Chapter 12

"Don't lurk in the doorway, McGee. Step inside. You're going to let all the bugs in."

Timidly, Tim followed Gibbs into his house without comment. He'd never been there before. He felt he was treading in hostile territory. The house was furnished in a style that begged the description simple, if not austere. It was definitely a bachelor's home.

They had stopped briefly at Tim's apartment to get clothes and things. As Tim had predicted, it was a crime scene, complete with yellow tape. They didn't stay long, and neither of them had made any comment until now. Gibbs was deciding whether or not he should try to talk to Tim about what had happened. He knew well enough how deeply-rooted Tim's sense of responsibility was. Even when he hadn't done anything wrong, he could brow beat himself into depression. This time, it had been his fault, at least partially. How he was taking it, Gibbs couldn't tell through that stone face Tim was currently using, although he could guess. It wasn't as if Gibbs could take him to an interrogation room and wait until he broke. On Tim's part, his mind was stuck in a never-ending spiral into a black pit of self-loathing. He wasn't showing any emotion, not because he wasn't feeling anything but because he was afraid that if he let anything out, he wouldn't be able to stop it. He was actually feeling too much for his mind to handle and in the absence of any healthy outlet, all the rage, guilt and shame he had heaped on himself was festering and growing. Over and over he heard the mercenary's voice: You get to choose who lives and who dies. Those six people had not chosen. Tim had chosen for them and had chosen pain and death.

"McGee."

Tim looked quickly at Gibbs, shifting his blank gaze from its rapt contemplation of Gibbs' kitchen.

"You can stay in here," Gibbs said, indicating a spare room.

"Thanks." Tim started walking toward the room, but stopped and turned back. "Boss, if you need me to help with that other case you were talking about before, I can. I won't be going anywhere this weekend," he said, in the same deadly monotone.

"I'll keep that in mind. Don't worry about that for tonight, McGee."

"Okay." There were no protestations, no defenses. Tim just took the suggestion and accepted it without any thought.

Just as the somber mood threatened to overwhelm them both, Tim's stomach rumbled. Although he tried valiantly to suppress his reaction, Gibbs couldn't resist a smile. Tim himself had a good sense of the ridiculous, even if he didn't normally express it. Exasperation warred with embarrassment on his face and he let out a helpless chuckle. If the torment hadn't faded from his eyes, at least the mood in the room lifted a little.

"Put your things away, McGee. I'll get dinner ready."

There was no use pretending that he wasn't hungry. He hadn't eaten all day; so Tim just nodded. "Okay, Boss." The room consisted of a bed, closet and chest of drawers. He tossed his bag on the bed and looked around, wondering what he should do. Aimlessly, he sat down on the bed and looked at his hands. Then, he noticed a smear of blood on his arm. He had a lot of little cuts from the broken windshield, but that smear... Suddenly, he couldn't bear the thought of that blood being on his arm. He had to get it off. He stood and walked out, looking around for a bathroom.

"Boss?"

"What, McGee?" Gibbs was on the phone.

"Uh, bathroom?"

Gibbs just pointed as he started talking. Tim almost ran in the indicated direction and then, started frantically rubbing at the blood on his arm. Water splashed everywhere as Tim scrubbed and scrubbed almost to the point of rubbing off the skin. Still, there were no tears, just a tortured whisper, "Come on, come on." While he was washing his arm off, he noticed blood spattered on his shirt, one of his many MIT shirts. Tim looked around wildly and saw a washcloth hanging on the towel rack. He grabbed it and started scrubbing at his shirt, still whispering, "Come on" over and over, to no avail. In desperation, he pulled it off and shoved it into the sink, soaking the entire shirt, all the while scrubbing at the blood. The sink overflowed, sending water onto the bathroom floor. Tim never heard Gibbs come in. The first thing he knew of his presence, a hand reached around him and turned off the water.

Tim looked up at Gibbs and then around at the bathroom. Water dripped everywhere. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw himself shirtless and the wild, panicky expression that was slowly fading from his face. He didn't know what to say. "I-I'm sorry, Boss. I was just...that is, I don't know why..."

Gibbs just shook his head and took the soaking wet t-shirt from Tim's hands. "Dinner's ready, McGee. Go put on a different shirt."

"Yes, Boss." Tim shuffled out, leaving Gibbs to look around his bathroom in dismay. It was becoming obvious to Gibbs that Tim should have stayed at the hospital, but he knew that getting him back there voluntarily would be nearly impossible. That Dr. Tanner was either an incompetent shrink or he hadn't paid any attention to Tim's state of mind because, even though he wasn't an experienced psychiatrist, Gibbs could tell that Tim was in a bad way. He'd definitely be watching him closely tonight.