Chapter 15

Tim woke up in the night. He knew it was night because there was only a little bit of light out the window. Inside the room, the lights were low but on. It wasn't dark inside. He felt a comforting hand on his arm, anchoring him to the world, but his connection felt stronger than it had before. He wasn't sure if he actually needed the extra weight now. He thought he might be pretty securely anchored.

He decided to try it. Carefully, he freed his arm from the hand and set it gently on the bed. He looked at the hand and followed it up to his mother, asleep. He smiled a little. No one kept him safe like Mom.

Still, he was feeling better...but there was something else. What was it?

His eyes moved over to a part of the room. Even in the dim light, he could see the stain. It almost seemed to sparkle in the midst of the patterns he always saw.

Blood.

I killed someone.

That was it.

What did that mean for him? He had no question about whether or not he'd killed the man. He had no question that the man had deserved it.

The plain fact of the matter, though, was that he had killed someone.

Not just killed. Shot.

I shot someone.

Not in the head, though.

Tim was suddenly conscious that he was rubbing the scar on his head. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to look at himself in a mirror. He didn't need to most of the time and so he rarely did.

He couldn't explain to himself why, but he wanted to see himself now. He didn't want anyone to ask him about it, though. This was one of those things that had no words to explain it. He didn't like it when people looked at him with that expression that said what he was doing didn't make sense.

He slid out of bed, trying to make sure that his mom stayed asleep. Then, he walked to the small bathroom. He stepped inside and closed the door. For a moment, he stood there in the darkness and wondered if he was afraid or not. Then, he reached out and flipped on the light

There he was in the mirror.

On his forehead was the scar. The mark of the thing that had changed him. Tim knew he was different from how he had been, but, in reality, it was an academic knowledge. He couldn't really remember how he had felt before. What he remembered was the fact that things had been different or rather that he had been different. The memories he had were mostly devoid of the things that would tell him the emotions of them, the reasons for what made things different.

He stared at himself for a long time, wondering who it was he really saw. He was glad that he didn't see himself falling apart.

At the same time...

He reached out and touched the mirror, almost expecting to see something change. The patterns, what his doctor called visual distortions, seemed to crystallize around the scar.

That was the defining factor of much of his life. That hole in his head. Did it mean that his life had no real meaning beyond that? No. Was he a freak? Maybe. Tim couldn't be sure of that. His friends insisted that he wasn't, but people who didn't know him very well thought he was. He wasn't sure how to take that.

Then, he heard movement outside the door.

A knock.

"Tim? Are you in there?"

"Yes," he said softly. "I think I am."

"Can I come in?"

Tim turned and opened the door. Naomi was there with a worried expression on her face. Tim supposed that she had reason to be. She scrutinized him and then silently asked if he was going to stay in the bathroom.

Tim came out.

"Don't start wondering if you're you," she said as Tim sat down. "You are."

"Sometimes, I wonder," Tim said, his voice still soft. He didn't want to disturb the calm that he'd found by speaking loudly. "I was looking at myself in the mirror."

"And what did you see?"

Tim touched the scar.

"This."

"You're more than that, Tim."

"Does it ever make you mad?" Tim asked.

"I'm not mad."

"No, not me...this. Does what happened make you mad?"

Naomi sat on Tim's bed and patted the space beside her. Tim walked over and sat down. Naomi put her arm around him.

"It used to. There was a time when I would wonder why it was that my son was going through all that. I wondered if I would ever get you back...and I said it wasn't fair because we'd already gone through enough."

"And now?"

"Now, I have my son. You're not the same, but you're still my son. You can't let the changes make you think that you're not yourself. You are Tim McGee."

Tim leaned against her.

"I remember the things from before, but they're almost...not real. I know things. I have the memories but... I don't think I really know what I'm missing."

"You're not, Tim."

Tim took a breath.

"Mom."

"Yes?"

Tim pulled away from her and looked at her directly.

"People who don't know me think I'm a freak. I've heard them say that. People who do know me insist I'm not. Which is right?"

Naomi was quiet for a few seconds. Tim thought she might have been sad.

"Tim, you are my son. You are an NCIS agent."

"Not a normal one."

"No, but you're still an agent. You still work. You are a good man. You are different from what a lot of people expect when they talk to you. You are not a freak."

"Tony doesn't know what to do with me."

"Yes, he does. It's just a matter of learning to accept the differences. He's working on it...because he cares. The people who think you're a freak don't care...and all they see is different."

"But I am different."

"Yes, and you know that. So do I. So does everyone. It's all right."

Tim nodded and looked away. His eyes went to that stain on the floor.

"I did that," he said.

"Yes."

"He hurt Tony."

"Tony's all right, Tim. Agent Gibbs told us. He's going to be fine."

Suddenly, Tim felt worried.

"I need to see him."

He started to get up.

"No, Tim. It's late at night. Tony will be sleeping."

"But...but I need to see that...that he's..."

"He's fine. He had a concussion, but he will be fine."

"No...I just..."

Naomi stopped him from standing.

"Tim, look at me. Okay? Listen. You're doing so much better. Don't fall back into the panic. There's no reason."

"Tony could..."

"He's going to be fine. He doesn't think he's dead. You don't need to be afraid of that. I promise. ...but you can't see him right now. You need to wait."

Tim started rubbing at his scar again.

"I know all this that's happened has scared you, Tim, but you need to fight against the panic that keeps you from thinking."

Tim let his mother pull him back down onto the bed. She hugged him tightly, and Tim was surprised to feel like crying, and as always happened when he felt the emotion, he started to cry. The tears came to his eyes and fell down his cheeks.

"It's okay, Tim. It's okay."

"I killed someone. I shot him. I pulled the trigger. I couldn't stop. I had to keep shooting."

Tim was crying as he spoke. He had no mechanism for dealing with strong emotions. They basically took over when he felt them.

"Shh, Tim. It's okay."

His mom started to rock him back and forth.

"It's all right."

Tim kept crying, but he stopped trying to speak. After a while, he felt better and he sat up. He looked at his mother.

"Can I see if Tony is all right tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'm kind of tired."

"Then, it's fine if you sleep."

Tim lay back and looked at the ceiling.

"I'm glad you're here, Mom."

"So am I. I'm even more glad that you're here, Tim."

Tim closed his eyes and slept.

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

Tony was feeling impatient. He'd been waiting for his doctor to come in and tell him he'd been released for hours. Now, granted, he'd been awake since five a.m., but still. It had been hours. He still had a headache, but the MRI hadn't shown anything bad going on in his head, and he wanted to go home. He supposed he should be appreciative that he didn't have a roommate at the moment, but it was far from his home.

The door to his room opened. He had a hope that it was finally his doctor.

...but no. It was Ziva.

"How are you feeling, Miss David?" he asked. "Stomach all settled?"

Ziva rolled her eyes.

"Yes. I am feeling fine now. I did not even kill the people at the restaurant."

"I told you to beware."

"How are you?"

"I'm bored."

"Nothing else?"

Tony shrugged.

"Tim's doing okay. He hasn't had another meltdown...at least not that anyone has told me. He hasn't, has he?" Tony asked.

"Not that I know. I have only been able to leave home...this morning." Ziva seemed more than a little embarrassed by that.

Tony grinned.

"How are you, Tony? Really."

"I have a headache. I'm cranky. I want to go home, and I'm worried about how Tim is doing after all this. Anything else you want to know?"

"Are you all right?" she asked with a strangely gentle tone.

Tony took a breath and nodded.

"Yeah. I'm all right."

"Good. I am glad. From what I have heard, nothing that happened was your fault."

"No, it wasn't, but it sure wasn't my finest hour. People keep hitting me on the back of the head."

"Besides Gibbs?"

Tony smiled a little.

"Yeah. Besides Gibbs."

"Do you remember what happened?"

Tony shook his head. "No. I don't. The doc says that I probably won't, either. It's too common for things like this to be forgotten. Everything was fine...and then, it wasn't."

"I am sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. I'm just hoping that Tim gets better, not worse."

"I hope so, too."

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

That would definitely not be the doctor. He wouldn't knock first.

The door opened, revealing Sam in his wheelchair.

"Tony, Ziva," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"No, Sam. Come on in," Tony said. "How's Tim?"

"Asleep still, thank goodness. He had a few rough moments last night from what Naomi told me."

"Rough, how?" Ziva asked.

"He fired a gun. He killed a man. An odious excuse for a human being, but a man, all the same. George Bernard Shaw said that 'really bad men are just as rare as really good ones,' but I think he killed one of the really bad ones."

"And he is one of the really good men," Ziva said softly.

"I'm biased, but I agree," Sam said. "Still, Tim doesn't seem to be able to make that distinction. What he knows is that he killed...no shot someone. The rest of it...doesn't seem to matter."

"I'm sorry," Tony said.

"Not your fault. Let's put the blame where it belongs. First, on that Agent Russell who deserved what he got and worse. Second, on the man who shot Tim two years ago. Sometimes, I still can't help but really hate him. When I see how different Tim can be..." Sam sighed, clearly not really thinking about the others in the room. "I'm his father and I'm not supposed to think this way, but sometimes, my son seems like a stranger. There are moments when he looks at me from another world, but then..." Sam smiled a little. "...but then, who ever really stays the same? The changes I faced were physical, not mental, but I changed a lot after the accident. Still..." He sighed and reconnected with the others. "Sorry. I get pensive sometimes. I did have a reason for coming here besides talking your ears off."

Tony smiled.

"What?"

"Tim has been really worried about you, Tony. I was hoping that you could come and visit him...once you're released, of course. Your health has to take precedence over Tim's worry but..."

"What?" Ziva asked.

"So far, Tim hasn't realized that he's not allowed to leave. We've managed to keep him from knowing that he's still in the psychiatric wing and restricted in his movements. The first time, you know, he couldn't tolerate the restriction. We don't know if he still would have that problem, but he's tentatively getting better after all these terrible things. We don't want to risk it."

"Of course, I'll come...when my doctor deigns to show up. I'm feeling fine."

Tony didn't mention his headache to Sam. If this would help Tim, then, he was all for it...no matter how he himself felt about confronting Tim's differences again.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. "If you're not up to it, we can hold Tim off for another day or so."

"No. It's fine. I'll come...when I'm allowed."

Sam smiled in relief. "Thank you. All of you. I can't tell you how much of a comfort it's been to Naomi and me that Tim has so many people watching out for him. He has days...when he just can't manage on his own, but we told him that he had to ask for help when he needed it, and he has...and you've all stepped up, even when, I know, it must have been really hard to do it. President Reagan said that 'those who say that we're in a time when there are no heroes, they just don't know where to look.' He's right. You're Tim's heroes, even if he doesn't realize it. ...but I think he does. Thank you."

Tony looked at Ziva uncomfortably. He wasn't used to being described that way...for simply sticking it out.

"Anyway, come by whenever you can. Thank you."

Sam wheeled himself out of the room. Ziva closed the door behind him and then turned back.

"He said some of the same things you have said."

"Yeah. He did."

Ziva walked back to him and sat down.

"If he can admit to it and still love his son..."

Tony shrugged.

"I'm not Sam. Sam is...way more eloquent."

Ziva smiled.

"It is about feeling, not words."

Then, the door opened once more and Tony was relieved to finally see his doctor coming in.

"Good morning, Agent DiNozzo. I hear you're anxious to be set free."

"You have no idea."

"All right. Let's just check things out once more and if I'm satisfied, then, you can be released."

Ziva raised her eyebrows but remained mute as she let Tony have his final examination in privacy.

"Let's not waste any more time."

"Please," Tony said and willingly submitted to the exam.