Chapter 45

Ducky checked on Tim at about ten. Gibbs had told him about finding Tim on the Yard early in the morning. That he was sleeping was a good thing. He did wonder what the results of Tim's late-night trek would be. However, he wasn't about to rush Tim into sharing, particularly not when that rushing would involve waking him up.

Smiling at Tim's sleeping form, he quietly closed the door and went to the kitchen. He wanted to make sure there was a full meal waiting for Tim when he did wake up. He was curious to see if that intense desire to eat was still present. If so, he would ask about it. If not, then, he wouldn't say a word.

After about half an hour, he heard some stirrings from the spare room and got started cooking. It was late for breakfast, but there was nothing wrong with that.

He heard Tim stumble into the bathroom and smiled. That was a nice, normal reaction.

Then, a few minutes later, Tim came into the kitchen. He still seemed a little logy, but he mustered up a brief smile.

"Sorry I slept so late," he said.

"I hear that you needed it."

"Gibbs called you?"

"Yes. Have a seat, lad. I'm sure you're hungry."

Tim sat at the table and then, he smiled again.

"You didn't have to do all this work for me."

"Oh, it's no trouble. It's a rare occasion that I'm able to cook for others. I enjoy the opportunity."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Ducky made Tim an omelet and got out some orange juice as well. Tim dug in with gusto. At first, it was like Ducky had seen before. Tim was eating without paying attention to anything or anyone else, but then, about halfway through, he looked at Ducky and smiled sheepishly.

"This is almost as good as what Marilyn Hoopes makes for breakfast."

Ducky smiled at the compliment, but he was relieved that Tim could stop eating and speak. And he wanted to encourage that pleasant expression. Tim had had far too few reasons to smile of late.

"Only almost?"

"You should taste her hashbrowns. The stuff you buy in the store is...cardboard by comparison."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it."

Tim nodded. The smile faded a bit.

"When I was with them the first time, the taste didn't even matter. I just wanted to eat as much as I could. I was afraid it would disappear. I was afraid that I'd be punished for eating. When I was with them this last time, I started to notice how it tasted." He smiled a little. "And Marilyn cooks really well. So it tasted good. I'm still not very picky, though. I'll eat just about anything I'm given. I just think about how it tastes while I'm eating it."

"That's an improvement."

"I guess so."

"No, it really is. I was worried about it before, not that you seem to have put on much weight at all."

"I have. The last time I got a check-up, even the doctor said that I was looking much better."

"Oh, you are. Don't get me wrong. But one who hadn't seen you before might still think you needed to eat more."

"I eat plenty. I really do. I don't ever skip a meal. I just have a high metabolism...or something."

Ducky chuckled. "Well, if you have no problems with it, I won't bother you."

Tim started to eat again, but then, he paused and looked a little worried.

"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I? I mean, I know you should be working."

"Don't worry, Timothy. I am where I am most needed. Besides, it's Sunday and I'm not required to be at NCIS."

"Okay."

Tim finished eating, leaving not a scrap on the plate. He drank all the juice. Ducky thought that there might still be a bit of that compulsion, but at the same time, he was slowly moving away from it. Perhaps it was just a part of the healing process and the less attention brought to it, the better it would be.

"Well, Timothy, while I won't be home every day, today, I am at your disposal. Is there anywhere you'd like to go?"

Tim sat on the chair. It was a simple question, but he was giving it deep consideration. Then, he took a breath and looked at Ducky.

"I need to sho–... take a bath."

"Of course. There is a tub in the bathroom upstairs."

"Thanks."

Another deep breath and Tim left the kitchen. All was not well, but it was improving. From what he knew of Tim's experiences, his desire to avoid a shower was understandable. Besides, a bath might be more relaxing anyway.

Ducky cleaned up, wondering what Tim would decide. He was sure that Tim would have something in mind.

He didn't have long to wait. Tim didn't linger in the bathroom. He was downstairs in less than half an hour. For the first time, Ducky paid attention to what he was wearing and he had to suppress a bit of a smile. He wouldn't be out of place on a farm, but compared to his usual style, this was downright cowboy...minus the boots and belt buckle.

Perhaps some of Ducky's amusement showed on his face because Tim looked at what he was wearing and then back up.

"Not really DC style, is it," he said.

"No, not really."

"They bought these for me. I tried to pay them back, but they wouldn't let me. Stephen said that I'd paid in blisters and saddle sores."

"Sounds like not quite an equal trade."

"I agree, but I didn't make them pay me."

A joke. A real joke. Ducky chuckled.

"What you're wearing is fine."

"Good. Could you take me to my apartment? I'm assuming it's still mine."

Ducky was surprised. Tim's last visit to his apartment had been uniformly negative.

"It is. Of course, I can do that."

There was a small smile.

"You're surprised."

"Given how much it seemed to discourage you before, yes, I am."

Tim took a breath.

"It's part of my life. If I come back here, I can't ignore that. It won't go away."

"True. Perhaps, without all that was hanging over you before, you can find more of what you're looking for."

"Maybe. Can we go before I chicken out?"

"Yes. Let's go, now."

"Thanks."

They went to Tim's apartment and stepped inside. This time, Tim seemed to have a purpose. He walked directly to his bookshelf, pulled Deep Six off the shelf and then sat at his typewriter. He opened the book and began to read. Ducky wanted to know what Tim was hoping to get out of it. Surely, he wasn't going to get his impressions of his coworkers from a fictionalized and dramatized version of them.

Still, he didn't feel it was his place to speak and interrupt Tim's ruminations, wherever they were leading him. He seemed much calmer, if no less intent.

After about half an hour, Tim suddenly opened one of the drawers of his desk. He pulled out a stack of pages.

Enough to be Rock Hollow? Ducky had never known what Tim had decided to do with that book after all of the mess that had come from it. He did know that Tim had never published it. Quietly, he had kept an eye out, but Thom Gemcity had not published any other books. There had been a few short stories in anthologies but nothing full-length, which was rather sad, even if the characters in Deep Six had been rather surprising.

If he was right about what that was, it would seem that Tim had still finished the story. Tim was reading those pages, whatever they were.

Another hour later, Tim replaced the stack and then opened another drawer and pulled out a much smaller stack.

These, he read completely.

Then, he got up, still without speaking, and went into his bedroom. Ducky followed, trying to be unobtrusive. He walked over to his closet and opened it. The clothes inside weren't dusty because they'd taken care of Tim's place while he was missing...and had continued to do so once he had returned to Montana.

Then, he sat on his bed, staring at his clothes.

Now, Ducky approached him.

"Well, Timothy?" he asked.

Tim jumped a little and looked at him.

"It's not about remembering things, events, moments," Tim said softly. "It's about knowing, whether the memory is there or not. It's about the feeling. Is it there or am I just watching a movie? I've been to three different shrinks and they all keep telling me that I can let the memories in without being overwhelmed...but do I really need to remember it all? If I know, isn't that enough?"

Ducky sat down beside Tim.

"I don't know, Timothy. You tell me. I wouldn't think that would be enough for you. You've never been satisfied with half a story, half a truth, half a life. You've always wanted more."

"Not until I'm satisfied," Tim whispered, almost inaudibly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Is it enough that you know something is right without knowing why? Could you really trust us without remembering why it is you know that you can?"

Tim laughed humorlessly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

"I'm holding back the tide, Ducky. Little bits of it get through, sometimes, I'll even let a little stream come, but I'm holding it back. When the tide comes in, all at once, it knocks you down and drags you out to sea with it. You drown."

"Not always."

"When doesn't it?"

Ducky chanced putting a comforting hand on Tim's shoulder.

"When you don't try to stand against the tide all alone. The more people who help you, the better you can withstand the waves, and you won't be carried out to sea with others holding on to you."

Tim sniffed a couple of times and stared at the floor.

"And, Timothy, there are always people here to help you stand."

"I just...don't know how to let go," Tim said, his voice cracking a little. "Every time I think I can...I can't."

"You've done things right, so far. First, you sought refuge while you recovered from an overload. Then, you went back to one part of your life. Now, you're coming to another. The memories will come as you immerse yourself in your life. If you control the immersion, you don't drown because you can come to the surface and breathe whenever you need to. And, again, you always have people to help you."

After a few minutes, Tim sat up.

"Ducky...I need to be alone in here for a while."

"May I ask why?"

"I can't explain it. Not in words. I just need to be alone. Would you let me?"

"Of course. How long would you like me to stay away?"

"An hour? Maybe two?"

"I can do that. If you need me earlier, you have your phone?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Then, you can call me."

"Thanks."

Ducky left, wondering what new thought had entered Tim's mind. He didn't know, but if Tim didn't feel he could explain it, little would be gained by trying to force him to put it into words.

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

After the door closed, Tim stood up and walked back to his typewriter. Whatever else was in this space, his typewriter meant something to him. Actually, the computer did, too. There was a little tug toward the computer parts that were stuffed into crates. ...but for now, the typewriter was what he needed.

He sat down, checked the ribbon, replaced it (knowing exactly what to do), rolled in a piece of paper and started to type.

I am Tim McGee.

I am Tim McGee.

Then, he hesitated. The memories were all there, crowding around, waiting to be remembered, waiting to be put back in their places in his mind. It was just so hard. He knew that Ducky had meant it when he said that Tim didn't need to do it alone, but in a very real sense, he did. No one could open his mind for him, and he didn't feel comfortable enough to make this effort in company. He didn't think he would have even if he remembered all these people. He had the feeling that he would have wanted the struggle alone. Help afterwards, yes, but not during.

He reached out again.

I am Tim McGee. My parents are Sam and Naomi McGee. I have a sister. Her name is Sarah.

As Dr. Taylor had suggested, the memories of his more distant past were easier. Tim had got to the point that, while he wasn't actively remembering things about his family, he knew that the memories were there and he could accept them when they came which they had the more he was with them. He didn't feel that same degree of stress and fear. ...but then, being the son of an English lit professor didn't lead to the same kinds of...

He took a breath.

I grew up. I loved computers. They made sense to me, but they were never all I wanted. I wanted more.

Not ready to address that more, Tim sat back again. This typewriter was so important to him. He knew it, but at the same time, it did surprise him just a little.

I'm an author. I started writing a long time ago. At this point, I've written two full stories, a few short stories, and numerous partial stories. One has been published. I am a successful author. I could have kept going. Maybe I should have, but I didn't.

He sat back again and thought about the topic of Deep Six. When he had flipped through it, he had realized how inaccurate the portrayals were, but he also knew that it had been intentional. He hadn't wanted to create the real people in his book. It was fiction, not fact. Still, he could almost remember the feeling when he had decided to exaggerate some of the features of his characters. Tony had become little more than a flirt who occasionally worked. It was a kind of written teasing, although none of them had taken it that way.

Again, he backed away from the memories of NCIS.

Another breath.

This is what I always wanted. This was the life I wanted. This was the place I wanted to be. This apartment is small. It was all I could afford when I first moved here, but it's really all the space I need. It's full of the things I loved, books I read once and never read again but couldn't bear to get rid of.

Tim smiled a little at that. More than half the books on the shelves were books he'd either never read or else had only read once and never again.

This is part of my life. No matter how much I want to, I can't take it out. I can't ignore it. It won't go away. Reality is reality. In spite of what quantum mechanics says, ignoring that part of my life won't make it not have happened.

Again, he stopped typing.

He got up and walked into the bedroom. He looked around.

Then, he walked back into the main room and over to the section filled with computer parts. He picked pieces up and thought about them.

"The motherboard. The CPU fan. Network card."

They all were there in his mind. He picked up a motherboard.

"Hard drive slots, ROM, power connector, DRAM memory slots, AGP slot."

Facts. Plain, old facts. There was nothing to them. They just were.

He sighed. Enough of the easy stuff. Back to the typewriter.

He sat down again.

I'm afraid of remembering everything of my life, but I also think that there's something that could lead me into everything else. Some memory that would affect almost everything else. Maybe not just one, but if I got one and got sucked into remembering, that would lead to others. I can't just remember one thing. Life isn't a series of discrete events. Everything is connected.

Another pull back.

Remembering wasn't just remembering. It was flirting with drowning, not knowing if he'd remember how to swim when the time came.

He was barely speaking aloud. It was silent in the room.

Then, he reached out and tentatively began to type, knowing that what he allowed to come out could never be taken back whether he could deal with it or not.

Kate died.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

For a moment, that was all he could think of, and he thought that, maybe, he was wrong about the memory being important.

Then, the floodgates opened and Tim let out all the air in his lungs in a whoosh.