Chapter 5

So are you gonna stand there
Are you gonna help me out
You need to be together now - I need you now
Do you think you can cope
You figured me out - I'm lost and I'm hopeless
Bleeding and broken - though I've never spoken
I come undone - in this mad season

"Mad Season", matchbox twenty

"Tim? Come on back," the nurse said as she poked her head into the waiting room. He swallowed and followed her.

"Here you go, can I get you a glass of water?" she asked, indicating a room for him to sit in.

"Sure," he said, nodding.

"Ok, I'll be right back," she said. He nodded as he sat down. "Here you go," she said, handing him a glass of ice water. "Dr. McCall will be right in, ok?"

"Thanks," he said. He fiddled with the glass for a moment before placing it very carefully on a coaster on the end table.

"Hi, there," Dr. McCall said, knocking on the door as he opened it.

"Hey," Tim said, glancing up.

"How're you doing?" The doctor sat a file folder down on the arm of the other chair and sat down.

"Um, ok, I guess," Tim said, nervously.

"Ok, you guess? You don't sound so sure of that," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"Um, well…" Tim trailed off and glanced at his shoes. "How do I, I mean, I want…oh, hell, how do I do the counseling thing?" he asked in a rush.

"Your post-traumatic?"

"Yeah," he said, still not quite looking up.

"Wow. Well, this isn't the conversation I thought I was going to be having today. What brought this on?"

"Andy…" he whined.

"No, really, I'm curious now," Andy replied. "Why now?"

"Do I have to have a reason?" Tim asked.

"Yup."

He sighed. "Ok, it's like this. Calleigh needs some help, because she's really…I don't know, sad, about Eric and probably Hagen, and I told her if she went and got some help, I'd go on and do the post-traumatic."

Andy laughed. "Ok, that's a new one. You're going to get counseling because you want someone else to get counseling?"

"Well…yeah," he said, glancing up. "It's not that funny."

"It is, a little. I think I'm safe in saying that only you would come up with reasoning like that," Andy said, still amused.

"Ok, I don't think you're allowed to laugh at me. Isn't that in the rules somewhere," Tim said grumpily.

"Oh, probably. It's relief, more than anything, Tim. I was getting tired of not pushing you."

"Yeah, well, ok, now what?" he asked.

Andy shrugged. "You tell me."

"I hate it when you do that," he sighed.

"I know. Ok, here. Why have you been so resistant to the whole thing?" Andy asked.

"What do you mean?" Tim said, defensively.

"Well, from all reports," Andy said, tapping the file folder, "this isn't your first time doing this."

"So?" Tim said.

"So, what happened the other times?" Andy asked.

Tim shrugged. "Dunno."

"Yeah, you do. You were in counseling for awhile in high school, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He shrugged again. "Something about being the youngest kid in the school or something, I don't remember."

"Did you dislike it?" Andy asked.

"Does anyone like this?" he asked. "No."

"Fair enough, no, I don't think people really like this sort of thing. But most people find it helps them feel better," Andy said. "Why did you dislike it?"

"I don't really remember," he said.

"Try harder," Andy said, raising an eyebrow.

He squirmed. "She twisted my words. She didn't understand," he admitted, finally.

"What didn't she understand?"

He sighed. "My family is a bit…not normal. She didn't get it. And she kept saying bad things about Marianne, my mother."

"Your counselor said bad things about your mom?"

"My mother, not my mom," he corrected automatically. "Marianne and my dad got divorced when I was a baby. She didn't raise me."

"Ah," Andy said. "And this counselor didn't understand that?"

"No, she didn't. And before you say anything, it's fine, ok?"

"Sure," Andy said, agreeably. Tim frowned at him. "No, really, Tim. I believe you. If you say you're fine about your mother, then you are. It's when you try to tell me you're fine about handguns that I'm not going to believe you."

He sighed. "You have the dispo day reports."

"I do," Andy said. "From the sounds of things, you're pretty talented when you want to dance around something."

He shrugged and shrank back into his chair. "I was fine."

"You weren't, but you put on a good show anyway. I'm not going to let you do that, you know," Andy said.

"Mmm," he said.

"Tim, what are you afraid of, here?" he asked.

"I'm not afraid of anything," he protested.

"Yes, you are. If you weren't afraid, we wouldn't have been dancing around this issue for the past two and a half months. Spill it, what are you afraid I'm going to say or do to you?" Andy said. He shrugged again, mute. "Are you afraid I'm not going to let you go back to work?"

He shrugged. He was, a little bit, but he wasn't even sure he wanted to go back to work, so it didn't matter.

Andy's eyes narrowed. "Are you afraid I'm going to think you're crazy?"

That was closer to the truth. He bit his lip, but didn't reply.

Andy leaned forward. "Tim, are you afraid I'm going to lock you up? Admit you to the hospital?" He started to suck on his bottom lip and looked away. "Ah," Andy said, leaning back. "There we go." He shook his head, half defiant. "Why do you think I'll lock you up? Do you think you need to be locked up?"

"No," he said.

"Well, then, why do you think I'm going to do that?" Andy asked, reasonably.

He shook his head again, this time more frantically. "I don't…they locked her up." He cursed his tongue and the way words seemed to spill out of his mouth so much more often now.

"Who did they lock up?" Andy asked.

"Marianne," he said, not looking up.

"How old were you?" Andy asked.

"About two months," he said, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt sleeve.

"Post-partum depression?" Andy asked.

"Psychosis, I think," he said, nodding. "She said she was going to kill us, I guess. I don't know the whole story, I don't think."

Andy nodded. "But you know the important part."

He glanced up. "How's that?"

"The doctors- I'm assuming there were doctors involved?" Andy asked.

"Yeah, she went to the ER," Tim nodded.

"Ok, then. The doctors would have admitted her to what sounds like a closed psychiatric ward because she threatened to hurt herself and you. That's one of the reasons why we admit people to psychiatric wards," Andy explained. "We admit them when we think they're going to cause themselves physical harm or cause harm to others. You don't have any plans to hurt yourself right now, do you?"

"No," Tim said.

"You're not planning to hurt someone else, are you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, then you're safe so far. I think we can rule out the next criteria, too, which is having a severe mental illness that would be best treated in a hospital situation. I don't think you're hearing voices or hallucinating, or anything, are you?" Andy asked.

Tim froze. "I…well, define voices."

Andy raised his eyebrows. "Things like hearing someone telling you that, oh, the color orange is evil. Or that someone is trying to hurt you. Irrational things like that."

"Not like that, no," he said, hesitantly.

"Ok, for my own clarification, what kind of voices did you think I was talking about?" Andy asked. Tim fidgeted with his shirt for a full minute without speaking. "Tim?"

"There's…the inside of my head kinda…talks to me, sometimes. When I was sick. Or kind of upset," he admitted, finally.

"Ah. What does it say?"

He shrugged. "Told me it was ok. It would be better. And that I should tell someone what was going on."

"I see. I think that's just how your brain is processing all this," Andy said. "It's not too unusual. I know people who talk to themselves all the time."

"Oh," he said, feeling a bit relieved. The voice had said he wasn't schizophrenic, but he hadn't quite trusted it….

"Ok, so we can rule out severe mental illness. And you're functioning pretty well, all things considered, so we can rule that one out. So I think you're safe here, Tim. I don't see any reason for me to lock you up and throw away the key," Andy said.

"Oh," he said, in a small voice. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"You're depressed, you've probably got more than a bit of a post-traumatic stress disorder, and some anxiety issues, but you're not "crazy", no," Andy said. "I'd venture a guess that this all extends past what happened in September, but that what happened was just the last straw for your brain."

"Oh," Tim said, again. "Yeah, ok."

"Am I right?" Andy asked.

He sighed, but nodded. "Probably."

"You want to begin at the beginning, or from the end?" Andy asked, settling back in his chair. "Or the middle, even. Pick a spot. Tell me what the deal is, here."

He sighed again. "It's like this…" He closed his eyes and launched into the whole story all over again.

About an hour later, he was standing in the parking lot with shaking hands, staring at his car. He wasn't allowed to ride his bike for another month, at least, so he was confined to the car. The car he'd had forever. He tried to make himself open the door, but failed for the third time. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. But the catch in his chest told him that trying again would really make the panic attack he was mostly suppressing break through.

He walked away, back towards the medical building where there was a bench under a tree. He sat down and took several deep breaths, trying to quell the shaking of his hands. It worked well enough to let him fumble his cell phone out of his pocket. He didn't want to call Calleigh; she was having a bad enough time this week. He dialed Alexx, but got the voice mail. The next person on the list was Horatio.

"Caine," came the answer.

"H?" he asked, half breathlessly.

"Speed? What's up? Are you ok?" Horatio's concern was immediate and genuine.

"This is stupid, but I kinda…I sort of need a ride," he admitted.

"Ok, where are you?" Horatio asked.

"Biscayne Medical Center," he said.

"All right. Sit tight, I'll be there in about fifteen, ok?" Horatio asked. "You're ok?"

"Yeah, I'm…well, ok enough, anyway," he said.

"Hang in there, buddy. I'll be there soon," Horatio said, hanging up.

Horatio's word was as good as always. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in front of Tim with a concerned look on his face. "You all right?" Tim sighed and nodded. "What happened?"

He sighed again. "It's stupid."

"It's probably not," Horatio said, sitting down next to him.

"I couldn't get in the car," he admitted.

"Ah." Horatio thought that over for a moment. "Come on," he said, standing up and nudging Tim's shoulder. "Let's go take a walk."

Tim pushed himself off of the bench and followed Horatio down to the running path that led down to a strip of beach. They walked in silence for awhile until they came to another bench over looking the beach. "Ok, now that we're not staring the car in the face, what was it that made you not want to get into it?" Horatio asked.

"I…I told Andy, Dr. McCall, that I wanted to do the post-traumatic. And then I wound up telling him about Jason, and then I couldn't get into the car," he said, finally.

"Ah," Horatio said. "Speed, is that the same car you took off in?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Ah," Horatio said, again, in a tone of complete understanding. "I see."

"Yeah," he shrugged.

"You're doing the post-traumatic?" Horatio asked.

"Yeah. He said he was going to see if he could get permission from the department to do it. Or he'll refer me to someone," he explained.

"Have you made up your mind yet? About coming back to work?" Horatio asked, looking at him sidelong.

He sighed. "I don't know. It's…it's the next step, either way. And…" he hesitated, not sure how much he should say. But he thought he could trust Horatio not to say anything to anyone else, and really, he ought to know if Calleigh was having trouble. Not only was he their boss, he was Calleigh's friend, too. "You can't say anything, ok?"

"Ok," Horatio said, agreeably.

"Calleigh's not doing so well, you know, with everything," he admitted.

"I know. I've noticed," Horatio said.

"Ok, good. Well, we made a deal, that if I did the counseling, she'd go talk to someone," he said.

"I see," Horatio said.

"I don't…she wanted me to get help. And I did, I am," he said. "But she could use some too."

"No, I agree," Horatio said.

"Ok," Tim said. "But I don't know if…I'm still scared."

"I know," Horatio said. "What do you really want?" he asked, after a moment.

"I don't understand," Tim said.

"Why did you become a CSI in the first place?" Horatio asked.

"Megan gave me a job," he replied.

"Did you want to be a CSI?" Horatio asked.

He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it. I needed to do something. It was kind of by default."

"Ok, answer me this. If you hadn't been a CSI, if you never came to Miami, what would you have done?" Horatio asked.

Tim's eyes widened. He had no idea. "I…don't know."

"If the accident hadn't happened, what would you have done?" Horatio asked.

He shook his head, violently. "Don't ask that."

Horatio held up his hands. "All right. I'm sorry."

"No," he said, "It's ok…I just…I don't want to talk about that. It didn't happen that way, it happened the way it did."

Horatio nodded. "I shouldn't have asked that, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It's fine. But I don't really have an answer for that."

"It's ok if you don't know what you want. You don't have to make a decision now," Horatio reminded him.

"No, I do. I need…I can't keep doing this," he said. "I need to know what's going to happen next." The bubble of panic was back and he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Ok, ok," Horatio said, soothingly. "Then we'll figure it out."

"Ok," he said, quietly.

"I think," Horatio said, finally, "that you're concentrating on the details too much. You're too close in, you've got to back up for the big picture. I think there's really only two choices here: come back, or don't. Forget about what happens when you get back."

"That makes sense," Tim said, nodding.

"All right, then. Megan gave you a job, but you liked it, didn't you?" It was a statement, more than a question, but he nodded in agreement.

"Yeah. I did."

"Can you think of anything else that you love as much?" Horatio asked.

He sat back and sighed. "I'm not really good for much else."

"I don't think that's at all true, I think you could be great at whatever you wanted to do," Horatio said. "But I think that you don't want to."

He blinked. He really didn't want to find something else, he realized. "No," he said, slowly.

"There you go, then," Horatio said. "I think you've wanted to come back all along, but you're scared and you're afraid that means you can't come back."

He nodded again. "Yeah."

"It's ok to be scared. It really is. I'd be more concerned if you weren't. You have a job, no matter what, ok? I'll find something for you if you can't handle the field or if you can't handle the lab. Alexx will take you in a heartbeat," Horatio said, smiling. "We can cross all those bridges when we come to them. I'm not just saying that because I really want you back- although I do. I don't think you'll be happy if you don't at least try to come back."

"Yeah," he said. "You're right, I think."

"Good." Horatio said. "Because I wasn't kidding when I said I wanted you back. We need you."

"I know, I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry. None of it is your fault," Horatio said. Tim shrugged, and they lapsed into silence again. "You think you might be ready to face the car again?" Horatio asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think I can drive right now." His hands were still shaky and he was half dizzy, both from relief at making a decision and from his earlier reaction.

"Can you face my car?" Horatio asked.

"I think so," he said.

"Then I'll take you home. We'll figure out how to get your car back later, ok?" Horatio said, standing up.

"Ok," he said, letting Horatio lead him back up to the parking lot.