Chapter 14: Onward and Upward
As it turned out, Ziva was incredibly lucky. The blood loss had been kept to a minimum and Sharp's attack had caused little internal damage. A lot of pain, but no permanent damage at all. They had to keep tabs on her to watch for any signs of internal bleeding, but the doctors had no doubt that she would make a full recovery.
Tim was slightly worse off due to a minor concussion, three broken ribs and some internal bleeding, exacerbated by his struggle with Sharp. However, all had been treated in good time, and while he would stay in the hospital for longer than Ziva, he would also recover...
...physically.
They weren't sure what was wrong with him. He talked; he listened; he understood that he had killed Sharp in self-defense...but he had lost something and no one could pinpoint what it was. It wasn't guilt...of that much, they were sure. Something had happened that had sapped him of...an essential part of him, a part that made him Timothy McGee. Sarah refused to leave his side, even at night. She had talked with Joan once, and the Marshals had decided to take no chances. They were keeping her for a few more days, even though she was chomping at the bit to be back with her children.
They dragged the Potomac and fished out Sharp's body the morning after Tim killed him. Gibbs called and told Tim, but the news seemed to make no impression at all. He thanked Gibbs for telling him, but other than that...nothing. ...so Gibbs made one more call.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"I told Mom that she didn't need me to go and get her, but she insisted," Sarah complained.
Tim smiled. "She wants to know that you're okay, Sarah. Humor her. I'm sure she wants to talk to you and get all the details."
"I don't want to leave you, Tim," Sarah said.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sarah. Promise."
"Cross your heart?"
"Scout's honor."
Sarah smiled, but she, too, had noticed the change and her smile was tinged with confusion as she finally left.
Alone, Tim sighed. He couldn't have explained his feelings anymore than anyone else could. There was something wrong and he couldn't identify it. He couldn't pinpoint the problem and so was powerless to find the solution. He didn't actually remember a whole lot from his fight in the Potomac. It was all a blur of pain and water, fear and anger. The entire experience had taken less than half an hour from the time Sharp put him into the boat to when Gibbs had pulled him onto Rosilie Island. ...and yet, it had made such a difference to him. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't guilt. He regretted having to kill Sharp, mainly because he felt it wrong to do so, but he couldn't regret the fact that he was dead. That was a relief. He shook his head and wondered anew what was wrong with him.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in?"
The head that poked into the room was aged by fifteen years, but it was still the same man he had seen so long ago. Tim blinked trying to confirm that, yes, it was who he thought it was.
"Nick...how–? Why–?"
Nick, his hair graying, his face more lined both with age and with worry, walked over to the bed and looked at Tim appraisingly.
"Well, in spite of your recent excitement, I think you've grown up quite well, Tim."
"You look older," Tim said without thinking. "I mean..."
Nick waved his hand. "No, stay honest. I know I'm much older than I was the last time I saw you. I got another call from your boss. Seeing as the people who wanted you dead now know who you are, it seemed unfair that the people who wanted to keep you alive couldn't have the same opportunity."
Tim smiled and gestured to the chair. "It's nice to see you again, Nick."
"What's wrong, Tim?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Everyone knows, even if they can't put it into words. What's wrong?"
"I...I don't know. You're right, though. Something is wrong, and I just don't know what it is."
"Is it killing Sharp?"
"No. I had to. I wanted to and didn't want to at the same time, but...I'm glad he's dead. It's not that."
"Your boss told me about what you asked him out there. About why your dad didn't love you."
"I was a bit punch drunk. I wasn't thinking straight."
"...but you were being honest. Have you ever asked that question before, Tim?"
"Yeah."
"Who did you ask?"
"My father. He beat the crap out of me." Tim smiled wanly. "...but he didn't answer."
"Anyone else?"
"No." Tim looked at Nick and tried to smile. "Do you remember that day that you gave me your sweater?"
"Of course."
"I wanted you to be my father."
Nick smiled. "I'm flattered, Tim. Really. I wouldn't have been a good father, though. Is that what's wrong? Not having a father?"
Tim shook his head. "No! It's not that!"
"Then, what is it, Tim?" Nick asked. His voice was gentle, but it was not one that would accept any more hedging. "Because I don't mind telling you that you look like you did the night your father died...beaten, scared, bereft. You don't look like you did even a day later. It's like you've lost your spark."
"He sold me," Tim whispered and he closed his eyes against the memory. "My father sold me."
"What's with the kid?"
"Didn't you say you were needing a replacement?"
"Yes, Tim. You knew that before," Nick said, softly, encouraging elaboration. Gibbs had come to the door, on his way from visiting Ziva who was to be released later that day, but he stopped and didn't go inside. He just waited.
"I wanted to love my father, like I love Mom. If there had been...even one act that had showed me he loved me, somewhere deep inside...just one...that's all. I would have loved him just for that...but he never did."
"Isn't this your kid?"
"He can be yours for the right price."
"It's okay that you didn't love him, Tim."
"Sharp...hated me so much that he waited for twenty years to try and kill me. He wanted to make me suffer for it. That's what my dad was doing to me. That's what he wanted to have happen to me. Why?"
"What's the right price?"
"As much as you're willing to pay for a healthy boy, already submissive. Yours to own."
"You know what, Tim? I'm glad I can't tell you."
Tim laughed a little but he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. "I was his son! His own flesh and blood...and all I was to him was another source of income. He didn't care...not one bit what happened."
Nick reached out and pulled Tim's hands down. "It's true. He didn't care. Everyone needs a father, Tim...physically-speaking, but you didn't have a real father...not until..."
"Until what?"
"Not until you got away from him. You found other people to take his place...even me, for whatever reason. That matters. Tim, why did this come up now? Why is affecting you now when it didn't before?"
"I don't know," Tim confessed. "All I know is that I was lying on the bank of the Potomac and I just wished that my father had loved me...even if just enough to keep me from Sharp. I didn't want to have to face him, but there was no other option."
"You want someone to blame."
Tim shrugged and wrapped his arms around himself. "I've only had one goal in my life, Nick...to help people. It's simplistic perhaps, but that's what I've wanted my whole life. That night...instead of helping, my sister got kidnaped, my mother was temporarily uprooted from her life...and I had to kill a man in order to save my own life. What if my father hadn't sold me that night? What if he had just done his usual drug deal and not decided that his son deserved to be sold into slavery?"
Nick perched on the edge of the bed. "You might be dead now, Tim."
Tim looked up.
"You might be happier. You might be more miserable. Who knows what would have happened? I certainly don't. Do you know how many times I wished that I had followed you home the day I gave you that stupid sweater? It would have been easy to do. If I had, we would have known that your father had a family. We would have known that there were others and we would have been able to take better precautions."
"It's not your fault, Nick."
"I know."
Tim gave a half-smile. "I always wanted to be like you, Nick. You saved me."
Nick leaned over and shook Tim gently. "Tim, haven't you figured out yet that you can't be like me? ...or like anyone else. You can only be like you...and I don't see anything wrong with that. Do you?"
"I guess I've been wondering if I'm me or someone made up. I couldn't answer a polygraph question asking me my name. I feel like I've been pretending."
"Have you? I mean, really. Have you been pretending to be someone you're not? I'm not talking about names. I'm talking about you. Are you...you?"
"...I don't know. Am I?" Tim shook his head. "Am I me...or am I my father...or you...or...or..."
"Tim, you can't be anyone but yourself. So...what is it that makes you who you are? Is it this?" He gestured at the hospital room. "Is it the first years of your life? Or is it this?" He pointed to Tim's chest. "I can tell you what I think, but that won't help. You have to know."
"I've always been so afraid that I would do something that would make me into him, that I would feel some emotion that would turn me into the kind of person my father was."
"I don't know how many times we can say it, Tim. You're not your father...if only because you don't want to be."
Tim nodded, but he looked away. It was his greatest fear, more than heights, boats, or maggots: that he would become a monster.
Nick smiled, remembering the last time he had seen Tim in a hospital bed...small, scrawny...young. "You are who you are, Tim. Whether your name is Timothy McGee or Tobias McGregor, you are who you are. And you know that already. Just believe it. I have to go, but I'll be around...if you'd like."
"I would. Thanks, Nick."
"My pleasure." Nick stood, grinned and ruffled Tim's hair.
Tim chuckled in response and smiled as he left, but his smile became wistful.
"McGee, where's Sarah?" Gibbs asked, scooting into the room.
"Hey, Boss. Picking up my mom. She wasn't going to wait another day. They should be here soon. I guess if you stick around, you'll get to meet her."
"I'd like that."
"Why did you call Nick, Boss?"
"Because he understands you. He already knows your history...and he knows you, more than anyone at NCIS does."
Tim flushed. "It had to be that way, Boss. No one was supposed to know. Not ever."
"I know, McGee. I know how Witness Protection works."
"I hated lying."
"I can tell."
"Ziva's okay?"
"Even more than the last ten times you asked," Gibbs answered.
Tim smiled. "Good."
"What do you want now, McGee?"
"What?"
"What do you want?"
The question was so unexpected coming from Gibbs, that Tim couldn't answer.
"You need to know it. When you figure it out, let me know." Then, he left before Tim could say anything at all.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"Mom, you're hurting me," Tim whispered as Joan hugged him tightly.
"I'm sorry, Tim." She pulled back and wiped away the tears that had come to her eyes. "I'm just so glad that you're okay."
"Sharp's dead, Mom."
"I know. The Marshals told me. Tim...if you ever..." She couldn't finish.
"Mom, it was what I had to do."
"No, Tim. You didn't have to," Sarah said. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did, Sarah. I couldn't let it go on. There was only one way for that to end...and now it's over."
"Is it, Tim? Is it really?" Joan asked.
"Yes. It's over," he said firmly.
Joan hugged him again and pulled Sarah in as well, holding her family close. She had come so close to losing them.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"He's a waste. A waste of time, money, space...just like you. Your son is worthless!"
Tim sat alone in the darkness.
"You can't do nothing. Worthless."
Only his memories for company.
"You think? You think? You're too stupid to live, let alone think."
His father was always in his thoughts, even when he had buried him deep. He was always there.
"You don't deserve any better."
His apartment seemed strange to him...foreign.
"You want to know why? You questioning me?"
In moments, it was empty. It wasn't where he needed to be.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Tim pounded on the front door. It was late, but for once, he wasn't worried about that. The lights were off. Then, the door creaked open.
"McGee, what are you doing here?" Gibbs asked. He didn't look sleepy. He looked surprised.
"I need to...talk, Boss."
Gibbs shrugged and stood aside. "Do mind if I work while you talk?"
"No."
"Then, come on down."
Tim followed Gibbs down to the basement. Gibbs picked up his sander and smoothed down a plank.
"My father hated everything about me. In a way, it was a good thing because I couldn't see anything good about him either. He would..." Tim talked, opening up about his past in a way he'd never been able to before. The words themselves weren't particularly important, but Gibbs listened. He listened because he knew Tim needed someone to listen...and he wanted to understand his agent. Tim talked long into the night...probably more than he'd ever spoken at one time in his entire life. When he finished, he stopped, stood up and began to leave. Gibbs just kept working. When Tim reached the top of the stairs he turned back.
"Thanks, Boss."
"Anytime, McGee."
Then, Tim left.