Chapter 30
It would be incorrect to say that things were suddenly perfect once Tim was willing to admit that he had some value, but at the same time, there was something that genuinely changed. Everyone noticed it. Tim was still not in a great state of mind, but at the same time, he was not as far down. He'd taken a definite step forward. The important thing now was to keep him from stepping back. Even with that worry, it was such a relief to see the shadow in Tim's eyes not quite as dark as it had been.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Gibbs took a breath. He had spoken to the McGees and they had agreed that it might be time to try. So he was going to go and see Tim and find out just how much progress he had really made. It was now two weeks that he'd been here, and while the McGees were still staying in the hotel they'd been in before, Gibbs had moved to Tim's small house. He had asked Tim if he minded and he had said he didn't...whether he meant it or not. The problem was that, while Gibbs was determined to stay here until Tim was ready to leave, he wasn't sure he was ready to pay all that money to do so. Staying in a house that was currently unused was a way of managing costs...and it gave him the solitude he was accustomed to.
It was also a way for him to try and better understand Tim and what he'd been going through. Gibbs found himself frequently sitting at Tim's typewriter and staring at it, wondering how something so simple could have been turned into something so terrible. He wasn't even thinking of Abby in that, either. He was thinking about how Tim had used it, how Tim had thought of it. A weapon, one that he had turned on himself over and over again.
He had to admit that he'd always found it strange that Tim used a typewriter at all. With all his high-tech toys and his computer skills, Gibbs didn't understand why Tim used a typewriter of all things. And a manual one at that. No electricity. Typewriter ribbons, ink, paper. They just didn't seem to fit with Tim's general persona.
Which was part of Gibbs' problem. This typewriter was obviously extremely important to Tim and yet Gibbs didn't think it was something that fit with his conception of who Tim was. Which meant that Gibbs didn't really understand who Tim was. He was really trying, but he wasn't sure he fully did.
He sighed and turned to face the typewriter. He hesitated and then he picked up a piece of paper and rolled it in. He sat there and then he started typing. He remembered learning to type on a typewriter, not one this old, but it wasn't an appreciable difference. He just typed for a few minutes, thinking that Tim had written an entire book using it and had typed thousands of pages over the last year. As he pushed on the keys, typing mostly random words, Gibbs could sense the kind of rhythm that would create the relaxation Tim probably had enjoyed while typing. Planing was like that for him. A rhythmic task that allowed him to relax, to think, to unwind. He remembered Tim talking about free-writing. It wasn't about producing something publishable all the time. Sometimes, it was just about the act of writing.
And he had lost that. Typing had become a punishment instead of way of relaxing. He had used it to destroy himself, removing a source of enjoyment and something that had given him a feeling of success. The worst of it was that Tim hadn't replaced the typewriter with anything else. Tim's life was empty right now. And it shouldn't be. That was wrong.
Gibbs started at the typewriter for a long moment and then he made a decision. He pulled out the sheet he'd rolled in and then grabbed a ream of paper and the typewriter and hauled them both out to Tim's car. Now that things had dried out, he could drive up to the house, even in the junker Tim had purchased, and he had purchased it. Gibbs had found the title. After sitting out all winter, it had needed some work to get it running again, but Gibbs had done that as well. And now, it would drive the 20 miles to where Tim was staying. It might not drive much more than that, and it was really noisy, but it would go that far.
He drove to Mark's house and the door opened before he'd got out of the car. To his surprise, Tim was standing there with a bit of a smile on his face.
"I know you're trying to save some money, but the rental would be more reliable than that piece of junk," he said. "And quieter."
Gibbs smiled. "It does what I need it to do. Surprised it made it all the way up here."
"Actually, so was I," Tim said. "It was quieter before sitting out all winter."
"Do you mind that I'm driving it?"
"No." Tim's expression became solemn. "I'm not... really doing anything right now."
"Can we talk about that?"
"Yeah," Tim said, although he seemed reluctant. He stepped back to let Gibbs walk into the house.
"Where's your bodyguard?" Gibbs asked.
Tim proved that he was genuinely better than he had been by smiling at the word choice.
"At his store. He can't always be watching me." Then, Tim smiled a little again. "I think he's decided you're not suspicious."
"You sure of that?"
"You'd know it if he didn't want you here," Tim said. "He's not afraid of using his muscle, and I could hear the car from a mile away."
Gibbs smiled and followed Tim to the living room. They both sat down.
"What is it?" Tim asked.
"How long are you going to stay here?" Gibbs asked, bluntly.
"At Mark's place or in Maine?" Tim asked. "...but the answer is the same either way. I don't know."
"Do you want to stay here?" Gibbs asked.
Tim looked away. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do," Gibbs said.
"If you know all the answers, then, why don't you tell me?" Tim said, sounding bitter.
"I don't, but you know what you want, Tim. You might be afraid of saying it to me, but you know."
Tim stood up and started to walk away.
"You're not my boss anymore. You haven't been for a year. I don't have to talk to you at all."
"I know," Gibbs said, regretfully.
Tim stopped. He turned around with an inscrutable expression on his face.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Gibbs felt his brow furrow for a moment and then he raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
"You know?" Tim asked.
"Yeah, I do."
"You're not trying to pretend like you can change things just by saying it?"
"No. I'm not your boss. I haven't been for a year. You don't have to talk to me," Gibbs said. "And I'm sorry."
"Why would you be?"
"Because, Tim, I let my team fall apart. I was too selfish to worry about anyone else, and that includes you. Now, I'm trying to put it back together."
"I don't work there anymore."
"I told you already that doesn't matter. The desk is yours. If you want it." Gibbs paused. "Do you?"
He could see that Tim didn't want to say what he wanted. ...which told him what Tim wanted, but he didn't think that he should push that at the moment.
"Do you really want me back there?" Tim asked. "Even without... Abby..." He stopped and looked down. "Even then... I screwed up. Over and over, and people died because of it. You all hated my book. And I can't handle this stuff. I..." He shook his head and turned away. "I'm not good enough."
"Yes, you are. You just didn't get what you needed. I should have done something after Benedict. I should have done something after your sister got involved in a case. I should have done something after your friend was killed, but I didn't," Gibbs said.
"If you should have, why didn't you?" Tim asked.
"Because I'm not always good at doing the right thing," Gibbs said. "It's easier to assume everyone can cope. It wasn't just you. It was Tony. It was Kate. Pretty much everyone."
"Not Abby."
"No. Not Abby. Never Abby," Gibbs admitted.
"Why?"
Gibbs managed to smile ruefully. "I don't know. She demanded it and I did it. She was... special."
"Then, why can you forgive me?"
"Because, I can see that really you're not to blame anyway, and I know how you feel. Tim, Abby was special to you, too. That's why, even when you broke up, you still were close friends."
Tim was still standing there, poised for flight with the slightest provocation, and Gibbs really wanted him to relax and not be afraid of what might come next. He just wanted Tim to understand that Gibbs really did want him to come back.
Maybe you should try actually saying that.
The thought made him realize that he hadn't said it. He just wasn't usually that kind of guy and it was easier to address the practical stuff rather than the emotional stuff. ...except with Abby.
But if he was really changing and if he was really going to convince Tim he was sincere, he actually had to be sincere. He took a breath.
"Tim, I want you to come back. I want you to be on my team. I wanted you on my team before. I still do."
"Why?" Tim asked. "I can't see why you would."
"You're a good agent. You're a good person. I couldn't get anyone better."
Tim let out a soft laugh.
"Oh, come on. I know that's not true."
"Maybe I could find someone with the same skills, but I couldn't find a better person," Gibbs said. He could see Tim ready to dismiss it. "Tim, you know what I'm like. I don't like talking like this. It's true, and I should have said it before."
Then, he decided that it was time.
"Wait a minute," he said.
Tim's brow furrowed.
"For what?"
"Just a minute."
Gibbs hurried out to the car, grabbed the typewriter and the paper and brought it back inside. He saw Tim's eyes widen as he realized what Gibbs was bringing him. And he looked a little conflicted, which Gibbs could understand. He took a breath, ready to try to give a speech even though he didn't like doing that.
"You've been using this as a punishment. It shouldn't be. You need to put good things back into your life, Tim. I know how it feels to refuse to see the good things. You feel like it's wrong to enjoy something, to enjoy life when someone else can't have a life at all. You feel like you have to punish yourself or at least hold yourself back because you have something that the person you care about doesn't have. That's not how it is. That's not how it should be. I spent weeks in my basement, not working on my boat, not doing anything with my wood. I just sat down there and drank. That's it. I felt like I couldn't do anything or feel anything good after Abby died. But I was wrong. I needed people to pull me out, but I got out. I went back to my wood. My basement is where I go to think and relax again. That's what you need to do, Tim. You can't just live your life doing nothing. You don't deserve that. You don't deserve an empty life. You deserve more. You deserve better." He set the typewriter down on a table. "You deserve to use this the way you used it before, not as a weapon. Let it happen, Tim. It will. If you let it."
Tim was staring at the typewriter for a long time without speaking. So Gibbs decided to say one more thing.
"And come back. We all want you to. No one blames you. I don't. Ziva never did. Tony never did. Ducky never did."
"But you did," Tim whispered, still staring at the typewriter.
"Yeah. And I was wrong. I haven't for months. Tim, you are not to blame for Abby being killed. You are not to blame for the other two men who were killed. You are not to blame for Landon Grey losing his mind. And if there's any blame you do deserve, I forgive you for it. Tim, there's no reason to keep hiding here. There's no reason to keep punishing yourself. You need to start reclaiming your life... and it can start with your typewriter. You can start using it again. In the right way, the way that lets you relax and think."
Tim was still staring at the typewriter. At first, Gibbs wasn't sure what Tim's expression was, but then, he realized.
Longing.
Tim wanted what Gibbs was suggesting. He just didn't dare take it. So Gibbs picked up the typewriter again and moved it to the kitchen table. Then, he picked up the ream of paper and moved it over. Tim's eyes were following him, but he wasn't saying a word. Gibbs rolled in a piece of paper and then turned to Tim and gestured.
"Come on, Tim. Write."
For a long time, Tim didn't move. He was looking at the typewriter, but he wasn't moving. Gibbs wanted to push him, but he also didn't want to push too hard. He'd done what he could, and he wouldn't force Tim to do this, even if he was sure it was the best option. Instead, he waited, knowing that Tim wanted this, but also knowing that Tim had felt forced already and that he wasn't in the right state of mind for it.
"I don't know what to write anymore," Tim said softly.
"It doesn't matter what you write," Gibbs said.
"It always matters," Tim said. "Even when it doesn't matter, it still matters. If you don't have any words, you can't write them down."
"Write what you want, then," Gibbs said. "What is it that you really want?"
"Abby not being dead," Tim said.
"What is it that you really want that you can have?"
Tim didn't answer, and Gibbs figured he knew why. Tim was afraid of voicing an actual desire.
"Come and write it down, Tim. You don't have to say it out loud. Just write it."
Finally, hesitantly, Tim walked over to the table. He sat down in front of the typewriter.
And he didn't move.
Gibbs waited for a few minutes and then took a risk. He reached out and squeezed Tim's shoulder.
"You can do this, Tim. It's a good thing. Just write what you want."
Tim took a deep breath and put his hands on the keys.
For a moment, he was frozen in that position, but then, with Gibbs' hand on his shoulder, Tim started typing.
Gibbs said nothing while Tim typed, but first, he was just relieved that Tim wasn't typing what he'd been typing for the last year.
Then, when he realized what Tim was typing, he squeezed Tim's shoulder a little tighter.
I want to go home. I want to live.
Gibbs hesitated. Should he say something? Would it be right to comment on what Tim had written?
"You can do that, Tim. Everyone will help you. Even me."