Chapter 34

Ducky looked at Tim. He was almost distraught again, but there was something different. Whatever had happened in the last day had been good for him. Very difficult, but good. He smiled.

"You've asked me that question before, Timothy."

"I know...but it's been a while. Things are different."

"And yet, still, they are very much the same. I told you before that it was up to you to know who you are."

"But I need you to tell me what you see."

"Why?"

"Because...I look at myself and see..." Tim looked down. "...I see nothing but a worthless drain on society, someone who would only be of value if dead...but other people don't seem to think that way." He looked back up at Ducky with pleading in his eyes. "You've never seen me that way. I can't fight what I think...if I don't have anything to put in its place."

At the the suggestion that Tim might be trying to fight, Ducky straightened in his bed.

"Fight?"

"Yes...maybe."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear you say that, Timothy."

"But every time I've tried...something worse happens."

"It certainly seems that way, I will admit, but there is always a chance for improvement."

"What do you see?" Tim asked again.

"I see a young man struggling, a man who has fallen over and over again, who has thought himself beaten...and yet is not. I see a man who is facing great odds but is steeling himself to try again. I see a man who has the potential for darkness and light, who is fighting that darkness." Ducky took a breath and let it out slowly, pausing until Tim met his gaze. "I see a man who has fallen but is not destroyed."

Tim didn't look away. He seemed to be trying to take what Ducky had said and really internalize it...to make it a part of himself.

"Is what you see real?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Yes, Timothy, it is very real. You have made mistakes...as have we all. Your mistakes are serious. So are ours. Forgiveness is possible. Life is possible. You can get back so much of what you lost...if you can see beyond the mistakes you've made."

Tim was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his lap. Ducky waited, hoping as he hadn't in a long time. He knew he couldn't rush Tim's thoughts. Changing the mindset that he had hammered into place wasn't easy, and there were so many setbacks to his attempts. Maybe this could be the moment that started him on the right road.

"Ducky?"

"Yes, lad?"

Tim still didn't lift his head.

"Tell me what to do."

"I can't do that."

"You have to. I don't know anymore. I don't know what to do. I need your help. Tell me what to do. Anything. I'll do it. Just tell me."

"First, look at me, Timothy. You should not ever feel that you are unworthy to make eye contact...nor that you must hide something from me."

Tim lifted his head and Ducky cast about desperately for something that might help Tim more than what had happened so far. Then, he saw it. Nothing else would do.

"Timothy?"

"Yeah?"

"Use your typewriter."

"What?"

"I see it behind you. Use your typewriter. I don't care what you type. I don't care what you decide to do...just use your typewriter. Use it and see that you will not be punished for trying to return to some semblance of your former life."

Tim's eyes became troubled.

"I...don't know if I can."

"You can. That is what I think you need to do. You said you'd do anything I asked of you. It is a simple thing. Something you can do."

Ducky could tell that he'd hit on the very thing Tim didn't want to do...and yet the very thing he needed to do.

"Do it, Timothy."

Tim swallowed hard and looked back at the typewriter, that thing that had become a symbol of who he'd been.

"No one is here listening. No one can enforce this request of mine, but I beg of you to do this for me...if you can't do it for yourself."

"Why is this so important?"

Ducky smiled.

"You and I both know why."

Then, he saw a face in the window. His doctor. The last thing Tim needed was to hear the litany of how long it would take Ducky to fully recover.

"Timothy, I have to go now, but remember what I asked, and remembered your promise."

The troubled look hadn't left Tim's eyes, but finally, he nodded.

"I'll...I'll do it, Ducky. For you."

Then, Tim reached out and disconnected the feed.

"No...really, it's for you, Timothy," Ducky said softly. Then, he gestured for the doctor to come in, steeling himself to hear the news of how long he would be in therapy to heal his shoulder.

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

Tim looked at the typewriter and swallowed hard. He couldn't lie to Ducky, not now. He walked over to it, almost tentatively. It hadn't been used in months. It looked all right, but did it really work anymore? Like the man who owned it, maybe it just appeared to be normal, but when pressed, it would fall apart.

He touched it and then pulled back his hand, as if he'd been burned by it. With a deep breath, he looked more closely at it and then stood up and walked to the door. Slowly, he opened it and looked around. There was Tony.

"Hey, McGee. What's up?"

"I need..." Tim stopped. He didn't want to ask for anything.

"What?"

Mutely, Tim held out the typewriter ribbon.

"It's broken. I need...another one."

Tony looked at him in confusion and then broke into a big smile.

"Sure thing, Probie. I'll get that for you." He took it and headed away without any hesitation.

Tim stared after him for a long time.

Probie. How long had it been since he'd heard that particular moniker...besides the moment in the safe house when Tim had unleashed long pent-up venom at Tony and Ziva? Tony had smiled. He had seemed even eager to help. Why? Why did Tony care? Tim went back into the conference room and sat down, trying to stay away from the dark voice in his head that told him he should stop trying to live and give in.

It took Tony nearly an hour to return with the typewriter ribbon. He gave it to Tim without a word and then he left Tim to his own devices. For a moment, Tim almost asked him to stay, but he stopped himself. What would be the point of asking a person who made him feel awkward and conflicted to stay in the room while he tried to return to a former hobby?

Again, he sat down in front of his typewriter, holding the new typewriter ribbon in his hand. He would have to touch it in order to fix it. He smiled a little at the thought. It was a typewriter. It wouldn't hurt him if he touched it. It wasn't anything alive.

So why was it so difficult to convince himself to do this?

"For the same reason I didn't want to talk to them...to...Tony and Ziva," he whispered.

The prospect of sitting down and typing again frightened him.

Carefully, very carefully, he installed the typewriter ribbon, not wanting to screw up this treasured possession. He loved the typewriter, even when he'd pawned it, he'd loved it. It had been his final connection to his former life...with the exception of his record player. He smiled at that. If it hadn't been for Jed's enjoyment of them, he probably would have sold them, too...but once Jed had been so enthusiastic about his jazz records, Tim had let the old man enjoy them.

This, though, this typewriter had been his pride and joy. It wasn't a particularly rare model. He couldn't afford the truly rare ones. He finished installing the ribbon and then sat back and looked at it. He could still remember when he'd bought the typewriter. It was sitting in a secondhand store in the window. At the time of purchase, it had been dingy. Some of the keys were broken. There was no ribbon. Even the casing had been cracked. ...which was why Tim could afford it. It had been really cheap. Slowly, over the course of about a year, he had repaired it until it looked like new. Then, except for the time that Abby had used it to fend off crazy Mikael, he had taken good care of it.

It was ready. There was paper. He just had to start typing.

Tim picked up a piece of paper, hesitated for a few minutes and then carefully rolled it into place.

Again, he stopped and stared at the typewriter. He touched the keys, gently running his fingers over them, listening to the little clicking sound as he touched them.

Then, he closed his eyes.

He touched the keys...and pressed them down. From the first key, he was writing a word.

Am

A short word, but a word nonetheless.

I

He stopped...and then continued.

really

A deep breath.

Timothy McGee?

He opened his eyes and looked at the sentence he'd typed. Then, he started typing again...with his eyes closed.

I used to be Timothy McGee. Then, I became Thomas Allen McKay. I let all the buried anger I felt toward my previous experiences take over and I let myself become the person I hated more than anyone else in the world. I became myself...an alternate self, a self whose behavior leads only to self-loathing and disgust.

Am I now Timothy McGee once again? Or am I instead some strange twisted conglomeration of Timothy and Thomas? I don't know what I see when I look in the mirror because I don't look in the mirror unless I have to.

I feel alone. I am not necessarily alone. I make myself alone because it is easier to be alone than it is to be with people I cannot control. There are only two people I have let into the world I have created. One because he is the only one who refused to leave...and the other because he allowed me to be a human being in the midst of the emptiness.

As he typed, at first, his strokes were slow and hesitant, but as he continued, the words flowed faster and faster as the thoughts he'd blocked up inside his head began to flow out. The dam had burst and the words flowed.

One page was filled and he rolled in another. That page was soon filled with words, with thoughts, with declarations and self-accusation.

Tim typed and typed and typed. The hours passed as he typed. Only once did someone come in, but he ignored them and whoever it was didn't speak.

Finally, it was nearing midnight. His eyes had been closed, but he opened them as he typed one last sentence.

What do I want? I want to go back.

He looked at what he'd written and he stood up, ignoring the pain from his bruised ribs, the tired fuzziness in his head. He walked to the door of the conference room, hesitated and then opened it.

No one was there.

He walked down to the bullpen. Tony and Ziva weren't there, but Gibbs was.

"What is it?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm ready," he said.

"For what?"

Tim took a breath.

"To work."