Part III
It's been two months since Sarah died.
Tim has begun to come back to work again, has begun to take care of himself again, has begun to get out of the house again. But there is no life in his actions.
He feels like he died with her that night.
"Come out with us for a drink tonight, Probie," Tony says after work. "You've barely been out of your apartment. It'll do you some good."
Tim declines. He can't face the concern in his friend's eyes. Tony doesn't understand what he's going through.
"Timmy…she wouldn't want you to live like this. Sarah would want you to be happy," Abby tells Tim as she wraps him in a hug a few days later while they work in the lab.
Tim knows Abby means well, but she wasn't there. She didn't see how Sarah suffered at the end.
His sister shouldn't have died that way.
He should have been able to do something about it. He's her big brother, for God's sake.
Tim is aware of Ducky observing him every time he steps into Autopsy, of Gibbs watching him when he comes into work, of Ziva's understanding glances across the bullpen, and is thankful that they haven't said anything to him, or pushed him to come out, or pressed him to tell them how he's feeling, because he really just can't right now.
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It's been two months, three weeks, and four days since Sarah died.
It's nearly one in the morning, and Tim sits at his typewriter, fingers idly brushing the keys, a piece of paper sitting inside, waiting to hold the words locked inside of him.
But his words have become lost in the darkness of his grief.
As he stares at the paper, his mind drifts off into a memory. Sarah is standing next to him, reading over his shoulder and snickering at his word choice and his characters as he works on the very first draft of Deep Six.
"Seriously? 'Karen' is okay, but 'Tommy'? Who the hell is named 'Tommy' anymore? He sounds like he's part of the Rugrats cartoon."
"Ugh. Tim, you write like an amateur! I write better than you, and I'm younger!"
"Oooh. Nice description. Much better than the stuff in your other pages!"
"'Lisa'? She's from Israel right? Doesn't sound like a very Israeli name to me."
His heart aches and he wipes his eyes of the tears slipping down his cheeks as he pulls himself back from the memories. He glances at the typewriter once more before retreating to his room.
The paper sits inside, still blank.
Three days later, Ziva shows up at his apartment, and forces him to dress and come out with her for a walk to the nearby park. Tim decides to bring Jethro with them.
"Sit," she says when they come to a bench, and Tim lets Jethro off his leash before taking a seat next to Ziva.
For a moment, they say nothing to each other, both their gazes facing towards the park in front of them. It's Ziva who breaks the silence.
"I know what you're doing," she says, her voice soft. "I did it too, when my sister was killed."
Tim remains silent, remains facing the park. Ziva does not turn toward him, but he feels her hand as it settles on top of his own.
"We are the older siblings. We should have been able to protect our little sisters. We made that promise when they were born, and we failed to fulfill that promise because we have lost them before they even really had the chance to live. So we hold on to the grief, so that we will never forget our failure. We do not allow ourselves happiness, because we aren't meant to have it, because our little sisters will never know happiness again, because they suffered through their deaths, and did not go peacefully."
Still Tim says nothing, but he bites his lip and takes deep breaths as he tries his best not to cry in front of Ziva, but can't help the tightening of his hand on hers, or the tears that leak out of his eyes.
Ziva's voice is shaky when she speaks again. "What we forget, Tim, is that by holding onto the grief, we do a disservice to our little sisters. Because little sisters love their siblings unconditionally, no matter how much they fight with us or tease us or irritate us. They cannot rest peacefully while watching us suffer."
Her grip on his hand tightens just a bit, and Tim feels a faint tremble in Ziva's hand. He bows his head and glances at her from the corner of his eye, and takes note of the stoic expression on her face, and extra brightness in her eyes.
"I miss her," he confesses, his voice choked. "So much that it hurts."
She looks at him, a sad smile on her face. "I know."
"I don't want to lose her."
She hugs him then, her arms tight around him as he begins to sob. "But she is already gone. She is already gone."
"So what do I do?" he cries into his friend's shoulder.
"Let go of your grief, Tim."
"How?"
"I cannot tell you that, though I wish I could," she tells him, and he notices the roughness of her voice. "But I know you will find a way."