Chapter 30
"I can see right through you, Mac. You're just like me."
Tim watched in horror as the gun came up and Jewel started to fire. Bullet after bullet. She never stopped. Tim tried to stop her, but then the dream morphed...as it always did... into him firing and Jewel standing behind him, whispering in his ear.
"You can't fool me, Mac. We're just the same."
Tim inhaled sharply and came awake, managing not to scream, but not able to stop the tears. He felt an arm across his chest and he looked over to see Abby asleep beside him. She hadn't been awakened by his inhalation. Wide awake and needing to get to a place where he could let it out, Tim carefully slid himself out from under Abby's arm. She stirred but didn't awaken.
He had no idea what time it was, but it didn't really matter. He wasn't sleeping anymore. Not until he had assuaged his guilt. Only then did he feel he could face his unconscious mind again. Carefully, he crept to the door. He knew that the sound of it opening might wake Abby up, but he had to chance it. He could feel the need to...to do something building up in his chest and he had to let it out.
Abby didn't even move when the door slid open. Tim walked out into the lab and closed the door behind him. It appeared empty, but that didn't matter. Tim just walked out of the lab and into the corridor. Then, he leaned against the wall, slid down to the floor and began to sob. He drew his knees to his chest, feeling a bit of a twinge from his bruised ribs but not caring enough to stop.
It didn't matter that it was only a dream. It didn't matter that Ducky didn't blame him, that he wasn't really dead. None of that mattered compared to the feeling he felt when he was confronted anew with that dark part of himself. That was what kept him from sleeping at times like this. He cried silently, having learned to do so with the thin walls of his apartment, but the force of his tears shook his whole body.
The problem was that there was no Jethro with his constant devotion, no Ducky with words of wisdom, no Matt with unquestioning support...no one here to tell him that what he felt was wrong, not even Dr. Lewis with his professional and yet comforting demeanor. He knew that everyone was more worried about keeping him alive, but Tim actually wished that he could talk to Dr. Lewis. Today would be his regularly scheduled appointment. He assumed that someone had told him that Tim wouldn't be there. He wouldn't be there, and no one was here to say what he knew was true. ...because the problem was that when he said it to himself, it felt like a hollow lie, something said to make one feel better, not something that was true. ...and Abby would say it whether she thought it was true or not. Abby was one of those people who wanted to make others feel better. Tim knew she was sincere...but it didn't mean she was right, and she still didn't know all that he had done. He had kept that truth from her.
...and there was Jewel. He didn't know when it was that she had taken the place of that black part of his soul...but she was there...
Tim felt alone, isolated. He felt like one of the bad guys. He had to do something to fix things.
Finally, he felt as though he could get up off the floor. He walked back into Abby's lab, wiping the tears away.
Back to the computer. Back to work. Work to take the place of the pain, of the guilt. ...but even as he dove back into the finances of the drug dealers, he couldn't help but remember Jewel, standing behind him, trying to make sure that he wasn't screwing things up...touching his neck to remind him that she was there.
Forget about her. She's dead. Long time dead.
Yes, she was. Tim knew that...but it still didn't matter.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It was about six-thirty in the morning when Gibbs woke up. It was one of those times when the shift from sleeping to waking was so abrupt that it felt as though someone had thrown cold water on him. He sat up in his chair and looked around, instantly alert for whatever non-existent sound had disturbed his slumber.
Tony was asleep at his desk, as was Ziva at her own. Neither of them had slept in their own beds for more than a week. Gibbs was already toying with the idea of just keeping Tim here until they could track Collier down. He wasn't sure it was feasible, but it would keep Tim safer than he would be out there.
Then, just as he was about to decide that he hadn't actually heard anything, a soft tread intruded on his consciousness. He stood and looked across the bullpen...
...to see Tim getting onto the elevator.
Without bothering to wonder what he was doing, where he was going, or anything of the kind, Gibbs hurried over, but the doors closed before he could get on. Not to be stopped by that, Gibbs sprinted down the stairs and beat the elevator to the first floor.
The doors opened and Tim got out, heading for the exit.
"McGee, where do you think you're going?"
Tim stopped, looked back over his shoulder at Gibbs and then kept walking without speaking.
"McGee!"
Gibbs strode over, grabbed Tim by the arm and pulled him back.
"Let me go," Tim said in a low voice.
"Why?"
"There's no reason for me to stay."
"Yes, there is. Collier's still out there, McGee. He'll try to kill you if he sees you."
"I know. I'm counting on it."
Gibbs furrowed his brow and then yanked Tim firmly back away from the doors.
"Why?"
"Because..." Tim tried to pull away from Gibbs' grip but he couldn't. Gibbs realized that Tim had yet to look him in the eye. His gaze was toward the floor, his eyes hooded. "...because it would be better that way."
"What would be better? Collier killing you?"
"Yes."
The blunt agreement took Gibbs by surprise.
"You have a death wish, McGee?"
"It would be better."
"For whom?"
"Everyone."
Another surprise.
"How," he said flatly, not really asking.
"You know how," Tim said, his voice still low, quiet...that annoying tone that reflected his determination never to get angry again, the tone that showed his need to suppress his emotions. ...the tone that showed how little trust he had for the people currently around him.
Gibbs redoubled his grip on Tim's upper arm, an arm that had quite a bit of muscle tone still...but was a lot thinner than he thought it would be, and pulled Tim back to the elevator, pushed the button to open the doors and glared at Tim, annoyed at this turn of events...and afraid that he now had a suicidal man on his hands.
His worry and fear fueled his next action...which was to essentially throw Tim into the elevator, slam the button to send it back to the bullpen, turn it off and then slam Tim against the wall of the elevator. Tim groaned a little and Gibbs was chagrined that he'd forgotten Tim's injuries, but he didn't back down.
"Why would you being killed by Collier be better for everyone, Tim?" he demanded.
Tim said nothing. He wouldn't look Gibbs in the eye and he wouldn't speak. Gibbs let him go and Tim slid down to the floor of the elevator...a perfect picture of misery.
"Why? Haven't you thought about the case at least? We need you for the trial." he asked again, modulating his tone to sound less confrontational.
Again, there was silence and Gibbs wondered if Tim really could articulate a good reason. It seemed ridiculous that he could honestly believe it on logical grounds. Emotional, perhaps, but not logical.
"A...A few months ago..." Tim said softly...and then stopped.
Gibbs sighed and sat down across from Tim.
"What?"
"I had a meeting with the prosecutors to go over my testimony. I left, but I forgot something so I went back. They were talking...about me. One of them said that it would have been better if I had been killed in the crossfire."
"That's not true."
Tim lifted his head and Gibbs looked into his eyes...but he didn't see what he thought he'd see. Instead of sadness, he saw anger, fear, disgust, guilt. ...there was nothing so tame as mere sadness...but it was only in his eyes because he couldn't hide it. It wasn't because he wanted Gibbs to see what he was feeling.
"Yes, it is true," Tim said with little emotion. "Think about it...if you haven't already. If I had died, they'd have all the evidence still."
"But it's not as sure without the person who gathered it."
"When that person is of sound mind, yes. I'm not. I haven't been for nearly two years. With me alive, they have to deal with the defense poking holes in the evidence based on the fact that the person who gathered it not only had a psychological meltdown but also became violent, irrationally angry and engaged in questionable behavior during and after his time undercover. They have to bring in experts to show that I'm not crazy. They have to justify my existence. If I'm dead, they don't have to do that anymore."
"What about Collier?"
"I found it."
Gibbs looked at him. "Found what?"
"The proof that he was paid by Grant and the others. I found the account they used, one that wasn't frozen by the courts. I left step-by-step instructions on how I found it so that there'd be no question. Don't you see?" A tang of earnestness came into his voice. "If Collier kills me, then you have proof that what I did and what I found was serious enough for them to hire someone. If I'm dead, there's no worry about my mental status. The trial would be a lock. You'd have Collier, and you'd have the drug dealers. ...and you wouldn't have me to worry about."
Logical. Gibbs was annoyed...but at himself this time. He'd, once again, underestimated Tim's ability...because of his continually shaky mental status, forgetting that he hadn't lost his intelligence.
"Even if I could accept your reasoning about the case," Gibbs began, infusing heavy doubt into his words, although he couldn't fault Tim's logic as far as the trial was concerned, "that still doesn't make it better for everyone."
Now that he'd begun, Tim seemed to feel no reticence about continuing. Still, there was little emotion in his voice as he laid out all the reasons it would be better for him to die a violent death. He might as be giving the weather forecast.
"It's hard to know me," Tim said. "It's hard being a friend of mine. Just ask Matt. Just ask Ducky. They know. Matt has always said that I'm a friend worth having, but I'm a hard friend to have, especially in the last two years. Matt has opened his home to someone who regularly wakes up screaming in the night, who freaks out at the simplest things, who still gets angry without a good reason. He's had his whole life turned upside down in the last month. He wouldn't have if I was dead."
Gibbs was going to comment, but Tim continued on.
"Ducky has done the same. He's put his life on the line for me. He's in the hospital right now and he wouldn't be if I was dead. I put him through so much. It was hard for him to deal with me, but he did it...mostly without any expression of gratitude on my part, especially in the beginning. I'm dead...no more trouble."
Even when talking about Ducky's current status, Tim expressed almost no emotion.
"Sarah has spent too much time worrying about me. So have my parents. I try to call them every week or two to let them know that I'm okay...even if I'm not. They're always worried and always relieved when I call. Sure, it would be hard for them if I died, but after a while, I'd just be a small source of grief rather than a constant drain."
Tim looked down now.
"Then, there's you...and the others here."
"What about us?" Gibbs asked.
"You feel bad...now...about what happened...before. Every time any of you looks at me, I see it in your eyes. ...but I can't forgive you. I just can't. As hard as it is to keep hating you, it's a lot harder to forgive, and I can't do it. And you all know it. What you want from me is impossible."
"What do we want?"
"You want what I want...things to be normal. They can't be...but if I was dead...if I had died back then, you'd have been saved a lot of grief. If I died now, you could stop pretending to care and go on with your lives because I wouldn't be around to remind you anymore. No protecting a stranger you don't like. No trying to prove anything. No me."
"And what about you? Is this what you want?"
"No more nightmares. No more trying to get better. No more wishing for what can't happen."
Gibbs looked at Tim's bowed head. There was certainly strong emotion, but there was that annoying strain of logic carrying it along. Gibbs heartily disagreed with Tim's solution, but he had to admit that most of what he had given as evidence wasn't wrong. Those were the hardest things to get around...those logical pieces that underpinned Tim's decision.
"I won't pretend that a lot of what you said isn't true, McGee. I can't. I'm sure that it's been hard for your friends and your family. It's true that we feel like you're almost a stranger, a different person. The trial might be harder with you being as you are."
Tim's shoulders hunched.
"...but none of that means that it would be better if you were dead. No one, not your family, not Ducky, your friend Matt, not Abby or Jimmy...none of them want you dead."
Still nothing.
"...and we don't want it either."
"Don't lie," Tim whispered.
"I'm not. Do I wish that I could figure out what to do to make things right again? Yes. Do Tony and Ziva wish they could take back some of the things they said? Yes. Do we wish you'd forgive us? Yeah. ...but that means that we want you around. It does not mean that we wish you were dead."
Tim shook his head.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Tim. It really doesn't. I don't know how you convinced yourself that it does, but it doesn't."
"It does."
"No! You don't have to die for things to work out...and you don't have to make yourself miserable either. Knocking yourself down won't change what happened two years ago."
No response, and Gibbs began to see what Ducky meant by things being hard, by Tim's assertion that he was a hard friend to have. In the depths of his despair, he was more stubborn than anyone Gibbs had ever known. It would be easier to give up...as he had before...but he couldn't, not now that he'd been granted a look into the possibility of Tim recovering...which he hadn't yet.
"Lance Corporal Smythe wouldn't be dead if I hadn't been there. Ducky wouldn't be in the hospital if he hadn't been trying to help me. Those sailors died because I didn't say anything. How many people died because I helped them move ammunition?"
Gibbs was honestly stymied by what Tim was saying. How to get more than the bare facts into Tim's head?
"How do you get out of this?" Gibbs asked, without thinking.
"What?"
"How do you get yourself out of this mindset, McGee? It can't be how you always feel."
The profound silence...so profound that Gibbs sensed that he'd asked an important question without realizing it.
"I...talk..."
"To whom?"
"Ducky, usually...and Dr. Lewis."
"Your shrink?"
Tim nodded.
"And that helps?"
"Usually. Not always."
"What doesn't get helped?"
"Jewel."
"Why her?"
"I killed her."
Gibbs nodded. They'd already talked about her.
"Can you talk to me?"
Shrug.
"Why don't you try it? Why can't you let her go?"
"Because I'm stupid." One of Tim's legs slipped down and he leaned an elbow on the other, resting his forehead on his hand.
Gibbs laughed. Tim's situation wasn't funny, but that particular response to a very serious question actually gave him a little hope.
"Talk to me, McGee. I know you don't want to risk trusting me again, but who else can you talk to?"
"My shrink?"
"When were you supposed to meet with him?"
"Today."
"You want to?"
"Yes."
That Tim knew he needed the help was encouraging, even if Gibbs was a little disappointed that Tim didn't want to talk to him.
"Okay. We'll make arrangements to get him here."
"Thanks."
They both sat in silence for a while longer.
"Why are you bothering, G-Gibbs?"
"Because it's worth the irritation."
A slight smile...which quickly faded.
"My way would be a lot easier."
"For you...not for anyone else. Including us."
It was clear that Tim didn't believe him.
"Is this really what you want, McGee? Do you really want to die?"
"It would be a lot easier," Tim said and started to stand up. He faced away from Gibbs as Gibbs turned the elevator back on, feeling discouraged by the lack of progress.
...but then, one final time, Tim surprised him.
"...but no...it's not what I want. Just what has to happen."
"You're wrong. It doesn't have to happen and it shouldn't."
No response.
"We can't let you die, McGee. Where do you want to go?"
"I want to be alone."
"Okay."
The elevator doors opened and Gibbs led Tim across to Tony's desk...upon which Tim's typewriter lay. Tony was still asleep and didn't move when Gibbs picked up the machine and a pile of paper and led Tim to one of the conference rooms.
It was just late enough that there was a hint of sunlight. Almost dawn.
"Hang out in here, if you'd like...but don't leave the building, McGee."
Tim said nothing.
"Promise that you're not going to leave the building."
Tim stared at his typewriter.
"Aftershocks," he whispered.
"What?"
"I won't leave."
"Okay. Someone will get you something for breakfast."
"Okay."
Gibbs watched as Tim stretched out a hand to touch the typewriter and then pulled back. ...just like the rest of his life. So much potential in reach and he was afraid to take it.
"It still works, McGee. You could try it out."
Tim said nothing, and Gibbs left the room. He made a mental note to contact Tim's psychiatrist. He didn't think that Tim was out of the woods just yet and he was irritated that he'd forgotten Tim was seeing a shrink regularly anyway.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Tim felt so tired, but he didn't want to sleep. He couldn't. He had to do something else. He couldn't just sit here doing nothing.
The typewriter.
"Too many aftershocks, Ducky," he whispered. "When can the rebuilding begin?"