Chapter 13
Once upon a time...
Who could have known that the soft agent had so much steel in him? He was secretly as strong as any other person he'd broken. The softness covered up a determination and strength that was...surprising. Even as he watched him scream in pain, he could see in his eyes that he wasn't broken. He always made private wagers as to how long it would take to remove someone's identity. He was rarely wrong. Even with the different approach he was taking this time around, he still would have put this man down to two days, maybe three. They were now beginning week two. It was time to step up things a notch or two...not too much, though. He didn't want to kill him or put him into a totally apathetic state, as could happen with torture.
He had plenty of time, after all. No one knew he existed. The last person to know him was a cop who had busted him for joyriding, little knowing what he'd really been doing. Joyriding. Like he would waste his valuable time doing something so stupid. That had been the last time he had used the name his loathsome mother had been persuaded to give him. She certainly hadn't come up with it herself. He remembered all too well his mother's idea of good parenting. ...only slightly worse than the foster home he'd lived in, though those people had at least cared enough to be sure that he was fed regularly.
There was plenty of time to put his prey into the desired state. With a smile, he turned on the water and watched with relish as his captive started in reaction to the sudden onslaught. What came next was better. He turned up the volume so that the screams echoed in the room as the man who had once been called Timothy McGee struggled to free himself from the chair...from the electricity currently stimulating his pain receptors. There was no escape, of course. Only death freed him from his captivity...death and of course, his captor.
He took time to break, but in the end, he broke, just like everyone else did. He lost. Everyone lost. The only one who won was the one doing the breaking. He watched and saw the moment that capitulation won out over fighting. There was no Timothy McGee. He had won. His identity was no more. He had tried to fight, to run away, but now, he knew that the only way to escape was to give up who he was.
He had to be...nameless...
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Tim was guided into consciousness by a kind voice, gently-accented, comforting.
"...it's silly perhaps, and most would think so, but I so wanted my first view of the Eastern seaboard to be a special one, and I couldn't get a good first view if the wing of the plane was blocking me from seeing anything until we were directly over it..."
It coaxed him back to the waking world.
"...so there I was, a grown man, begging to change seats with a random stranger so that I could see out the window. You can just imagine what she..."
Although the words being spoken were not overtly giving the message, what he heard from the voice was that the world was safe, that he could open his eyes without fearing what he'd see.
"...standing in the aisle, pleading with the stewardess...and yes, we still called them stewardesses in those days..."
He chose to believe.
"...and to this day, I can remember my first view of the United States, little knowing it would become my permanent home. I wish that every person in the world could have a sight like that."
...and he knew who it was speaking, although he knew nothing else. He chose to open his eyes.
"Hi," he said softly.
Ducky looked at him with a smile on his face. "Hello, Timothy. I would say good morning, but it is so early that I feel it besmirches the appellation."
Tim couldn't help but smile. Only Ducky could say the word besmirches and actually sound natural.
"How are you feeling, lad?"
The smile left.
"That good, eh?"
Tentatively, Tim smiled once more. "I don't know how I am."
"Understandable. I wouldn't wish what happened to you on my worst enemy."
"Neither would I."
"You seem more connected this time around, if I may say so."
"For now."
"Yes, well, I will choose to believe that this heralds an upward trend in your recovery."
"Maybe it's true. I just don't know," Tim said, but it was true that this time, he felt better. There was that frightening darkness, however, that was on the edge of all of his thoughts, that feeling of...of pain and of...
"Timothy."
Tim blinked and Ducky's face reappeared, looking concerned.
"Remembering, were you?"
"I can't help it, Ducky," Tim said and the pain in his head swelled, almost to the breaking point. "I keep thinking that I killed them...even though I know I didn't...but I did...and I didn't...and..."
"Timothy."
Tim didn't hear him. "...and I did shoot Tony...but I didn't kill him...and I did...and...I can't keep it straight...and all the while I have...and it's...it won't go away, Ducky!"
"What won't?"
"It's in my head. It hurts and it won't go away. I can't stop it." He looked pleadingly at Ducky. "I don't know how." He pressed both hands against his forehead, screwing his eyes shut as he only reluctantly let out the air he'd taken in. "It hurts, Ducky."
"A headache?"
"No! No, it's in my head. It won't...and I can...I can still feel..." His voice was shaking, his arms tensing. "I don't...not again..no, please..."
Ducky saw the danger immediately and pulled Tim's arms down. Then, he lifted Tim's head.
"You are all right, Timothy. Look at me."
Ducky's face was fading away, the hospital room being replaced by repeating images of killing his friends, surrounded by darkness, filled with pain.
"Timothy. Listen to me. Hear what I'm saying. It is very important for you remember where you are."
Faintly, he heard the words, but he couldn't fight against the memories.
"You are remembering, and that is to be expected."
The voice was so calm, not filled with panic or fear.
"It is only a memory that you have. It will not take you back there."
Was it a hand he was feeling on his arm? Or was it a strap, holding him down?
"You are in no danger here. You are still in the hospital."
He blinked and saw...for a moment...the reality. Ducky, holding his arm. Ducky, always the picture of calm...but it couldn't last.
"Timothy, I am here. I will not allow anyone to hurt you, to damage your already injured psyche any further."
He blinked again and the hospital room, with its shining sterility, began to pierce the darkness, the anguish that had swallowed him whole.
"If I thought it would help, I'd Gibbs slap you, but I doubt in your current state that you would even feel it."
He blinked once again and the darkness retreated to its usual place around the edges of his consciousness, waiting for another chance to swallow him.
"I might," he whispered.
Ducky smiled again, although the smile was heavily tinged with relief.
"Welcome back," he said.
"How long?"
"Oh, nearly an hour, I believe."
"Why don't I remember that?"
Ducky seemed unconcerned about that. "Loss of time is common enough after severe psychological trauma. That is something I would not worry about...at least not very much."
"I'm sorry, Ducky," Tim said and looked away.
"No, you do not have to apologize for being overwhelmed by your experiences. No man, I would wager, could possibly expect to leave three months' worth of trauma behind in so short a time. It is much easier to heal from physical injuries than from psychological injuries. We, who were left behind, have our own injuries from which to heal, although they are nothing compared to yours."
Tim's eyes moved back. "Tell me."
"I do not know that it would be a wise idea, Timothy. You may once again return to your memories."
Tim shook his head. "I didn't know what was happening outside of that..." He swallowed painfully. "...outside of that room. It was only...only at the...the beginning that I..." The days of pain, of agony, of every unbearable moment that he had to bear...
"Timothy."
The repetition of his name pulled him back. That calm stating of something that belonged to him, that had been returned to him much more gently than it had been stolen.
"...that's the worst part...when I knew about the time." The pressure in his head made him take a quick deep breath and let it out. "...after the first...few...days...it could have been years or minutes and I didn't know. I didn't know."
"Timothy." Again, his name, hearing it was like tonic. "Are you sure you wish to know?"
"Yes."
"Very well. If it becomes too much, stop me." He kept his hand on Tim's arm. "I was not there when they discovered your disappearance."
"No. No body," Tim said.
"Exactly. From what I understand, they immediately began looking for you. It was Ziva who discovered your cell phone, kicked under the car...and that, I believe, is when they really began to believe you were in danger."
"Not before?"
Ducky leaned forward. "While I do not doubt that the first days were your worst, for those of us left behind, they were the easiest to bear."
"Why?"
"Because...at the beginning, we believed it would not take much time to find you, to save you. We believed that it would only be a matter of hours, perhaps a day or two, before your whereabouts were discovered. You had been taken on a public street in broad daylight. Surely, someone had seen, someone had known."
"There was no one around," Tim said.
"No," Ducky agreed sadly. "Not a single person."
"He planned it. He was...he'd been...watching me...planning to..." Tim trailed off.
"Timothy, should I continue?"
With a strength he didn't feel, Tim wrenched his mind away from the darkness.
"Yes. Go on."
"Very well." Ducky continued but with a deeper concern in his eyes. "As the days continued with absolutely no word, no sign, nothing to indicate what had happened to you, where you'd been taken...anything at all...it became harder. Guilt set in."
"About what?" Tim asked, genuinely confused.
"About the fact that they had discounted the bad feeling you'd had, that they'd left you outside alone, leading to your kidnapping. It was easy to do."
"They couldn't know."
"I know that, and so do they, but guilt is an easy emotion to feel."
"Yes."
"Yes, you know that well."
Tim nodded. "That's why we were there, you know."
"Because of guilt?"
"No...to take me. He...he said that...he knew me so well...that he knew what would happen, that it was part of why I was...why my name was his."
"I see."
"...but...but he was..." And here Tim felt greatly daring. "...he was...wrong... Wasn't he?"
Ducky smiled encouragingly. "Yes, he was wrong. He could not take your identity from you no matter what he tried to do."
"Why does it still hurt?"
"That I cannot answer, Timothy. It is within you, not me."
Tim nodded and stared at his arms, remembering how it had felt to be strapped to that horrible chair, his own body rebelling against the continued restraint, the pain that had been simply a part of his existence until he couldn't remember what it felt like not being in pain...until the physical pain and the mental pain could not be differentiated.
"Shall I continue?"
Tim nodded, trying to force the blackness away.
"I do feel sorry for Agent Keating. He bore the brunt of your team's anxiety."
"What do you mean?"
"About a month after your disappearance, Tony got in an argument with him about the best way to search for you next. Keating, who does not have the same personal ties to you, was logically dismissing Tony's suggestions until Tony accused him of wanting you gone so that he could take your place. Well, the confrontation ended with Tony punching Keating right in the face. He broke Keating's nose, poor man. It was at that point that Director Vance made the decision to transfer your case to Lovitz' team. He'd been considering it for days, but seeing Tony's completely irrational reaction showed him that it was too difficult for them to continue.
"Tony felt terrible about it and apologized without any push to do so. Keating, although angry, accepted his apology...but I'm afraid that the damage had been done...in more ways than one."
Tim smiled a little, but he was listening raptly to this foreign view of his time...away.
"I would not have you think that Director Vance wished to call off the search, but he does have an agency to run and his critical response team had to be able to respond to cases...not get obsessed with one case to the exclusion of all else. Lovitz' team, I know, worked on it whenever they had a spare moment...and sometimes when they didn't as well. It was a difficult time. You know Lovitz. He is not a man to insist on procedure and he much more tactful than Jethro could ever be."
"If..." Here Tim stopped and had to rethink what he was about to say. He wasn't sure he was right. "...was it...was it Gibbs...and Tony...and Ziva...was it them who...who..."
"Found you? Yes, lad. They happened to be in the bullpen when an anonymous call came in claiming to have seen you. It had happened a few times, always nothing, but that time, Jethro had some down time and he insisted on checking it out. Lovitz didn't mind. I know he thought it would just be another dead end."
"...dead end..." Tim echoed. "...I wished I was dead...I...I could have been...but I wasn't."
"Yes, Timothy."
"They came."
"Yes, and found you. I don't think I've ever seen three people more afraid than they were when I arrived at the hospital. They said you were screaming, that you had looked dead, that you didn't even seem to see anything."
"I have a body," Tim whispered. "I didn't remember, but I do."
"Yes, you do," Ducky said softly.
Tim didn't really hear him. Those moments, his rescue, they weren't any better than his other memories, but he looked at them again.
"I was...I was just the pain, the mind, the...the darkness. Then...then, I...I could see. I can see." Tim reached out with his hand, like he had before and touched Ducky's face. "I could see...someone else, someone looking at me. I could...could touch. I can. I have...hands."
"Yes, Timothy." Ducky's voice was little more than shaped air.
"I didn't even remember that I could move...but I can. I can move. I can...hear...and see...and touch...feel. It's not just darkness anymore...darkness and pain...pain and darkness...but it's not." He looked at his arms, at the bandages covering the healing ulcers on his skin, the healing bruises that went deep into his body. His voice was becoming softer and softer as he spoke, Ducky forgotten. "But...but it still hurts and I can't...make the pain go away. It's locked inside...hidden...can't touch...can't feel...can't see. ...but I can hear...whispering in my ear, over and over...and it won't go away...like the pain. Feel his breath in my ear...even when I didn't know what it was...there...whispering...always...and the pain always follows."
"Timothy."
His name, again, pulled him back from the abyss. He looked at Ducky, afraid, tired, in pain.
"Why? Why, Ducky? Why does he whisper to me? Why did he take me, take my name, why?"
"I wish I knew, Timothy. I wish I could tell you and somehow magically heal your injured mind, but I confess that I have not that ability."
Up to this moment, Tim's movements had been either made in the times of blind panic or else they were small motions...his hands touching someone, holding them tightly. It was as though he had forgotten that he had a body to move. But as Ducky sat beside him, wishing that there was something he could do, Tim pulled his legs, his damaged, weak, atrophied legs to his chest and wrapped his normally limp arms around them. In so doing, he seemed to shrivel, shrink, and grow younger.
"Ducky?"
"Yes, Timothy?"
"Could you...leave me alone?"
In light of previous experience, it was a surprising request and Ducky hesitated.
"Please, Ducky. I need to...to...think."
"Very well, but I will be right outside the door."
"Thanks."
He watched Ducky leave. He recalled, now, moments when his legs had been exercised in an attempt to rebuild the muscles that had begun to wither away. He ran his hands up and down his legs, knowing that there wasn't enough strength in them to hold him up. He couldn't run as he wanted...but he didn't know where it was he wanted to go. All he knew was that in speaking to Ducky, he had awakened something inside him that was as insidious as the pain that attacked him at unguarded moments.
He had to get out, to go...to...escape. He wasn't sure what he was escaping, but the sensation born in him was nearly unbearable. It mingled with the pain, telling him that he had to get away, that there was only one way to survive...by running, by fleeing...and that would save him.
They couldn't save him. They couldn't. All they'd done was save his body. They couldn't save his mind, couldn't save him. He had to get his name back. They kept using it and he craved hearing it directed at him, but it wasn't his, not really. Timothy McGee. He was...someone else.
...he was nameless.