Chapter 33

It was a long night. Ducky and James sat in the waiting room at the hospital in Germantown...waiting.

It was after two a.m. when a doctor came out to speak with them.

"You're here for Timothy McGee?"

"Yes. We found him."

"Are you family?"

"No. I'm a friend, and...well, Timothy has been experiencing mental and emotional problems lately. He has rejected contact with nearly everyone but me at the moment. If you can let me know what is happening, I will pass along the information to his family."

The doctor nodded. "We've managed to treat his overdose. The ecstasy and PMA synergized to make the effects worse. It was a good thing you were able to get him help so quickly. Much longer, he would have either died or faced permanent internal damage from the hyperthermia. He's doing much better now."

"May we see him?"

"Of course. Back this way."

Ducky and James walked back to the room where Tim lay. He was quiet, unmoving. His eyes were closed.

They sat down beside the bed and waited for a while in silence. Tim didn't wake up.

"What now, Don?"

"I'm going to try and get him to realize that he's run out of options. He could have died, and I don't want this to be the kind of end he makes."

"You're probably right. I'll make myself scarce. He'll be more likely to respond to you and believe in your good will. I'm cantankerous."

Ducky smiled. "Thank you for your help, James."

"Well, remains to be seen whether or not it was a help."

"Yes. We'll see."

"Do you want to call anyone?"

"Not yet. I don't want to put him on the defensive right away. I'll play it by ear."

"Just say if you need anything."

Ducky nodded and looked at Tim again. He waited for Tim to wake up, dozing himself for quite a while.

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

Tim opened his eyes and took a deep breath with an ease that surprised him. Breathing had been extraordinarily difficult not too long ago. Most of what he saw was a bit out of focus and his head was spinning a bit. It also ached as if someone had taken a hammer to it. The idea of moving seemed like a far-off dream.

"Wow," he whispered, staring fuzzily at the ceiling. "Now, I know why they say don't use drugs."

"Timothy?"

Tim blinked, surprised that he wasn't alone. He made the Herculean effort to turn his head toward the voice. He blinked a few more times to clear his vision. It wasn't his imagination. Ducky was there, just awakening.

"Ducky?"

Ducky yawned widely and sat up.

"What are you doing here?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Sleeping...in a bed."

"Not until I knew if you were going to be all right."

"Am I?"

"Yes, the doctors say so. ...although you seem to be doing a good job of trying to destroy yourself."

The disappointment in Ducky's voice made Tim look away, not sure why he felt ashamed rather than angry.

"You saved me," he said, staring at the IV bag.

"Yes, we did."

"Why? Why bother?"

"If you truly don't want to live, Timothy, then I might wonder the same thing...but I can't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Because you have shown multiple times that you do want to live, even if other events have demonstrated a woeful lack of sanity on your part. I have a question for you, and I need an answer. A real answer."

Tim didn't say anything.

"Is this what you want from your life, Timothy?"

Almost, Tim could wish for the angry voice in his head, for the fury that had sustained him for so long...but he couldn't dredge up the energy to feel it. He couldn't find any way to scoff and be angry. He felt so empty. ...and he couldn't find anything to fill the yawning cavity inside himself. There was nothing. Nothing at all...just that unending emptiness.

"Is it?"

"Doesn't matter," Tim whispered.

"That is not an answer. Yes or no, Timothy. Is this what you really want? Teetering on the edge of insanity until you finally fall beyond the reach of everyone and everything in your life worth having?"

Tim dropped his gaze from the IV bag, down the tube, to his hand. Idly, he wondered what was in it. Not that it really mattered.

"Because it does matter and I need an answer."

Tim didn't want to give an answer. Giving an answer would mean breaking the ambiguity, would mean confronting things he didn't want to confront, things he didn't want to see or acknowledge. It was easier if it didn't matter. It was easier if he simply went on doing what he knew was wrong because there was no one to care. It was easier when he forced everyone away and pretended that being alone was all there was. It was easier not to feel anything but anger, as tiring as that was. It was easier to deny that there was anything else, that there were emotions shrieking inside his head, clamoring to escape. It was easier to be nothing.

"Timothy. Answer me."

Ducky's voice was no longer the kindly doctor. It was commanding...and yet, Tim wasn't angry about that. He recognized why Ducky was asking, even if he didn't want to answer.

"Is this the life you want?"

Tim tried to make his voice work, but he couldn't. He couldn't get his vocal cords to vibrate and give an answer. He looked from his hand to the blanket.

"I want to be angry," Tim said softly...and felt the unfamiliar tears choking his throat. "...but I can't. I don't know why."

"I need an answer, Timothy."

"I...don't...know what I want."

"Yes, you do. Do you want this life or don't you? It's a simple question. I'm not asking what you want in replacement. I'm asking if this is what you want."

Again, Tim couldn't find it in him to give an answer. He didn't know why, but when he tried to make himself answer the question, he couldn't. He began stroking the blanket.

"I can't...answer."

"Nod or shake your head. It doesn't even require a word."

Tim tried once more to feel the anger. It wouldn't come. There was only that yawning emptiness.

"Ask me again," he whispered.

"Is this the life you want, Timothy?"

Feeling as though it was sucking away every bit of energy he had, Tim finally shook his head.

"Then, will you listen to me? Really listen."

Tim nodded, still stroking the blanket, wishing he could feel something. ...and suddenly, he did. Ducky's hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, Timothy, there is so much more than this."

Tim couldn't reply.

"Will you now get the help you need?"

"What help is that?" Tim asked, trying (and failing) to sound sarcastic.

"I would like to suggest that you admit yourself to a psychiatric facility."

Tim forced himself to laugh...but it didn't last long. It couldn't because he didn't feel like laughing. Not at all.

"It will help you."

"With what?"

"All the problems you've been facing...alone. You don't have to do that. ...and quite frankly, Timothy, I'm not qualified."

"I'm that bad?"

"Yes. You know that you are."

The blanket on the bed was really, really boring. How lovely it was. Something boring. No trauma, no emotion. It was just a blanket. He continued to stroke it, watching as the IV needle in his hand shifted slightly in response to his movements.

"She was going to kill me, you know," he said.

"Who?"

"Jewel. ...Julia. She gave that to me...said I should save it for later. Only there wasn't a later, not with her. I killed her. ...I guess she was returning the favor."

"Timothy."

"It's funny. I don't feel anything right now. Nothing at all. I want to. ...but I don't. It's like there's a black hole where I was before. Everything is...gone."

"Will you go?"

"Check into the loony bin?"

"Get help. You need it. Desperately. You can't function as you are and you know that."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Tim began tracing shapes in the nap of the blanket. How lovely to look at the blanket.

"I killed her. She tried to kill me. Nice parallel, isn't it?"

"Timothy, will you go?"

"It's not like I expected it. They must have been suspicious. They must have known. She was done with me. I must have screwed up somewhere...I don't even know where."

Whorls and loops. No real picture, just lines.

"All I wanted...I don't know."

"Timothy, are you listening?"

"What a failure."

"Timothy."

"Everything. Screwed up. Beginning to end. ...and I don't care...don't feel a thing."

"Timothy," Ducky said firmly.

Tim saw one of Ducky's hands move over to cover his, stopping his motions.

"Get help, Timothy. Let me do what I can. Please."

"Why are you here?"

"To help you...because I care."

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I don't."

"You do. You're just hiding from that fact."

"Why should I go? For you?"

"No, Timothy. You should go for yourself...for who you are, for all that you can be. That's why you should go."

"I'm house sitting."

"We can make arrangements so that everything will be secure there."

"I still don't forgive them."

"To be honest, Timothy, I don't care. All I want is for you to be healthy and happy again."

"I don't have insurance. I quit, never bothered to get anything else."

"It will be taken care of."

Tim moved his eyes, following the line of Ducky's arm up to his face...a face filled with concern, not hatred or disdain.

"What have I done, Ducky?"

"Nothing that can't be undone...if you're willing to do it. Will you go?"

"Some things can't be undone."

"It's true, but there are many things that can. Will you go?"

Tim looked down again and shivered.

"I'm cold."

"I'll make sure you get another blanket."

Tim looked toward his feet. He knew he still had to answer, and he wished, oh how he wished that he could find some emotion inside himself, something that would allow him to shout, to be angry...to feel something about his situation. He just couldn't do it.

"Timothy?"

There seemed to be no other option, really. There seemed to be only one choice, only one way to go.

"I'll go."