Chapter 4

It was a long wait at the hospital. Tim was rushed into surgery with a severe hemothorax, major blood loss, and hypoxia. For Ducky, being newly confronted with the world outside the Metro station was a bit jarring. He was asked for a statement by Metro police. Reporters had tried to get him to say something. ...and all he wanted was to be sure that Tim was going to survive, that the delay of care was not going to kill him. He didn't even care about the three men who had been arrested and hauled away.

Everyone else came as soon as they could, but Ducky felt separated from them somehow. His mind kept going back to the train, to sitting beside Tim, watching him weakening.

"Ducky?"

The voice gradually penetrated Ducky's haze. He looked over and realized that Abby had seated herself beside him and was hugging him tightly.

"Yes, Abigail?"

"You look awful, Ducky. Maybe you should go home."

Ducky smiled. "No, Abigail. I will stay until I know that Timothy will recover."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am quite certain."

Abby nodded, but instead of letting him go as he expected, she scooted closer.

"You can lean on me, Ducky. It's okay. I won't let you fall."

Ducky hesitated and then accepted the comfort Abby was offering. He put his arm around her and leaned his head on her shoulder.

"It'll be okay, Ducky," Abby said quietly. "I know it will."

Ducky took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn't answer, couldn't agree. Abby hadn't seen how badly Tim had been hurt. She hadn't watched him slowly fade away. ...but he didn't have the heart to disagree with her either.

Instead, he just sat beside her and looked around the room. Tony and Ziva were both asleep, and Gibbs was standing vigil, his eyes on the doors leading to the OR where Tim had been taken.

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

Hours later, Abby was asleep. Tony and Ziva were asleep. Even Gibbs had relaxed enough to sit down. Ducky was still awake and it was he who stood first when a surgeon finally came out to talk to them.

"Hello, you're here about Timothy McGee?"

Gibbs stood as well.

"Yes," Ducky said. "Is he–?"

"He survived the surgery. He'd lost a lot of blood, and it took some time to control the internal bleeding. Currently, we're more worried about what kind of damage might have resulted from his lowered respiration, and we won't know that until he wakes up."

"He has not yet awakened?" Ducky asked.

"No. He's on a ventilator and will be for a few days while we monitor the drainage from the chest tube. We're optimistic that he'll regain consciousness soon. Now, has someone contacted his family?"

Ducky looked at Gibbs. He had to admit it hadn't even crossed his mind.

"His parents are in England," Gibbs said. "We don't have their number. We're trying to track them down."

"All right. He's in the ICU until we're sure that his lung is able to maintain positive pressure."

"May I see him?" Ducky asked.

"Certainly. This way."

Ducky paused briefly and looked questioningly at Gibbs.

"Jethro?"

"Go on. I'll stay out here. Let everyone know."

"Thank you."

Ducky followed the doctor to the quiet ICU, the silence broken only by machines keeping regular rhythms. He walked over and sat down beside Tim. He didn't look a whole lot better than he had when lying on the floor of the train. The most important difference was that he was not bleeding...and that, while his breathing was being undertaken mechanically, he was currently was getting enough oxygen. He was going to survive.

And yet...

"Oh, Timothy."

Ducky took hold of a limp hand and ignored the beeping heart monitor, the clicking of the ventilator.

"You must recover, Timothy. I remembered where my parents were taking me on my first trip on the Underground."

Tim made no response. His chest rose and fell in a constant rhythm. The tube emerging from his chest contained a small amount of fluid. Another tube ran from an IV stand down to Tim's hand. Nor was that the only IV. There were two other tubes.

Ducky sighed but then smiled to himself.

"Would you like to hear another story, Timothy?"

There was no squeezing of his hand this time, but Ducky was determined not to show his worry now.

"Well, let's see...something from British history is called for, I believe. Don't you agree?"

Still nothing.

"Let me tell you about Francis Bacon, the alleged inventor of the scientific method. Now, not to put down my own heritage, but the claim is ridiculous, as if no one ever followed the same method before the 1500s. Untrue. However, Francis Bacon was quite a character and deserves credit where credit is due. Speaking of credit, poor Bacon was in debt much of his life. He was the son of the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal and became a barrister. He was knighted, became a chancellor and then a viscount but was convicted of bribery and lost his chancellorship. He was actually imprisoned in the Tower of London for a few days because of a 40,000-pound fine that he could not pay."

Ducky settled back in his chair and began to relate more stories from Francis Bacon's life.

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

"...and then, finally, we come to his death...which I like to call 'death by frozen chicken'." Ducky laughed quietly to himself.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Ducky looked away from Tim for the first time in the two hours he'd been there.

"Yes?"

The nurse smiled. "I just came to check on his stats. It won't take a moment."

"Of course. I will get out of your way."

Ducky made to stand up, but as he began to move, there was a slight movement of the hand he was holding. He paused.

"Timothy?"

The ventilator clicked over a few times and then there was a flicker of Tim's eyelids.

The green irises appeared for a brief moment and then vanished again. Ducky sat beside Tim's bed.

"Timothy, can you hear me? If you're awake, squeeze my hand."

Again, the weak pressure. Ducky smiled.

"He's awake."

"That's wonderful," the nurse said. "I'll check him over and then get his doctor."

Ducky reluctantly relinquished Tim's hand and stepped back. He was aware that he'd already stayed longer than was generally allowed. He could only assume that Gibbs had made that possible. After a few minutes, the nurse finished her check.

"You can come back now," she said softly.

"Thank you." Ducky resumed his seat and took Tim's hand again. "Timothy?"

The eyelids fluttered open again and Tim's eyes moved around slowly.

"I'm right here."

His head tilted toward Ducky's voice, and gradually, Tim's eyes found him. He smiled vaguely.

"You made it, Timothy."

Tim squeezed Ducky's hand and his mouth moved.

"You can't talk just now, Timothy."

Tim's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he tried to form a word.

"Do you wish me to finish my story?"

There was a slight nod.

"I can do that. You may close your eyes. I will not be offended."

Tim's eyelids instantly drooped, but his grip on Ducky's hand told Ducky that he was still awake.

"Very well. While Sir Francis Bacon was traveling through the snow to Highgate with the king's physician, he was suddenly struck by a thought. What if snow could be used to preserve meat? Being the experimenter he was...or at least the experimenter he aspired to be, Bacon instantly resolved to try it out. He and the physician went to a farmhouse. They bought and then requested that the farm woman there exenterate a fowl. Then, they went out into the snowy night and stuffed the disemboweled bird with snow and observed it for a period of time. This proved fatal. He contracted pneumonia which led to his death only two or three days after his brilliant idea. That is what a seventeenth-century historian claims, at any rate. Thus, death by frozen chicken."

Tim smiled and, for Ducky, that was the greatest comfort of all. Even when the doctor came and added his own encouragement to that of the nurse, even when it was clear that Tim's injury had not permanently damaged him...even with all that...it was that small, tired smile, acknowledging the end of a story, that gave Ducky the most hope. Tim had listened to him...and he had enjoyed the story.

That was enough.