Shot To Hell by ceilidh
A/N- Awww, poor Timmy, I'm really putting him through hell, aren't I? While he's enjoying some respite, though, I thought I'd share it around. Yes, I know - I'm so generous ;o)
References here for Identity Crisis and Kill Ari, as Tony and Abby try to deal with what's happened. As always, I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Six – Prisoners Of Conscience
Just days ago, they'd been sharing a now perversely cruel joke – the latest choices for 'McGee's Mutt'
Several weeks earlier, on a chronically slow work-day, Tim McGee had announced he was getting a puppy - a faithful friend who could share his couch and, just maybe, lick his face a little bit, too.
Needless to say, Tony and Ziva had been full of almost helpful suggestions over what breed to get. Ziva had thought a pit-bull would suit him, while Tony had gone, rather less flatteringly, for a cocker spaniel
Even Gibbs had chipped in with Australian Shepherd – pointedly adding they were 'working' dogs.
None of them had suggested a German Shepherd, though. And Tony DiNozzo wasn't laughing now.
Staring down, into the haggard face beside him, his own lifted into a humourless, self-chiding smile. Thanks to his latest 'probie-prank' – yeah, you could safely count Dobermans out of the equation too.
It had been a stupid, completely thoughtless thing to do – and Tony DiNozzo still bitterly regretted it.
Damn it, the kid hadn't deserved that. And he sure as hell didn't deserve its continuing consequences.
Even in sleep, it seemed that Tim McGee was still being haunted by its subconscious legacy – fearful winces creasing Tim's face now, while soft whimpers filtered through the mask that covered it.
Tony knew it was pointless to say sorry to him now. He was still too sick, too deeply drugged, for that.
He had to try, though. For so many reasons, he had to let his adoptive kid brother know he was there. And when Tim McGee needed serious reassurance, only one of his countless nicknames would do.
"I – I know you can't hear me, kid, but… Tim, I'm sorry," Tony said at last, squeezing Tim's hand – quietly recalling the other times he'd used this term of brotherly affection over the more ubiquitous 'probie'.
Kate's death stood out, of course. So did the incredible courage his 'kid' had shown in its aftermath.
When he'd expressed pride at the guts it had taken, for Tim to come down to see her dead body alone – hell, for once in his ever-wisecracking life, Tony DiNozzo hadn't been joking. He'd meant every word.
So yes, he was proud of his kid. His McGee. His probie. From now on, Tony vowed, he'd tell him that more often.
Even as he tried to appease it, though, guilt still pricked at his conscience, refusing to let up on him.
Dr Grey had assured him that McGee's collapse hadn't been his fault. So had Gibbs. So had Ducky. But that didn't stop Tony DiNozzo from feeling guiltily responsible for the heavy toll it had taken on him.
Cocooned in IV tubes, and surrounded by monitors, his friend-cum-surrogate-brother looked like hell.
Still held in a spiking fever, Tim was still shifting restlessly through it, trying to escape its heat – a worrying surge of 'heartbeeps' on the screen beside him showing, painfully clearly, what that effort cost him.
And if only from his fretting subconscious, Tim McGee now acknowledged his best friend's presence – although Tony couldn't be sure if that pitiful clench of fingers around his hand had come from coherent gratitude or delirious terror.
It was the former, he decided, squeezing Tim's hand in return. He couldn't think about the alternative.
Gradually, though, to sighs of collective relief, the beeps and jumping tracelines settled down again – sedating drugs, and Tim's own exhaustion, pulling him back into a sanctuary of peaceful, healing sleep.
Not everyone was smiling, though. Not everyone could fully enjoy his now calm, carefree expression.
Tony DiNozzo may have soothed part of his conscience, but Abby's still offered her no sign of mercy.
Even with Gibbs hugging her on one side, and Ducky on the other, she couldn't appreciate their support. And while Tony had shown no qualms in taking Tim's hand to offer him comfort, she just couldn't bring herself to touch him.
Each time she reached out to straighten his hair, or stroke his cheek, her hand stopped frustratingly short. Not even Ducky's gentle assurances could convince her to let that hand finish the rest of its journey.
"Abby, it's alright, he's sleeping. It's alright, you can touch him if you want to, you won't hurt him-"
More than anything in the world, Abby wanted to touch the face that she'd come to love so much, but – no, from the intimacy they'd once shared, that she now sorely missed, he'd still know it was her.
And after the way she'd treated him, and hurt him, surely he wouldn't want her anywhere near him?
She wanted so much to touch him, though – just to prove to herself that he really was alright. Eventually, it took the voice of someone who knew what she was going through to convince her to try.
"Ducky's right, Abs- see?" Tony said at last, nodding to where he still gently held Tim's hand.
"I'm not hurting him, and- yeah, you see? It isn't hurting him, it's helping him to… well, sleep, and- you know, get better-"
As he'd hoped, just this one, gently stressed word had reached an unbreakable part of Abby's character. If stroking his hair helped her precious Timmy to sleep, and helped him to heal, then she was all for it.
So, very gently, she brushed her hand over Tim's fringe, anxiously watching his face for any reaction.
When none came, she let her fingers drift onto his temple, where she knew he liked to be stroked – finally meeting Tony's eyes again, in a glance which only they, and their consciences, understood.
Yes, he was letting them comfort him now, but only because he was too deeply unconscious to notice.
Tomorrow, though, he'd be awake. He'd be strong enough then, and lucid enough, to talk to them. But would he want to talk to them? Would he even listen to their apologies, let alone accept them?
And, most crucially of all, would Tim McGee still trust them enough afterwards to forgive them?