Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .
A/N: the spin-off that won't die ... M-R, thanks for your beautiful story and Mari83, thank you for reading this one, even with all the disclaimers attached!
Reviews of all shapes, sizes and persuasions welcome.
WARNING: installments not posted in chronological order! If you've gotten this far and didn't see this yet, the chronology is: 3. Abby, 4. McGee, 2. Gibbs, and 1. Ziva. Blame the characters for appearing one by one to bug me for inclusion well past the original, planned-as-a-one-shot first chapter...
Believing still
I.
It was late Wednesday and Tim could feel the tension in the squadroom hanging thickly in the air. Bad had gotten worse, and his headache increased accordingly. He tried to recall the last time he'd made it through a whole day without a headache, and quickly gave up trying. It had been that long.
Things had been painful and awkward since the explosion that had injured Ziva and Tony many months before: first losing two agents and making do with two temps, neither of whom ever quite clicked with Gibbs, then trying to get back in some rhythm when Ziva came back in the field ten weeks later, with a newly transferred special agent making an awkward fourth. A pall remained over the previously well-oiled team. Not a day went by that Tony wasn't missed. No one would say it, but had he simply died of his injuries that day, they all would have grieved and then mourned for a time, but then they would have moved on – as they had with Kate ... as they had with Director Shepard.
But in a somehow typical, DiNozzo fashion, Tony hadn't just died, but wouldn't wake up either. And his lingering in a coma, from weeks on into months, haunted them all, imposing guilt when they wanted to move on, exacting a chronic concern for his health and survival from each of them, and feeding the delay of the inevitable: the team would need to coalesce into a new unit soon or be scrapped, to be rebuild from the ground up.
Tim knew that Gibbs fought for time; Palmer confessed he'd overheard Gibbs tell Ducky that he was giving the team six months before he'd sit the others down to tell them to suck it up or get out. Because it was Tony, Gibbs was no more willing than Abby or Ziva to write him off "early," and despite Dr. Mallard's gentle insistence that a six month coma, especially after the injuries Tony had suffered, was likely to leave lasting effects that would prevent DiNozzo from ever rejoining the team, Gibbs dug in for the long haul. The boss's dogged support of Tony was admirable, Tim thought occasionally – but it wasn't exactly good for the team.
McGee knew the basics of the relationship: Gibbs had discovered DiNozzo when he was an underappreciated, fledgling detective in Baltimore's homicide unit, but the rest was apparently some magical, unspoken history, and Gibbs had found a special place in his stony heart for the unconventional agent in the same way he had a soft spot for his Goth forensics specialist. At least Ducky had convinced Gibbs that even for the stubbornly indestructible DiNozzo, after six months, the prospects were bleak. So six months it would be, as far as Gibbs was concerned, and despite the lack of any change in DiNozzo he'd stuck with it, apparently even getting Vance to see things his way. But through it all, the ride had been rocky – for all of them.
Tim gritted his teeth, glaring at his monitor as he completed his report of that day's investigation. And I thought Tony could make things miserable when he was around, he thought uncharitably, venting his frustrations in the privacy of his thoughts. He'd think it was pretty damn funny that he managed to throw me more problems just lying there, out cold, than when he was actually here...
McGee liked to think he was a compassionate person, and that Tony's injuries, and the hurt felt by those on the team as a result, brought him as much grief as they did anyone. He even found he missed the trying special agent more than he'd expected. Without Tony to defuse Gibbs' ire or to lighten the mood, no matter how irritatingly, the days were more difficult, more tense ... definitely longer ... and less satisfying. DiNozzo had been a human pressure valve for the team all this time and had made it all look so simple. Without him – especially in the circumstances of his loss – those left working were having difficulty coping with his absence. Tim missed him too, and understood, he thought, the grief felt by the rest of the team.
At least for the first few weeks.
But after a while, McGee found the continued mourning disquieting. Sometimes, he admitted very privately to himself, it was downright irritating. They had a job to do, and no one was really getting back on track. Gibbs seemed to miss his right hand man so much that he let the mood stay morose and gloomy, not smacking anyone back to focus as they should – as he would have done, had it been anyone else who was out. Ziva was distracted and edgy, not a good combination for an assassin; Abby was still quick to cry and wasn't sleeping well. Even Ducky, who had lost more colleagues and acquaintances than any of them, had lost some of his usual enthusiasm. To make matters worse, Gibbs never designated a new senior field agent in either name or responsibilities; he was doing more of the work himself that he would have had DiNozzo do. Tim suspected he didn't think any of them were up to the task – and that didn't help his mood either.
Though he never dared voice it, Tim thought they all just needed to get on with things. After all, it wasn't as if his co-workers' demeanor would have any impact at all on Tony's staying in or coming out of a coma, no matter what Abby might insist about positive vibes and the power of prayer and all the other spiritualistic stuff which ought to be out of character for a forensic scientist, anyway. They all still went out to visit, as they could; it just didn't matter what they did or didn't do at NCIS as far as Tony's recovery was concerned. It was, however, making a huge difference in the way they were working their cases.
Tim was close to speaking his mind to someone about it – held back only by the almost certain ire Gibbs would have had in hearing it, and his even greater fear of Gibbs' reaction if he went over his head to Vance – when a miracle happened: after four months, Tony finally decided to rejoin the world. He came out of his coma.
And with his return to consciousness, and his diagnosis of resulting blindness, came a whole new round of despair and mourning and foundering within the team.
Tim tried to mourn again with the others, but his heart wasn't in it. He thought he understood what it might mean for the special agent, for whom his job meant so much; he knew the gravity of the diagnosis and knew things would not be easy for someone like DiNozzo. He felt the same sorrow, or so he thought, as the others did in speculating what it would all mean for Tony and what lay ahead for him.
Apparently, though ... not quite the same.
It had been earlier that week – Monday afternoon. DiNozzo had been back among the living for about ten days; in another few days he was scheduled to move from the long term bed at the Naval Hospital to their rehab facility. Tim had gone out a couple times to visit, usually with Abby or Ducky, finding it easier to go along with one of the talkers, so he didn't have to think of much to say. On Monday afternoon he happened come by when both Abby and Ziva were there, and though he partly chalked things up to happening because Ziva was there too, and his uncomfortable suspicion that something new was developing between Ziva and Tony – he managed to say something, he wasn't sure what, that threw ice water on everyone in the room. Tony had suddenly paled and gone quiet; Ziva and Abby threw him dark, murderous looks. He tried to mouth his confusion, so as not to bother Tony even more, but the women wouldn't look at him and in short order, Abby said she needed to go and McGee would take her.
She wouldn't speak to him on the way back; neither of the women would discuss it the next day. By that next afternoon he begged Abby to tell him what he'd said that was so awful, and when she finally accused him of fishing for Tony's job, he simply threw up his hands, turned and stalked off in frustration, having said nothing remotely close. He knew better than to try to discuss it with Ziva.
Since that day – and whatever he'd said – everyone had given him the cold shoulder. Abby must have said something to Ducky because the Scotsman barely would say a word; Palmer was too busy to see him. Gibbs may not have known what was going on but had to have seen the response he was getting, because the supervisory agent's mood was getting blacker the longer it continued.
Since when was Tony elevated to saint? he groused to himself. And what the hell could he have said to evoke such a response? He thought he'd been supportive – wasn't he talking about the rehab program Tony was soon to start? Tim stopped typing and let his head drop back for a moment, massaging his temples. How the hell did this happen? he asked himself for the fiftieth time that day. How the hell does DiNozzo have so much power over the place? He'd long since given up wracking his brain for what it could be and vaguely wondered if women could psychically transmit PMS from one to another.
"McGee – "
Gibbs' wasn't loud but his tone was almost menacing – Tim's eyes flew open to see the senior agent glaring at him, leaning over his desk.
"I ... I'm almost done, Boss. Another couple paragraphs..."
Gibbs ignored him. "Look – I don't know what the hell you said to Ziva and Abby the other day, and I don't care. Fix it."
He knew better, he really did, but the words came out anyway, before his brain could stop them. "But Boss – "
"Hey!" Gibbs snapped, "whatever it is, it's got the whole team off-center and you're apparently ground zero. Am I wrong?"
McGee's sense of frustration for the unfairness of his predicament caused only a moment's hesitation before he admitted, "no, Boss."
"Then fix it – or I will. Understood?"
"Yes, Boss," McGee managed.
"You got one day." Gibbs turned to go.
"But..."
"Friday, McGee." It wasn't fifteen seconds before the elevator doors closed and McGee was alone in the squadroom.
II.
Thirty-six hours ... no ideas ... and no one at work speaking to him.
"'Fix it,' he says," Tim, alone in the darkening squad room, thought morosely. He might have felt out on a limb when DiNozzo was around, especially all those early years with the razzing and pulling pranks, but Tony had never abandoned him, and, as long as Tim was braced for a derisive snort or hoot of disbelief at his hopelessness once in a while, he'd never before felt as if no one was there for him.
It was bad enough when Tony was unconscious. Now that they'd determined he was blind, it was worse, as if he had been injured all over again, as if the wonder-boy, Tony DiNozzo, should have been impervious to injury. He seemed to be taking it okay, maybe a little subdued, still, but Ducky said it could be the lingering effects of the coma, although even Ducky didn't think so. "It's all such a drama," Tim grumbled to himself, feeling a small niggle of guilt but mostly irritated at what a big deal it had all become. It's not going to do Tony any good, everyone treating him like it's the worst thing on earth. They didn't even treat the plague 'like the plague...'
Tony hadn't, either. He'd pressed to come back early and had wanted to come back even earlier. If they kept wailing and gnashing teeth over this now, it might just make him feel worse. Rick always said...
Rick.
Why hadn't he thought of just calling Rick? Tim pulled out his phone and simultaneously shut down his computer as he thumbed his contact list to find his former dorm-mate's number. No matter what people here might think, he knew he could vent to Rick, who might actually have a few ideas of his own about it all. He hit the call button as he hiked his backpack up onto his shoulder and left the squadroom to the cleaning crew.
As it rang and the elevator opened for him, McGee glanced at his watch. It was three hours earlier in Sacramento, so he might just be getting home for the evening.
"Hello?" a feminine voice, sounding a little out of breath, answered the phone.
"Becky? Hey – it's Tim..."
"Tim? My God, you didn't drop off the planet? Rick swore you had, but I told him you'd probably just found your soul-mate..."
Tim smirked tiredly. "You couldn't be further from the truth, but I appreciate the vote of confidence. How've you been?"
"Great – you? Hey..." she yelped indignantly, as the phone was jostled a moment, followed by a giggling, yelped, "'bye Tim! Be good..." followed by more phone football...
Tim snorted, suddenly wondering how he'd never noticed before that one of his best friends from college was actually an awful lot like Tony DiNozzo in some ways...
"Holy crap, is this the world-famous Thom E. Gemcity, who doesn't pick up a phone anymore?" Rick's voice boomed in his ear. "You finally gonna write that pre-quel about the wacky antics at MIT?"
"Oh yeah, that would be a best seller," Tim drawled, and felt a wave of nostalgia for how much he missed school and his friends. And he'd thought that college had been rough, he reflected briefly on his naivety of the time. "You doin' alright?"
"Couldn't be better. Or, well, yeah, I could be, if I were a world-famous author. Can't be that hard, can it? You need a ghost writer? Or better yet..." the voice started settling into its more usual, cheery tones, "set your next book in Sacramento and come out for some fact gathering. It's great out here this time of year..."
"It's great out there any time of year," Tim smiled wearily, "as you keep reminding me..."
"You know DC's a swamp. Tim, you doin' okay?"
The man still knew him too well. "Of course – world-famous author, remember?" he tried wanly.
"You never did learn to pull that poker-face, did you?" Rick said, his tone sounding more sympathetic than any around him had in a while. "So ya gonna confess any time soon, or do I need to get a second beer for this call instead of just one?"
III.
"I thought I finally got thru with the 'not all blind guys are created equal' speech when you finally caught on that I had nothing in common with your great Aunt Tillie who'd lost in all in a stroke," Rick was saying. "I don't know any more what to say to a guy who just came out of a coma than you do, Tim."
"You probably have a few more ideas about the blind part," McGee grumbled. "And you and Tony are a lot more alike than..."
"Tony? You mean 'Tommy?' This is 'Special Agent Tommy' we're talking about?"
Tim grimaced. "Very funny. Yeah. Yeah, Tony is 'Tommy...'"
"Wow." There was a pause on the other side. "Yeah, I can see why you'd think of me, then," the man chuckled.
"C'mon, Rick, my boss is ready to kill me and I don't exactly know what I did to get everyone bent outa shape!" Tim wasn't in the mood for yet another debate about his book's characters and the real people who'd inspired them. "What should I say? What did I screw up?"
"You're askin' the wrong guy, man." At McGee's objection, Rick broke in, "seriously, Tim – if you can't remember exactly what you said, how can I even start to guess what was wrong with it? Besides – we're not all the same. And one of the most un-same things in this scenario is that your guy has been sighted all his life and now, bam, in – what, his thirties?"
"Yeah..." Tim nodded.
"So bam, in his thirties, he's suddenly blind. I've been blind all my life..."
"You said you didn't lose it until you were three." Tim protested.
There was a snort. "All my life that counts." At the sound of another objection, Rick again stopped him. "For real, Tim – a three year old is about as malleable a creature as they come; they adapt. And I didn't have re-learn anything, really – I just kept going from where I was. All the stuff like reading and math and getting around without Mommy or Daddy came later, and by then, I was doing it all without sight, so no 'rehab.' Just ... life. Milestones. Growing up. Your friend Tony just had his world upended and if it was as recent as it sounds, he's probably still sitting there wondering if there's anything he can do now." Tim could hear the verbal shrug. "Of course," the sarcasm began to resurface, "you could just ask the guy. I mean, after all – he gets pissed off at you for asking, you could probably duck before he makes contact."
"Rick, damn it..."
He was rewarded, not unexpectedly, by his friend's laughter. "Well, what did you think I could say, Tim? Besides – how long have you known me – and how well do I like all the hand-wringing? Just ask the guy what you said to bruise his feelings, make your apologies, and lay low until he gets his sense of humor back."
"It's not that simple," Tim began, "and I'm starting to think it's your fault that I'm in this mess. I'm too used to you, and when I went out to see him at the hospital, I just talked to him like he was gonna get on with everything – the way you would. And then when Ziva and Abby heard that they got really angry, and Abby accused me of trying to take Tony's place, and I tried to explain but of course it just got worse ..."
"Oh, crap, Tim – you didn't get women involved in this too, feeling all sorry for him?" Rick feigned horror, but a thread of reality was in his words too. "What's wrong with you? Don't you remember how much some of those weepy types wanted to make of everything?"
"But Ziva and Abby aren't 'weepy types' – especially not Ziva..."
"All women can be weepy types for someone they care about," he drawled. "So they've gone all mother bear on you. What about Tommy?"
"Tony."
"Tony," Rick conceded. "Did he get pissed off, or what?"
"He just ... I dunno, he just sort of went all quiet."
"And you haven't been back to talk to him."
Tim paused, then admitted, "no. I mean, I got it, both barrels, from Abby and Ziva, and here I'm trying to figure out why, when I did everything right in your book. They're angry, and Tony did really look kinda kicked in the gut, and I couldn't exactly lecture them about how we all should really be treating him just like any other guy. And now, no matter what I say, it's gonna be wrong... and the Boss is pissed off too, and he doesn't know or care what I did, but that I better fix it."
There was a quiet snort of irony. "All because you forgot that I'm not Aunt Tillie ... and Aunt Tillie isn't me. And your friend Tony isn't either of us." Rick sighed. "Maybe he'll appreciate my way of looking at things in a year or two – but for right now, he's just starting a recovery from a bad injury, right? Maybe there's a waiting period before it's time to treat him just like any other guy."
There was another long pause, and Tim asked, "so? As someone who has no basis for an opinion in the circumstances ... what would you do?"
Rick thought a moment. "You pretty good friends with this guy?"
"Not really."
The staccato laugh of surprise burst through the earpiece. "Terrific!"
"Rick..."
"Okay," he sighed. "If it were me ... I'd go see the guy. Alone," he drawled, a twist of irony there, "and tell him that you're not sure exactly how you stepped on it, but you did, and it wasn't your intention. Tell him you had a roommate who browbeat you into being afraid to allow the slightest concession to his blindness, that it was conditioning under combat conditions, and you had no choice in your actions."
"'Manchurian Candidate?' He is a movie buff." Tim murmured, miserably.
"Perfect. And then..." He paused, his voice carrying a soft seriousness, "tell him that you promise to ask first, not assume ... that you'll listen if he wants to tell you what helps and what's a hassle ... and that you're a good friend. After all, you already got the blind guy seal of approval once." Rick encouraged, genuinely. "Give him my number if he doesn't believe you."
IV.
Tim was pretty sure Tony would be alone that morning – Gibbs and Ziva were interviewing a suspect's employer, Abby was behind on processing her work and Ducky two autopsies waiting. Vance was at a conference. If others from outside NCIS were visiting or even knew that Tony was a patient here, they hadn't appeared any time he'd been around.
He wanted to see Tony before he transferred from his hospital room to the rehab unit; he wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling though it would be hard now, it might be worse there, at least after DiNozzo started working on all the training they'd surely have in store for him. He had a lot of hard work ahead, both to build back his atrophied muscles and to get used to being without sight. Tim knew that even in the best circumstances, it would be a lot to face. So he had to go today, before he moved to his new unit.
He waited only a few minutes after Gibbs and Ziva left to start a note that he had a dental appointment, in case this took longer than the interview – but stopped, reconsidered for a few moments, then wrote a simpler note that said simply that he needed a couple hours of personal time for an errand. It wasn't like Gibbs didn't read minds anyway, and since he ordered Tim to fix it...
He left the small sticky note on Gibbs's monitor and walked quickly to the elevator and out of the building, heading to his car for the drive out to Bethesda.
V.
The long term care unit was state of the art, but not exactly set up for conscious patients like DiNozzo, as the clientele was either long term comatose patients as he'd been, or those occasional nursing home patients who suddenly needed more attentive monitoring than the usual in such facilities. As he parked and came into the wing, Tim found himself wondering why Tony hadn't been shipped off to a nursing home months ago, as they would with anyone else not rousing from a coma but otherwise mending – maybe the special monitoring necessitated by his scarred lungs? A request from Director Vance? Or a special favor to the man who'd been injured saving the daughter of the Mossad's Director of Intelligence?
Whatever it was, Tony wasn't exactly ready for marathons or even midnight jaunts down the hall – but there really wasn't much of anywhere for him to go anyway, other than the small kitchenette at the end of the unit for staff and visiting family, and between his wasted muscles and lack of vision, the only times he'd been there was when a therapist practically dragged him out in the hall for a short walk or two. Any time Tim had been there, Tony was in his room, no further than the bedside chair.
This time wasn't too different, but as Tim neared the open door to Tony's room, he was surprised – and heartened slightly – to see that Tony was sitting in the chair, working steadily with a pair of moderately sized weights. He was alone for the first time Tim had seen him since he'd awakened. He was grimacing, even if he tried not to, as he slowly worked the dumbbells in alternating forearm curls, and Tim could see that the weight was still more than was comfortable for him. McGee frowned involuntarily, if only for a moment – the image brought home just how life-changing DiNozzo's injury had been, and how much work still lay ahead for him.
... but that wasn't why he was here. He wouldn't let his pace change until he came to a stop in the doorway. "Tony?"
"McGee..." Not 'probie,' Tim noticed, filing away the thought for later, as he saw a look first of surprise, then of the guarded, defensive, humor he'd seen from Tony only once or twice before. "You cutting class? Isn't it way past time for all good agents to be lined up for Gibbs' morning headslaps?"
Tony's words had been crisp, his demeanor, brittle – as if too formal, distant – he'd seen Tony like this following other devastating losses – Jeanne Benoit, Director Shepard – when he felt responsible for the hurt or betrayal he believed he'd caused. But a part of that time was the pain of the loss Tony had felt as well. Is that what he's feeling now? Tim wondered. Why?
Tony hadn't stopped the focused, painful work with the dumbbells he held, even as a thin line of sweat had broken across his brow. Tim frowned. "Hey," he tried, "what if I bring out a set of weights from the gym at work? There are some smaller adjustable ones, so you wouldn't have to push with th..."
"What's wrong with these? I think even you could do 'em; they're beginner's weights – for girls." The words were bitter, but Tony's demeanor remained distant, almost haunted. "I'm not going to drop back to less – I've lost too much time as it is."
McGee felt a surge of anger, given the circumstances. "Hey, it was you who gave me so much hell for trying bigger weights than I was ready for; you said that they'd ..."
"You were just trying to grow hair on your chest and show off for the typing pool – I'm actually trying to get my life back here," Tony muttered, finally bending forward to drop the weights on the floor and shove them sideways under the small table where he sat. "So that's why you came all the way out here, to play coach?"
This was starting out just great.
"No, Tony," McGee frowned again, frustrated. "Look – I came out to ... to find out what I said the other day. I know you're pissed at me, and I just..."
"Why should I be pissed at you? I'm the idiot who didn't duck in time." DiNozzo shrugged, but he retreated some, too. As if he blamed himself for getting hurt. This is definitely reading like those other times Tony thought he'd screwed up, Tim realized. Maybe no one had told him yet about the commendation and the fallen hero status he'd gained in the halls of NCIS these days...
He had a feeling that even if Tony knew, it wouldn't matter.
McGee's frustration kept tingling, but not so much at DiNozzo – more at not being able to figure out what was bothering the former agent. "I'm not sure ..." he admitted slowly, "but I know you are. Or if not 'pissed' ..." He thought a moment, then tried "I said something that ..." He couldn't say hurt; Tony would never let it go. "...that just hit you the wrong way – but I never meant to. I'm just not sure what I said." Tim wished Tony would just tell him what it was, so he could apologize or do whatever he needed to do to get out of this hole he was in with everyone. "All I know was that we were talking about you getting out of here and over to rehab."
"...where ... they could probably figure out something for me to do." Tony's voice was almost a whisper.
And it all came clear to Tim. "Oh – oh, crap, Tony, is that what...?"
"As opposed to just ... hanging around here," DiNozzo interrupted. "Oh, they do have dead bodies to worry about out here, once in a while ... but so far, none of them have needed any investigation. Lucky for them, huh? 'Cause their live-in investigator is kinda ... on furlow. So..." he laughed, dryly, softly – without humor. "I guess it all works out."
McGee had felt a flush of heat color his face as he suddenly understood what the others had heard – and how different his thoughts had been at the time. And before he'd had a chance to say anything, Tony was joking again, hiding behind his old reliable sarcasm. "No, Tony ... what I said – and what I meant – was that they can figure out how you can do most of what you used to, just differently. They can look at what we do now at NCIS – how we investigate and what we use to do our jobs – and figure out how to do those same things with some sort of adaptive computer program. Word processing is easy; there are several ways to do that. And it's been a few years but even when I was back in school they had several conversion programs for maps and graphics, even for photos if you wanted them. They ought to be able to match what we use – what you used – with something that would convert the data into a form you could use."
As he spoke, McGee wondered if Tony would listen to him, or if he'd just blow off his explanation – but to this surprise, Tony seemed to consider his words. After an awkward and, to McGee, a too-long, painful silence, DiNozzo's expression shifted, and he looked more settled, even a little relieved, to hear it. Finally nodding, Tony offered with a wan smile, "I should have figured that, McMotherboard," Tony's teasing – and his voice, at the moment – were ghosts of what they used to be. "Problem is ... you were right, even if you didn't mean it that way. I can't do what I did before." His words were final and fatalistic, and Tim knew as certainly as he knew anything that, at this moment, Tony didn't have the first idea of what he could do with his life from now on.
"Why not?" Tim urged. He'd seen firsthand all the software and hardware Rick had available to convert damn near anything out there to something he would use, and knew that with some practice Tony could get right back on track. "With the programs they have you could still..."
"Notwithstanding that blind photographer we ran into a couple years ago, I don't think anyone, even Gibbs, is gonna be too crazy about my crime scene photos ... or my walking the scene for evidence." Tony's voice was too calm, too quiet. "And even if he was ... the stated job requirements for special agent include vision correctable to 20/20, McGee. Those days are gone."
"Are you sure about the requirements? Because..."
Tony snorted, his even keel rocked momentarily before he sucked it back, with some difficulty. Chewing his lip unconsciously for a moment, he finally managed, "yeah. Yeah, I checked that one out."
"Tony ... I'm sorry." Tim said, genuinely. "For the confusion, and ..." He trailed off, not sure what to say. "That sucks." He'd looked away for a moment, but when he glanced back up at DiNozzo, he saw a change in the expression that had seemed so demoralized before – so un-Tony. It wasn't all that much better now, but there was a glimmer of curiosity there, a bit more of the old DiNozzo in it. Tim realized it might have been the most animated he'd seen him since he'd been injured, though it was still far from the usual.
"'Sucks...'" Tony mused, "yeah, leave it to the great novelist to come up with the perfect description for all this."
Well, hell, Tony, what word do you want from me, if words won't fix thing? Tim thought to himself. Shaking his head, trying to maintain his calm, he started, "Tony..." He fleetingly wondered if DiNozzo was just taking things out on him. He had to know damn well knew he wasn't minimizing things – didn't he? "I didn't mean..."
"... I know."
There was a new sound to Tony now that Tim was finding hard to reconcile, and in Tony's expression now McGee started to sense what it was. It was resignation, a caving in to circumstances, that just wasn't DiNozzo at all. That was it, wasn't it, that went along with this sense of having no future that Tim thought he saw in him?
"Look – NCIS is a big place," McGee reasoned, "and even if it's not field work, if you decided that you wanted to stay I bet there are all kinds of divisions where you could work. Or if not NCIS, other law enforcement agencies. Maybe it's not the same as in the field – but it's better than just staying at home."
And there was that curiosity again, even more insistent this time, as if DiNozzo was trying to figure out a new suspect's motive. He said nothing at the moment, the silence working to make McGee feel awkward all over again – Gibbs might work silence into an art form, but it just wasn't Tony's style. That made his quiet all the more disconcerting – and Tim feel all the more awkward.
"...but anyway," he tried once more. "If you thought I meant that you couldn't do anything now ... I'm sorry."
Tony snorted softly; in what emotion, Tim wasn't sure – until he spoke. "but I can't, McGee, not exactly ... not yet, at least. But ..." He paused again, long, then acknowledged, "... as you pointed out ... that's what rehab is for, isn't it?"
McGee still wasn't sure what was going through Tony's mind – sarcasm, that he didn't see rehab as holding much hope for him? Defeat, willing to go do whatever anyone else told him to do, not having any ideas of his own? Whatever it was, it still wasn't Tony and Tim was no good at knowing what to say, even under the best of circumstances... "Look, Tony, I..."
A sudden, haunted smile crossed DiNozzo's face as he interrupted. "That's the third time you said that, McGee. 'Look.' You know I can't, right?"
Tim blinked, as if slapped. "Huh?"
"'Look.' 'See.' Not something I'm doing so much now."
McGee felt a flash of irritation at being so misunderstood and he blurted, "c'mon, Tony, it's just an expression..."
"I know." The previously undecipherable expression became even more curious now, and even a little more animated – but for some reason Tim didn't yet understand, it was more DiNozzo than he'd seen this far, "but you're the only one who seems to be able to say those words in front of me now." After a pause, one in which DiNozzo was clearly working through some ideas, he added, "and you were the first to suggest I get moving with rehab."
Tim sighed, "I just meant..."
"...because I think you're the first to think maybe I can have a life after all this."
Again, McGee blinked. Tony's haunted smile had lingered; after a moment, he even chuckled – but it too was haunted, sad – lonely – as he went on.
"Gibbs says those John Wayne 'getting back on the horse' sort of things – but nothing specific. I think he's trying to figure out how he'd handle it so he can tell me what to do, but hasn't come up with anything yet. Ducky's just about as vague, saying I'll be just fine, but the stories it reminds him of aren't about agents going back to work. Abby and Ziva have both become completely Doris Day about it and just tell me to 'concentrate on getting better.'" He paused, and a haunted smile played around his lips. "You got some nerve thinking I can handle this."
In some surprise, McGee looked at the man who had made his life hell on so many occasions – or so he'd thought at the time. Maybe he'd just worked to make him tougher and the tension of the job easier to take, Tim mused. The Tony DiNozzo before him now was thinner, still weak from months in a coma – and reaching out for confirmation that at least one person in his life – just one person – didn't think blindness meant the end of the line. "I just figured there would be some movie reference you'd find for it," McGee tried.
The grin was almost genuine this time. "Oh, there's no shortage of melodramas about injured heroes struggling against the odds to get back, usually saving the day somewhere," Tony agreed. "I have much to live up to. The question is..." his grin softened only a little, but his expression making clear he was serious now. "Why do you think I can?"
"Because you're as stubborn as Gibbs," McGee said without dropping a beat, "even if you're noisier about it than he is. Because you beat the plague with only a 15% chance to survive it..."
"24%. It's the 21st Century, McGee – I had advantages they didn't have in the Middle Ages..."
"Okay, 24% – nothin' to it, then, right?" McGee drawled, but returned to the topic. "Tony, it can be managed; millions do. If others can, you can. And there's a lot of adaptive technology out there to make it easier now than, say, a decade ago."
"So – nothin' to this, then, either?" Tim saw that Tony's question wasn't as derisive as he tried to make it sound. He seemed to be looking for some reassurance that apparently the others had not yet given him – or, maybe, they hadn't known how.
"Probably like recovering from the plague, with better odds," McGee tried, "but with your brain doing all the work, not your antibodies and immune system. Probably most of what you want to do, they can figure out a way you can do it now – maybe differently, but close."
"All but driving – and being a field agent."
McGee suddenly remembered how hard it had been to read Tony, even working with him on a daily basis, once he realized that there was a lot more to the agent than he let others see. DiNozzo's voice had been wistful just then, and Tim wondered again what was going on in his head with it all. "Better than dying in the explosion – or staying in a coma – isn't it?"
Another mused grunt. "Dunno about that yet, McGee."
Tim's eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he learned in his years at an Ivy League school in a competitive, high stress program, it was not to take any suggestion that death was preferable to living until you were mighty sure the speaker wasn't serious. "Tony – you're not thinking..."
A smirk. "Ignore me, McGee; I was hit on the head so hard I didn't see stars afterward. It's just post-coma rambling."
The denial bothered Tim more than his initial statement had. "How many times have you watched 'It's a Wonderful Life?'" he shot back. "Should I break into your condo and bring your DVD so you can watch it again?"
Tony opened his mouth for a quick comeback but wavered, then closed it. After a moment, he swallowed, then nodded. "That's okay – I think I remember the high points." He sat thinking another moment, then drew an almost angry breath, his words full of his frustration at the world. "What's wrong with you, McGee? Why, of everyone, are you the one not afraid of me?"
"Afraid?" Tim hadn't expected the sudden change of demeanor – or the question.
"Not of me, of – of me, like this. Of me, blind. Of blindness. You're the only one not ..." He ran out of steam, then shrugged. "You're the only one."
Tim thought of a thousand responses but knew he owed Tony honesty. "My guess is that they're all still thinking what it would mean, to wake up blind, for you ... for themselves. That makes it larger than life for a while. And they're trying to figure out who you are now, what you're thinking ... how to help you get back to your life."
"And you just don't give a shit?" After a pause, Tony shook his head. "Sorry. I know ..." He trailed, maybe afraid himself to be too candid. "Of course you give at least a shit. You brought the DVD player, after all." He paused only a moment and asked, "did I ever thank you for that?"
DiNozzo was again retreating, now covering as he used to do with babbled irrelevancies and topic changes, and Tim suddenly wanted to give him the answer he sought – he owed both Tony and Rick that much. "Yes, you did. And – I've already been through the wondering what it would be like, and the figuring out how to deal with a blind guy. Not another agent, so not exactly the same, but enough to get yelled at until I could use the words 'look' and 'see' without stammering. I already had the 'afraid' part knocked out of me – by someone who can be a whole lot like you, sometimes."
That surprised him, Tim saw. But DiNozzo recovered quickly and smirked, "where, math camp? Although I can't imagine anyone like me at math camp."
"Believe me, I can't either." Again, Tony looked a bit surprised, maybe this time at the quick reply. Either way, Tim decided it was a good thing, in the circumstances. He vaguely wondered what Rick would make of the conversation, and decided this was close enough to his advice to just ask Tony what he'd said wrong and get on with it – as much as he ever could with DiNozzo. "It was college, actually. Rick was a suite mate, four rooms to a quad – I had to share a bathroom with him for two years. If that doesn't qualify as getting to know someone, not much does."
Tony was mildly interested, in spite of himself. "Just two years?"
McGee thought back about it and felt himself start to smile – he knew Tony would approve. "He moved out of the dorm and into an apartment – with his girlfriend."
And DiNozzo actually grinned – a real grin this time. "Must be the part that's like me."
"Oh, yeah..." Tim mused, remembering Rick's buoyant charm with the girls in their classes, especially with Becky – his last, best, and still steady love of his life.
"What's he do?"
Tony's question – and its odd tone– interrupted Tim's memories, as it struck him that no matter how off-hand and casual Tony had wanted it to sound, it was important to him. He must wonder what other people do without sight, Tim mused. "He's a biomaterials specialist. He works as a designer for a bioengineering firm out west – they develop medical devices and testing equipment, mostly." He saw the familiar glazed over look he and Abby got from the others on a regular basis, and grinned. "He's an inventor, Tony."
"Oh." DiNozzo's eyebrows went up, evidencing his surprise. For once, he had no ready quip in reply. Instead, Tim saw – what? Hope? Relief? Whatever it was, it made Tim think that maybe some day, if it wasn't too contrived, he ought to get Tony on the phone with Rick...
But if Tony had more questions, a soft rap at the door cut them off as Dr. Pitt came in. "Hey Tony – and Agent McGee, good to see you again."
McGee was impressed that the doctor remembered his name. "Dr. Pitt."
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but Tony's scheduled for his last stress test before we ship him across campus..."
"Isn't having McGee visit stress enough?" The old Tony surfaced with enough of his former demeanor to make the doctor chuckle, and McGee wondered if he felt compelled to perform each time someone else was there – probably acting brave and cool for Abby and Ziva, or confident for Gibbs and Ducky. What about him? Without knowing why, and having no reason to think so, Tim found himself believing that Tony didn't think he needed much of a mask with him – and he was surprised to find he wasn't insulted. In fact, in a way, it made him feel as if he had Tony's confidence...
"Tony, I'll see you in the lab in ten. Good to see you, Agent McGee."
"Thanks – you too." As he spoke to the pulmonologist, Tim stood, and turned back to DiNozzo. "I'd better get back, anyway. Gibbs will probably wonder where I am..."
Tony's eyes lit up a little with that. "Where does he think you are?" he grinned conspiratorially.
"Just an errand – personal time."
Tony laughed. "You didn't tell him that..."
"No. Left it on a sticky on his desk."
"Wow. And he hasn't called looking for you yet." He seemed to want to add something to that, but having nothing, let it drop, and his expression softened again. "Thanks for coming, McGee."
"I'll be back – but good luck with the new unit tomorrow." Even now, he wasn't sure what to make of Tony's expression, but wasn't entirely convinced Tony saw this as a hopeful first step in getting his life back yet, as Tim found himself hoping he could. "And – if what I said bothered you..."
"Nah," DoNozzo waved it away, minimizing the hurt. "I think in the long run I like it better when someone isn't so freaked out by it all."
Tim nodded, sagely, and noticed a transport aide coming toward Tony's room with an empty wheelchair. "I'd better go – they're coming for you. See you later, okay, Tony?"
"See you later, McGee – and ... thanks."
"Sure – " Tim turned to walk out of the room, smiling briefly at the aide passing him, and only briefly glanced back toward DiNozzo. The thoughtful look he saw on his former teammate's face suddenly registered, maybe more than anything else had that day, and Tim suddenly veered toward the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator – and possibly have Tony in there with him. With his visit, he had gotten an image of Tony firmly in mind as a man starting to heal, someone who would get to work on his recovery and not let things beat him – and, irrationally, he was afraid that seeing Tony's still too thin frame being loaded into a hospital wheelchair and passively being pushed across the medical complex for another test would ruin his new-found belief in his teammate.
And he wasn't going to let that happen.
He jogged down the stairs and stepped out into the bright sunshine. He blinked a moment as his eyes adjusted, and wondered fleetingly if it would be for Tony like it was for Rick, unable to use any of the light but still bothered by its intensity.
He shook it off, resolute in his decision that he would remain positive, that the old Tony was still there, not far below the surface, and with just a little more time and practice, DiNozzo would be the same irritating, obnoxious, talented investigator he'd always been. So he wasn't quite there yet. But McGee would hold on to hope.
He had no idea what he would do to fix things with Abby and Ziva and Gibbs, but for the moment, that wasn't important. He'd found what had gotten him off-track with Tony and, he thought, fixed it; he even dared to believe that he found some fears in Tony that he might have helped allay. And those things were far more important than the temporary ire of his colleagues.
And one day, Tony would break down and call him 'Probie' again, something McGee never thought he could miss, but now desperately wanted to hear. He knew he would some day; he had faith he would hear it again in all the patronizing, belittling, insufferable glory DiNozzo had to give the word.
It would come. And when that day came ... then Tim would know that everything would be fine...
***