cuts through the woods here for a bit. Not too far. Not even a mile."
Thunder rumbled softly overhead.
"Rain," Tim muttered. "Of course it will rain."
"Are you up for it?"
Tim opened his eyes and looked at Tony. Tony looked like shit, that large patch of hair shaved away, head wound still scabbed and ugly, face streaked with grime and sweat. Tim could only imagine what he looked like himself; he hadn't looked at mirror in days. Weeks, maybe. When the first drops of rain hit his face, he sat up and said, "I am. Are you?"
Tony may have looked like death warmed over, but his eyes held the hard edge of determination. "Let's go."
"Oh what I'd give for a giant plate of Pad Thai right now," Tony said with a moan. "Greasy cream cheese wontons. Calamari. A foot long sushi roll. Spicy tuna."
Despite the persistent nausea, Tim found himself salivating. Behind Tony, Tim's feet picked carefully through the heavily wooded path they were following. It wasn't really even a path, more like an animal trail that led to a stream, and beyond that, Jackson Gibbs' neighborhood. The rain had progressed to a downpour and hadn't let up. Thunder continued to roll overhead, and now lightning flashed intermittently. It was miserable, but Tim felt himself buoyed by the fact that they were almost there.
"Saltine crackers," Tim added, happy to join in on one of Tony's games. It had been a long time since he'd initiated one, and though Tim often thought it annoying, he knew these goofy games were a great distraction. "Seven-Up with crushed ice. My mom's chicken noodle soup."
"Hot coffee. Lots of cream and sugar," Tony went on. "Hell, I'd even take it Gibbs-style."
"A burger. A thick, juicy burger."
"With French fries. Straight out of the fryer."
"Abby's gumbo," Tim blurted. He felt a sudden lump in his throat.
"Yeah," Tony agreed. "Abby's gumbo."
"And-" Tim started to say, but then his voice was yanked violently from his mouth.
Because the trail was crumbling, seemingly in slow motion, to the jarring sound of ripping roots and cracking sticks.
The solid ground turned on its side. Tim reached out on reflex and grabbed onto a nearby tree trunk, groaning as gravity grabbed onto his body and the heavy packs on his back, and pulled hard. He clung to the tree, breath coming quick and panicky. The sound of rain beating the dead leaves almost deafened him.
Slowly, heart pounding and his body weighed down and already weakened by illness, Tim dragged himself away from the now gaping hole he'd nearly toppled into. His blunt nails scraped for better purchase on the tree bark, and later, in the muddy leaf litter strewn with sticks and rocks. The rain still fell hard, lashing his body and blurring his vision. He panted and got to his knees, arms stinging from both effort and numerous bloody abrasions. His hands felt numb and rubbery.
On his knees, Tim stared at the jagged edge made up of ripped roots and soft mud. "Tony?" he called out, voice breathless and strangled by fear and shock. "Tony!"
"Down here!"
Heart stuck in his throat, Tim crawled cautiously to the edge of the hole and looked over.
"Be careful!" Tony shouted at him. "Don't get too close!"
Tony lay awkwardly positioned at the bottom of the hole, in a shallow pool of muck water. His pants were torn, and there was blood. Bright red blood and lots of it. The hole was maybe ten or twelve feet deep, the sides steep. A death trap.
"Can you climb out?" Tim asked.
Tony shook his head, his remaining hair plastered down against his skull, covered in leaves and mud. "My leg. I think... I don't know. Something jabbed it." He attempted to shift, but had to stop and gasp for breath. His hands shook as they clutched his leg. "Shit. Shit," he hissed and swore, loudly enough for Tim to hear over the pounding rain.
"Hang on. I'll come for you." Tim threw off the packs and began scrambling for a foothold that would help lower him into the ditch.
"No!" Tony shouted at him. "No damn it! Stay up there. We'll both be trapped. You're sick and weak."
"I can do it," Tim insisted.
"Listen, Tim-"
But Tim was shaking his head wildly. "No. Don't ask me to leave you here. I said I wouldn't leave you again."
"Shut up!" Tony barked. "Listen. Jack's house. It's not even a mile from here. It can't be farther than that. You need to go. You need to go and see who's there. Find Gibbs."
Tim still shook his head.
"Find Gibbs, Tim. Then come back for me. Got it? This is what you have to do."
The rain, impossibly, started to pound down even harder.
"You can do this, Tim," Tony continued to coach. "You know this is what has to be done. In your head, you know it is. You can do this. I know you can do it."
Tim did know that Tony's suggestion made the most sense. Their supplies didn't include rope, or any other rescue gear, and there was no way Tim would be able to climb down and climb back out, with or without Tony's added weight. Tim's fever still raged, and it took an immense amount of effort just to think straight, let alone move around freely.
Finally, Tim nodded and said, shouting through the rain in order to make himself heard, "I'll be back for you, with help. Just stay where you are."
"Oh I will," Tony looked up from the bottom of the hole, rain pounding his face. He had one final request. "Before you go... Give me the gun."
"Why? I might need it. We don't know who'll be at the house."
"Give it to me," Tony urged. "You'll be fine."
"How do you know that?" Tim screamed at him.
"Gut feeling. You'll be fine. Toss it down."
"Why?" Tim asked again.
"Because I said so. I outrank you."
Tim didn't like the thought that was creeping into his mind, so he continued to argue, "That doesn't matter anymore. Once I find Gibbs, I'm coming back."
"And if you don't?" Tony asked.
"I'll come back for you. No matter what."
"Give me the gun."
Tim, delirious with fever and soaked through to the bone, sobbed as he continued to shake his head. "You're a fucking coward, DiNozzo. A coward!"
"Give. Me. The. Gun," Tony hissed. "It's not up for debate. You go find Gibbs. Please. Can you do that for me?" His voice was breaking.
Tim stared at him.
"But if you don't come back..." Tony winced and gasped again. "Don't make me starve to death down here, Tim. Please. Give me the gun. I'd do the same thing for you. Please."
Again, just like the last time, Tim broke down and nodded. With a shaking hand, he gently dropped the gun down into the ditch.
Tony caught it and stared at Tim in thanks. "Get going. Be careful."
Tim left him.
He stumbled around in the soggy woods, rain blinding him, but he knew which way to go. He broke from a walk into a lurching jog. This was the way, he knew it, even though he bobbed and weaved, muscles twitching and threatening to give out on him.
He jogged and jogged. He began to see more houses and other buildings, far up ahead through the trees and past what he thought was a fence. But finally he had to stop to hack and vomit and sob, because all he could really see was Tony's face. Yelling at him, telling him to go, that he could do it. He could find Gibbs and complete this long and torturous ordeal. He was strong enough, tough enough, courageous enough. And Tony would wait. He'd wait for him to return. And if he was to die in that miserable fucking hole, it would be by his own hand.
Tony was the bravest coward Tim would ever know.
He stumbled to his feet, smashed into a tree, then lurched forward. He couldn't give up. Wouldn't. He'd go until his lion's heart burst. He tripped over a root. His body catapulted through the rain and empty space, face rushing toward the ground. He didn't feel himself land.
Warmth. Soft warmth cradling his worn-out body.
Tim woke slowly, peacefully. His muzzy head reached out for a grasp on reality. He heard rain, a muffled soothing sound. It came from a nearby window, open to the gray daylight, wintering trees, and bird song. White curtains billowed in the warming breeze. A hopeful spring was on its way, and Tim inhaled deep, slow breaths of relief. A clock ticked on one wall.
He'd been born from a horrible nightmare. He felt like he could sink into this bed, attach himself to it, and stay here - in this one moment - forever.
Except there was a problem. His bladder lurched in urgent need of being emptied, and the patchy overgrowth of hair on his face itched.
"He's very ill, Jethro, but I think the slow drip and the aspirin are helping considerably. He needs to eat something." The voice paused. "I just can't believe it. I mean, finding him... It's incredible."
"I know, Duck."
"He's awake. McGee, are you with us?"
Tim stared at two very familiar faces with dull, uncomprehending eyes. What were Ducky and Gibbs doing in his bedroom? He lifted an arm and noticed it was attached to a primitively rigged IV set-up. His eyes widened.
Several facts rushed at him at once.
He was on a bed, inside a house, warm and safe. He was still alive. He'd found Gibbs, and Dr. Mallard, too.
Tony. Tony was waiting for him. How much time had he wasted sleeping, being comfortable, while Tony lay in the rain, in the mud?
"Agh!" Tim gasped, lurching up in bed, nearly yanking the needle out of his arm.
"Whoa, whoa," Gibbs soothed as he put a hand on his shoulder. "Slow down. You're okay, Tim. You're okay now."
Tim couldn't believe he was staring at Gibbs' face. All those days and nights they'd wondered if the man was even still alive. If he'd even be here in Stillwater. Tim couldn't believe it. He was in shock. He barely even realized that he was hyperventilating. His head swam in the over-abundance of oxygen. He felt his body being gently lowered back onto the bed.
"Gibbs," he croaked.
"Yeah, Tim. I'm here." Gibbs squeezed his bicep.
"Settle down, Timothy. Your body is overcoming a huge shock."
Tim's eyes moved wildly between Gibbs and Ducky. "Tony."
"What about him?" Gibbs asked with a grim frown.
"He was with me. He was with me. In a hole. I had to leave him." Tim moved to get up again, but Gibbs stopped him. "We have to look for him. We have to look for him. We have to-"
"McGee! Calm down." Gibbs leaned forward. "When we found you, you were barely coherent. But you were yelling his name. Over and over again. You had his backpack with you. His wallet. Ziva and I went looking in the immediate area. We didn't see DiNozzo anywhere."
Tim's brain hiccupped at the mention of Ziva. He looked around wildly but didn't see her.
"She's outside," Gibbs provided.
"I know where he is."
"You were pretty turned around when we found you," Gibbs said.
"We're wasting time." Tim dodged out from under Gibbs' grasp and sat up fully, ignoring the screaming soreness raging throughout his body. "Ducky, can you take this out?" He gestured at the IV.
"I really don't think it's a good idea, Timothy," Ducky whispered. "We thought you were very near death. You need fluids."
"Please," Tim begged. When they still didn't move to help him, he surged to his feet.
And then he pitched forward. Someone caught him, but he was already out again, like a light, galloping off towards a new nightmare.