Chapter 7

There was a cloud, blunting all of Tim's feelings, decreasing his ability to interpret his surroundings. He barely noticed Ducky sitting on a chair in the waiting room. He was still holding the doughnut in his hands, wondering how he had come to have it. Sound kept cutting in and out again. He watched Ducky stand and walk to him as if he was watching a movie.

"Timothy...what...don't you...over here?"

Tim stared without comprehension. Ducky's expression became concerned. He reached out and took Tim by the arm.

"Just...right...There's a..."

Tim didn't resist when Ducky pulled him to a chair and forced him to sit down. He sat there, staring at Ducky and Gibbs, wishing that it was all a dream...but it wasn't a dream. It wasn't even a nightmare. It was real. What he had seen was real; the looped images were his memories of the day before. Watching Michelle had been about the worst he remembered because she was the only person he'd actually seen die. He had seen the doctors crack open her chest, had heard that piercing whine as her heart stopped, had watched them try to restart it, try again...and try again...and fail. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight, only to realize that it was in his mind, that closing his eyes merely focused the image. The blood took on a brilliant sheen. Tim shuddered and let out his breath in a soft moan, clenching his hands into fists.

"Timothy, I believe you can just throw it away if you don't want it. Crushing the pastry won't help."

Ducky's words, all of them, penetrated and Tim opened his eyes. He had smashed the doughnut flat. Again, he wondered when he had picked it up.

"Timothy?"

Tim looked up at Ducky and tried to smile. He managed a grimace.

"I guess I should go wash my hands," he said softly. His voice was almost a whisper. "Where's the bathroom?"

Ducky looked as though he wanted to say something else, but what came out was, "Just down the hallway, on your left."

"Thanks...Ducky." Tim stood and walked to the bathroom. He dropped the remains of the doughnut into the trash and then began to wash off the icing and crumbs. As he did, he looked at himself in the mirror...and gasped. He hadn't taken the time to look at himself at all. It hadn't seemed important. Now, he gaped at himself. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when the bomb had gone off, and they were torn, bloody. There was a long rip across his chest, but where the fabric should have exposed bare skin, it showed only a long bandage. His face drew most of his attention. A maze of cuts and bruises made him nearly unrecognizable. Tim only knew he was looking at himself because he felt his cheek and saw his hand moving...and his hand was covered with a bandage as well, now dingy and gray from his desperate attempt to free Ziva. The same hand reached out to touch the mirror.

It was just his reflection.

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

When Tim returned, he felt somehow even worse than he had before...but he had no idea why. He rejoined Ducky and sat silently beside him, waiting. Every so often, Ducky would act like he wanted to talk, but he never said anything. Tim wondered why, but he didn't bother asking. Talking would only make all this more real...and it was real enough as it was. Gibbs sat down on the other side of Tim a few minutes (or was it hours?) later. Hedged in, Tim felt safer...but again, he didn't know why. When the doctors came to tell them what was going on, both Ducky and Gibbs stood up, but Tim didn't. He allowed the fog to settle in and tried to stop thinking.

He didn't quite succeed. When Ducky and Gibbs came back, he couldn't tune them out like he wanted to. He was forced to face what they had to say.

"Tony survived his surgery. He's recovering, and they're allowing Abigail to receive vistors," Ducky said. "I suggest that we divide and conquer. We can switch off later."

"I'll go and see Tony," Tim said before either of them could say anything else.

"Are you sure, Timothy? You must be worried about Abigail as well."

"Where's Tony?" Tim asked. He stood up and tried to look more stern than he felt. In reality, he felt about as firm as jello.

Ducky and Gibbs exchanged significant glances but neither protested. Instead, Gibbs pointed and told him the room number. Tim nodded and walked away, although he could hear them muttering behind him as he left. He tried not to wonder what they were saying. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other toward Tony's room...when all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction and hide from the reality of what had happened.

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

"Did he say anything to you at all, Ducky?"

"Not much, Jethro. I think he's in shock...not in the medical sense. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't respond." Ducky sighed and stared at the door in front of them. "I wish he had come to Abby first. She would want him here."

Gibbs nodded. "I think he wanted to be here...and that's why he wouldn't come."

"You're probably right. He needs to talk, but we can't force him to do so."

Gibbs looked at the door. "How bad is she, Ducky?"

"Bad...but not so bad that staring at the door is preferable," Ducky said, smiling a little. He leaned past Gibbs and pushed open the door. Gibbs entered first and saw...the woman who must be Abby on the bed. Half her face was covered in gauze, the other half scraped and bruised. Gone were the wristbands and the dog collar, the clothing that made her stand out...and the excitable spirit that made her unique.

"She's so...quiet," Gibbs said, a disconcerting lump in his throat. He walked to her and sat down. "I don't think I've ever seen her so still."

"Nor ever will again, I'm sure," Ducky said, his voice soft and soothing.

"Tim asked me a question when I got to NCIS yesterday. I've been thinking about it a lot."

"What was it?"

"He asked why this happened...and I don't know, Duck." Gibbs reached out and took one of Abby's limp hands in his own. "I just don't know."

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

There was a nurse in Tony's room, changing the IV bag, when Tim finally opened the door. Her expression flickered for an instant, but then, she smiled at him and beckoned him to come closer. Tim did so, only reluctantly. Tony looked bad, swathed in bandages...and so pale...so empty.

"He doesn't look like he's asleep," Tim whispered, mostly to himself...but the nurse heard him.

"What do you mean?"

Tim looked up at her, surprised that she was still there, but then returned his gaze to Tony's still form.

"In the movies..." He laughed at the irony. "...they always say that about people who are hurt, that they look like they're sleeping. Tony's hurt, and he's not sleeping...and he doesn't look like he is either." Tim swallowed hard. "He looks like he's dead."

"I promise, he's not dead."

Tim nodded in acceptance of that. "But he's not asleep either."

"No. Not exactly."

"Is he going to make it?"

"We hope so. Right now, we just have to wait. It's up to Tony, not us."

"But will he make it?" There was a plaintive note in Tim's voice that even he caught.

The nurse didn't tell him to buck up and she didn't tell him not to worry. Instead, she took his arm and directed him, not to the chair beside Tony's bed, but to a bed nearby. Gently, she sat him down on the bed.

"You were in the same blast, weren't you."

Tim nodded mutely, still staring at Tony. "I was outside."

He didn't see the nurse's understanding nod.

"Have you slept at all since yesterday?"

Tim shook his head.

"Have you eaten?"

Another shake.

"Will you let us help you–? What's your name?"

"Tim."

"Will you let us help you, Tim?"

"They need the help, not me," Tim whispered. He stared at Tony, willing the damage to go away...but it didn't. It couldn't. Maybe it never would.

"You need help, Tim. So do your friends. You can't help them if you're like this. Let us help you."

Tim just nodded.

"Okay...for now, we can just set you up in here. Is that all right?"

Tim nodded again, feeling the fog encroaching once more.

"Good. Just sit tight. I'll be right back." She started to walk away and heard a sigh.

"I ignored him."

"What?" She turned back and saw Tim's dirty hands cover his face. He wasn't crying. His agony was too deep for tears.

"Tony called me. I was late for work...stuck in traffic. He called me. I ignored him. He teases me all the time." Tim's voice cracked dangerously. "I thought that the...the last thing I needed was to hear Tony bugging me one more time." Tim's hands dropped from his face and his arms tightened around his torso. "What if...what if I never hear him teasing me again? What if..." Tim began to rock back and forth. "What if he...he would have been somewhere else, somewhere safe if only I had answered the phone? What if he dies? What if they all die? ...like Ziva...because of me."

The nurse looked at Tim. He didn't see her anymore. She decided that his physical needs could wait for the moment and approached him slowly. When she reached the bed, she touched Tim gently on the shoulder. He didn't appear to notice her at all. Carefully, aware of his inner turmoil, she put her arms around him and rocked with him, changing the agony-laden shaking to a comforting sway.

"Shh...it's all right, Tim. It will be all right. It seems dark right now, but it will get better." She didn't dare say anything else because she knew none of the details and, for all she knew, he could be right. It wouldn't be a good idea to pretend things were all fine when they weren't.

It didn't matter what she said, really. Tim was lost in his grief, his guilt, his shock and horror. As kind as the nurse was, she wasn't who he needed. When she left him, he slumped forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his head. As the door closed, she thought she heard a final question.

"What if I killed them?"