Apologies again for delayed updates, but I truly believed I would update Sunday. Alas, I forgot that I had to travel out of town. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, which you could send to me via review, just as a suggestion...

(See chapter one for introduction.)

Chapter Seven: Lies and Pain, Lies and Pain, Truth

Timothy slept, fitful and shallow, when a sound at the door startled him. His eyes snapped open. No sedative to weigh them, only local anesthetic for the particularly nasty wounds.

It was late afternoon, an orange sun fading out on the horizon in bright red glory, burning the treetops with gold and yellow. Within the hospital, in Timothy's ICU room, however, the sky could not be seen. The day had flown past him, perhaps because his night had been so long. Terrible, shameful memories had been resurrected by terror and, of course, hate, and it had drained him.

Two sides of him that his new friends never saw- one careless, one vicious- had reared up in him after years of repression. It had been a physically and emotionally trying night. The following day had been but a semblance of restful.

"Tim." Gibbs' voice came from the doorway, laced with understanding and almost awe, which was confusing.

He knows, Timothy thought in despair, wanting to disappear forever. He knows, he knows, he knows… He thought he could be free of that one night, but that would have been too much to ask. That one stupid night would haunt him forever.

"Tim, we think we know what happened," Gibbs said, soft as lingered at a respectful distance at the door. He had never expected one of his agents to be so hurt, and imagining the one who caused the damage to have gotten so close again made him furious. Timothy was such a sensitive kid, so closed off from the bad things, so sympathetic. But Gibbs knew it was not that anymore, it had never been that. It was because Timothy did know those dark things that he was able to connect to people in need. That he did not just have the ability to imagine what it was like, but in fact he knew what it was like.

He knows, and they know, and they'll never look at me the same way again, Timothy thought, weary recognition of that old familiar anger rising within him. Sure, he felt heartbroken that the ones who had become so close to him would now always look at him with pity, but he was also indignant. They did not have the right to go snooping around in his past. It was his past, his pain. Why couldn't they just leave it alone? Leave me alone? Even as he thought it, though, he knew that being abandoned would feel far worse than being pitied.

"I can't possibly imagine what it's been like for the past fifteen years, keeping silent." Gibbs paused, and the silence leaned for his next words. He could see Timothy agonized by his leader's knowledge, and, even though the young agent did not know it, Timothy needed some reason to know that it was okay. It was okay to not be alone. "You're a stronger man than I, Tim."

Timothy looked up. What a strange thing to say. Timothy knew for sure that Gibbs was a mountain of resolve and himself more like a Jell-O blob. Gibbs had lost something. By listening to scraps of conversation and his own developing gut feelings, Timothy had always thought it had been his family. Timothy had never lost his family- a wife, a son or daughter. That took strength. What happened to him, that did not take strength. Only weakness.

Gibbs moved into his line of sight, standing over him by the bed as the agent stared hard at the ceiling. The expression on the lead agent's face was a mix of respect and protectiveness. Timothy could not bear to look at him, knowing, just knowing, that that face had to fake. It hurt too much think that Gibbs had lost both respect and the urge to care for him in one fell swoop. Timothy turned his head away.

"You wouldn't come to us, to me, for your sister, because you didn't trust us then. But surely you know now that in this team, we're not just coworkers," Gibbs said, brow knitted. Timothy felt a lick of regret. He knew that, but this situation was completely different…

Treading unfamiliar ground, Gibbs considered just laying a hand on Timothy's arm, just one reassuring touch, and wondered what touch meant to the younger man. What feelings did he associate with it? Comfort, closeness? Or fear and betrayal? Was that why he was so reluctant in social situations? Gibbs hoped the other's reactions depended upon who it was involved in the interaction and put his fingers at Timothy's wrist.

Timothy turned to look at him, a long, laborious motion, and Gibbs almost recoiled at the contradiction and ferocity of emotion in those eyes. Hate, for him to intrude on his life. Hate, for the man who caused him all this agony. Pain, for exposing the wounds he had covered so well for so long. And a tentative flicker of hope, perhaps, that maybe he could trust his friends to help him nurse those wounds to true healing. Maybe.

"You can trust me, Tim," Gibbs pressed.

It was almost a challenge once someone was established in Gibbs' life that he knew there was mutual trust. He always gave people genuine responses and interactions, always truthful. People knew that they could not fool around with him. Good people rose to this challenge of truth and embraced it, and bad people ran or hid from a thing they could not or would not understand.

There was no response for moment, then Timothy shook his head with an emphatic no. He could not trust anyone, in this world where people took advantage of him, where loved ones could become enemies, where people he thought were friends walked out on him with looks of disgust. No one could be trusted, no could be let in, no one, no one, no one-

"Shh, shh, it's okay… " Gibbs kneeled by the bed, one hand on the young man's arm, the other resting lightly near his head, brushing the hair out of his face. Tears broke from under Timothy's armor and streamed down his face as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. His voice wanted to say no, to keep Gibbs and everyone out, but he welcomed the comforting voice and presence. Maybe someone could understand. Maybe someone could know all sides of him, no matter the anger or shame or pain, and still want to be near him. Maybe…

Soon enough, Timothy sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. He had spent most of the day resting his body, but now he was resting his soul. Finally, finally, a small shard of the pain had been melted and shed. Gibbs stood up slowly, gritting at his older body's complaints, and sighed. He was tired, too. When had he slept? Maybe he had caught a few moments of dozing in the waiting room, in the office, but that was far from rest. Dinozzo was already getting on his case. Can't afford to have two incapacitated agents and all that.

Not too mention the mental and emotional drain. Gibbs nodded at the two guards outside the room who had kept polite distance at the private moment and got out his cell phone as he walked out of the hospital. His agent, his team, his people- they were his duty as much as his job was. Protect, teach and work with them- somehow he had managed to fail in all three in one night.

"Abby, any luck on that block?" Gibbs said once she answered.

She sounded downright annoyed, and she vented to him. "No, they got me running red tape circles. Whoever blocked this guy's info is high up. Can't you call in some favors, Gibbs? Or maybe just bust into the main office and demand the information. I personally think they'd give it to you, you're just that scary-"

"I'm on it, Abby," Gibbs said with a shadow of a smile on his lips. It was the small things that mattered with her, like giving a five-page answer to a simple hows-it-going. "Go back to the evidence- no use trying to get through the bureaucracy by traditional means."

"What do you-" but Gibbs had already hung up. He had an old friend to visit, in a park with a bench.

Friend was a loose term.

Meanwhile, Tony was at Sarah McGee's new apartment, where the younger sister of the injured agent sat in deadened stillness on her couch. Her eyes were red from crying. She had gone to visit her big brother earlier that day, where his inability to talk caused a profuse amount of talking on her side. She had gone on and on about this and that and anything to keep his mind occupied, to keep him from thinking about that night again, until her throat burned and his eyes were closed in sleep. She would never stop blaming herself for that night anyway, and the pain in her throat seemed like a sliver, a tiny strand of redemption.

Sitting across from her in a hand-me-down sort of armchair, Tony could not blame her for the lack of talking. He himself felt a dead spot where his voice should be, stolen by exhaustion, anger, and helplessness. If only he had taken the back door, if only he had gone at the very first cry of alarm from Timothy, if only, if only, if only.

Tony coughed, reminding her of his presence and himself to start asking questions. She obviously knew what happened long ago when Timothy was just 16. When she walked into that hospital room and saw him, did she see the connection at once, or did she see the look in his eyes and realize it then? Did he make some silent communication to help her make the connection? Tony felt a stirring bite of envy. So, he and the McGeek were not blood related, but really, they were basically family. Why hadn't Timothy trusted him with this knowledge?

Even as he thought the absurd question, he knew the answer. The person Timothy thought Tony was would never sympathize with the painful experience he had endured. A man should be a man. Anything weaker was pathetic, shameful. And it hurt Tony to think that Timothy had such distrust for him.

"So," Tony said, voice scratchy. "What happened May 7, 1995?"

"A lot of things," she said without hesitation, but not in a sarcastic way. Her tone sounded almost ominous. Sarah did not look up or look around, just kept staring forward with that dead look in her eyes. It was like the emotion in her brother's heart had manifested on her body. "A lot of things…"

Tony resisted the urge to make some smart remark. She was hurting, and this sort of thing took honey rather than vinegar. So he said to give her a gentle prod, "Well, specifically, what happened to M- to Tim?" Sarah could also, in fact, be called McGee, but it was weird to call the younger agent by his first name.

Sarah finally looked up, and her expression was so regret-filled, it sent pain shooting through his heart to maintain eye contact.

"It was the day I convinced him to go to the police. Load of help that did." Her words at the end were filled with scorn and self-loathing. It must have been an unsuccessful case. Tony made a note in the little notebook he held as she spoke.

"Tell me about what he went to the police with. What was he reporting?" Tony did not know if she would turn that famous sharp tongue on him for his artless searching, but the response was deflated, complacent. Her eyes misty, she relived the pain of unquestionable guilt.

"It was all my fault. All of it." She had been deep in the world of nighttime socializing and the seedier, albeit more fun, life of some teens. More so than her brother. "If only I… If only…. " Her already rasping voice from the hour-long monologue in Timothy's room broke to the point of almost silence. Her eyes turned to fire and hate, and she whispered:

"If it hadn't been for me, that son of a bitch would've never touched Tim."

So, please send me some input on the chapter, on ideas, on forgiveness for my erratic, intermittent updating behavior, etc. I believe this chapter was short but powerful. Thank you for reading, and see you next chapter!