Chapter 8

Tim walked quickly down the sidewalk to his building. It was late, later than usual because he'd gone to an emergency session with Dr. Lewis that evening. He was too wound up to deal with the shock on his own and Ducky had told him to go. He was much calmer now...enough to be a bit embarrassed about his reaction. There was no reason why he should have reacted like that. It was silly and...and wussy.

...but his gun. Someone had stolen his gun from NCIS. Someone had used it. ...but why? ...and what if his dreams really hadn't been dreams? What if he really had gone and killed Smythe.

No, Tim. You didn't do that. You know you didn't.

...but did he? Did he really? When he thought back to his time at Matt's house, back before he'd gone to the psychiatric hospital, much of the time was a blur to him. It was difficult to think of the individual days. Most of what he remembered was just that neverending fear, anger, hatred...and absolute exhaustion. Beyond that, there was so little he could remember. ...even when Ducky had been there and his friend James.

This is an entirely different situation. You were starving yourself. You weren't sleeping. That's why you can't remember. This time...this time is different. You know what you were doing.

But when he zoned out, as he often did when working on a computer-based problem, maybe he could have forgotten.

No! No, you've never ended up doing something you didn't remember. All that zoning out explains is why you didn't hear anything.

"Maybe I didn't want to hear anything," Tim said softly to himself.

"Like now?" a voice hissed in his ear.

Tim stiffened. He had money from Ducky in his pocket. The prick of a knife in his back made him pause.

"Hand over your money."

Tim shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he had.

"That's it?"

"That's all I have," Tim said, keeping his voice to a whisper. He wasn't going to attract attention, not with that knife in his back.

"Are you sure?"

The pressure increased.

"Promise. That's all I have."

"Tim! That you? Jethro was getting antsy."

The presence behind him vanished as Jethro's growl resonated on the empty street. His worn nerves weren't up to the stress and Tim felt tears prick his eyelids as he tried to breathe.

"Tim, are you all right?" It was Jed, of course.

"I...am now." He stumbled forward. He had been less than a block away from his building. So close to home and still not safe.

"What happened?"

"Guess."

"Oh...again?"

"Yeah. I think...he might have been ready to draw blood if you hadn't come out."

Jethro pulled Jed over to Tim and the dog began to nuzzle Tim's hand.

"I guess that explains why Jethro was so intent on getting outside."

"Yeah...I guess."

"Huh," Jed said quietly and ambled past Tim.

"What?" Tim asked, turning.

"Looks like he didn't get what he came for." He held out the money Tim had given his would-be mugger.

"He had it. Why did he drop it?" Tim asked.

"Who knows? You want it back, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Then take it quick before someone else sees the money and mugs us both."

Tim smiled and reached out. His hand was shaking. Jed noticed.

"You look like a ghost, Tim. Come on inside."

Tim's legs wobbled as he staggered along. Jed put a supporting arm around his back.

"Man, you weren't this scared the first time someone robbed you."

"It's...been a long day, I guess."

"Well, why don't you come to my place and have some tea. It's only in bags and all I have are chipped mugs, but I know it's more than you have."

Tim smiled. "I'm not really a tea person."

"Well, maybe you should be. You can't drink that horrible coffee crap all the time. For one thing, it's crap. For another, it's coffee and you're already wound up enough."

"Okay...okay, Jed. Lead the way."

Tim followed Jed to his apartment and sat down on one of his rickety chairs at his old table. They chatted for a few minutes, drinking the promised tea. Then, Jed suggested that music might help and gave Tim a look. Tim grinned and got up. He walked to his apartment and grabbed a couple of records and his record player. He carried them over to Jed's place and set it up. They spent another hour or two just listening to some of Tim's jazz.

At least Jed appreciates the music... Tim thought to himself.

By the time midnight rolled around, Tim was feeling much better and he went back to his apartment, record player in his arms...along with some tea bags and some strict instructions to use them.

Tim went to his apartment, set down the record player and then turned all the locks on his door. The deadbolt, the chain, the doorlock, and the night latch.

"Safe now, Jethro. Right?"

Jethro trotted to his bed and settled down.

"Right." Tim sighed. This feeling of always being in danger was something he was struggling with. Of course, his surroundings didn't really help, but there was a part of him that was always on edge and it was that part that he tried to get rid of. Sometimes, he got close. ...but not right now when everything was going so wrong.

Even though it was midnight, his phone rang. That meant Sarah was calling. She always made a point of calling once a week, even if she had nothing to say. It was like she wanted to be sure that Tim wasn't cutting himself off or going crazy again.

He was tired, but if he didn't answer, Sarah would worry. With a tired smile, he answered the phone.

"Hey, Sarah." That would be an extra day of paying for his cell phone, but he wouldn't let her know that. Instead, he put on a brave face and didn't tell Sarah about possibly being accused of murder.

She didn't need to know.

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

Tony walked into his apartment, feeling dejected and stupid. He hadn't realized just how many pawn shops there were in the Metro area. He knew there were plenty of them, but until he had started trying to track down the one shop Tim might have gone to, he hadn't realized that there were so many. In DC, out of DC...around DC. It wasn't like he could just go and ask Tim where he'd pawned his precious typewriter. Tim would never tell him. ...and there weren't any really close to his apartment either. ...and Tony hadn't realized before how many varieties of old typewriters there were. He'd seen Tim's typewriter, but it wasn't like he had noted the model and make of it. Did typewriters even have models and makes? He had no idea. He wanted to get Tim's typewriter, not a replacement for Tim's typewriter. So far... no luck. He also couldn't depend on it necessarily still being in the shop. He didn't know when Tim had sold it and he had no idea how long it would take for some other geek to come by and want to buy an old typewriter.

Perhaps this was his penance. He couldn't erase the memory of the expression on Tim's face when he had told Tony it was too late to be sorry. How it rankled to know that, by the time he had finally realized just how bad it had been, it was too late to do anything about it. He didn't consider himself a bad person. Sure, he had flaws. Everyone did...but he'd always felt that, when it came to his job, he did it well. That included how he interacted with his team. Sure, he could be a jerk. Sure, he was sometimes a bit too silly, but he had always thought that, when it came down to it, he was there for his team when it mattered, even when it was uncomfortable for him. He could think of loads of times when he had been, when he had made sure that members of the team were okay.

So why in the name of all that was holy had he ignored the evidence right in front of his face? Why? Everyone slipped up sometimes, but why this time...and why for so long?

...and dang it, how was he going to find Tim's typewriter?

He sat down and, for once, didn't turn on the television. Instead, he got out a piece of paper and a pen and began jotting down the steps he might take to succeed in his mission. First, how could he find out exactly what kind of typewriter Tim had owned without asking Ducky, who would, no doubt, know? Would Abby know? Maybe. She had been there a lot.

Step 1: Figure out typewriter: Ask Abby?

Ziva had the photographic memory, or so she claimed. Maybe she had seen it and noted the make and model.

Step 1: Figure out typewriter: Ask Abby? Ziva?

Gibbs seemed to know everything...but had he ever been to Tim's apartment? Would his omniscience really stretch that far?

Step 1: Figure out typerwriter: Ask Abby? Ziva? ...Gibbs?

Okay, so step two...what would be a good step two?

Step 2: Find pawn shop. ...How?

How would that happen? What could he do to find the pawn shop? Ducky wouldn't know that...since he didn't know Tim had sold it. ...and since Tim seemed to have kept that a secret from the people he was currently speaking to...

Then, it came to him. Tim's old scary neighbor Jed! If anyone would know, he'd bet that Jed knew it. Of course, Jed didn't really trust him, but Tony was good at talking people around to his way of thinking. So...worry about that later. Next problem would be how to find out when Tim wasn't there and he could sneak into that dilapidated old building to talk to Jed without Tim knowing. Tony was fairly certain that Tim wouldn't see this as a favor...not until he could see the results of it anyway. At this point, it would be interfering...and with how badly Tim had reacted during his interrogation, Tony was sure that Tim wouldn't see his presence as anything other than confirmation of their certainty of his guilt.

Step 2: Find pawn shop. ...How? Talk to neighbor Jed. Stake out Tim's building and wait for him to leave.

Okay...step three.

Step 3: Go to pawn shop.

That was easy.

Step 4: Find out if typewriter is there or has been sold. If sold...what?

How in the world could he track down the whereabouts of an old typewriter sold by a pawn shop? Tony sat back, momentarily stymied.

"McGee said he got a good price for it. That means it was probably in a higher-class shop. A guy who doesn't care about the goods being stolen or whatever wouldn't give a good price for an old typewriter," Tony said to himself. "And McGee would want his typewriter to have a good long life."

At that, Tony paused. The old McGee would want that. Maybe this strange new unhappy McGee didn't care.

No! He hasn't changed that much. He still cares. He has to.

Tony decided that he wasn't going to believe that Tim had changed enough for that to be an issue. A small treacherous voice in the back of his mind refused to let it be that easy.

How would you know if he'd changed? You haven't seen him for months. Did you really see him even when he was around?

Tony sighed. It was hard to deny that. He had done what he usually did with Tim: make jokes and assume that made everything okay.

How was I to know that it would backfire so badly? Tony asked himself...and then answered himself with another question. When has joking about serious things ever helped McGee feel better?

He thought back to when Tim had been so traumatized by the death of his witness on his first case. He hadn't joked there, just given some needed advice and Kate had been the sympathetic ear Tim had needed. Then, when Tim had thought he shot the undercover police officer, Tony remembered that he had gone to help boost Tim's spirits in a way that would have helped him, i.e. joking around, trying to get Tim to go out on the town. ...and it had backfired. Badly. He was lucky Tim hadn't just thrown him out.

The list of steps to getting Tim back his typewriter lay on the table, forgotten for the moment as the bigger problem weighed heavily on Tony's mind. Tony sighed, wishing for the millionth time that he could really understand how Tim's mind worked. Things that worked for him didn't work for Tim. Tim withdrew when he was upset. When he was really bothered, Tony knew that he often did the same, but he always went to someone, often Gibbs, but sometimes others. Why didn't Tim just do the same? Why stuff it down and let it fester? What was it about Tim that made him do that?

"Why didn't he say something at the very beginning?" Tony muttered...and then again answered himself. "Because the rest of us were too busy resenting him to see how nervous he was."

Even with all these things he was thinking (which he had thought before), Tony still knew that he didn't really understand. He couldn't because he didn't have the...the evidence, the proof, the information that he needed to really formulate a conclusion. Sure, he liked jumping to conclusions based on instinct, but when it came to people he knew, he needed more than speculation. ...and he just didn't have it. ...and he didn't know how he was going to get it.

Finally, he looked back at the piece of paper, turned it sideways and wrote one more step.

Step 0: Figure out why McGee is the way he is. How?

Then, he put down the pen and went to bed.

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

Ziva picked up her phone, started to dial...and then hung up before the number could connect. She had done this probably twenty times since she had come home. She knew it would only take one phone call and she could find out Tim's number...and call him. It surprised her how much she missed him, even a year later. It wasn't as though they had done a lot together, but they had been friends. When the team had been split up, it was Tim she had kept in contact with more than anyone else. Tim had been the first one to befriend her when she had first joined the team. He was so accepting.

...and he had become a stranger before her eyes and she had been too busy expecting him to fail to notice. She told herself that the expectations had simply been realistic and it wasn't because she wanted Tim to look like a fool. She liked Tim. She didn't want him hurt. She didn't want him to be humiliated. ...but she had expected him to fail. In a way, he had, but not in the way she had thought he would. She had thought he would slip up in front of the drug dealers and get himself killed. Better that he mess up long before that could happen.

His error could have been caught if any of them had bothered to pay attention to just how bad it was. It had been bad. Really bad, and while she had noticed him being angry, she hadn't bothered to attach it to anything permanent, certainly nothing justified.

She missed Tim, but she also had seen the look in his eyes. There was no forgiveness there. If it was absent after a year away from them, could it ever happen? She didn't think she could ask for it, not when the consequences of her actions were still affecting him...but she still missed him.

Ziva started dialing again...and then shut off the phone and put it away.

She missed Tim, but there was no going back. There was nothing she could do to fix things, nothing to make them better. Nothing. It was better to move on than to hope for the impossible.

With that thought, she went to bed.