CHAPTER NINE

McGee stared dully at the television as it blared some commercial about catheters or was it for reverse mortgages? God, daytime television sucked. He shifted his position on the bed, wincing as he did so. The painkillers Ducky had prescribed were barely making a dent, but McGee was determined to take as few as possible. He reached over to the nightstand and snagged the bottle of water that sat in a puddle of condensation. He took a swig. He looked at the clock. Could he possibly be more bored? He'd only been home two days now and he was about ready to shoot himself. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

It had been a rough trip back to D.C. from Flint Hill. Gibbs had taken McGee straight to NCIS so Ducky could check him out. McGee shuddered. That had been painful in more ways than one. Ducky had concurred with Dr. Timms' diagnoses and agreed that McGee needed to take a few days off before he'd even begin to contemplate allowing McGee to return to his desk.

Now, Tim was home and going absolutely, stark raving mad. He glanced through the doorway. His faithful typewriter sat patiently waiting alone on the desk. Tim briefly considered trying to do some writing, but the painkillers left his brain in such a fog, there was no way he'd be able to write anything coherent. He ran a hand across his stubbled shin and looked at the clock again. Was that damn thing even working?

He closed his eyes wishing he could dredge up some bits of energy. He wasn't sleeping well. That was to be expected. Every movement sent shards of pain stabbing through his chest. He hated looking at himself in the mirror; all the bruises, the burns, the bandages were stark reminders of his incompetence. The nightmares weren't helping either. It was like reliving the torture every night. He'd wake up shaking and covered with sweat fighting to breathe.

But I can't tell anyone about that. Gibbs would never let me come back if he knew I was falling apart. I can do this.

Tim was jolted to wakefulness by a tentative knocking at his door, his heart beat loudly in his ears.

"Hey, Probie, you in there? Can I come in?"

Tony. McGee released a breath. Just Tony. "Yeah, Tony," he called. "C'mon in." He glanced at the clock. It was already past six. He blinked in surprise. Where had the afternoon gone?

He heard Tony unlock the apartment door with the key Tim had given him earlier. A moment later, DiNozzo ambled into the room, a sack of food in his hand.

"It was my turn to bring you dinner." He held up the large white sack. Tim recognized it from one of D.C.s nicer Italian restaurants. The rich savory aroma of oregano, garlic and cheese filled the room. McGee's mouth began to water.

"Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it."

Tony grinned as he went back out to the kitchen to prepare the food. "No problem, McGeek. I figured it was the least I could do to thank you for not letting me get blown to smithereens." There was a pause and McGee could hear Tony moving things around in the kitchen. Tony stuck his head back in. "You wanna eat there or at the table?"

Tim knew what he'd prefer. Staying in bed was a lot easier than getting up and walking into the next room, but he also knew moving around was important to getting back on his feet. He had to prove to Gibbs he could handle going back to work.

"I'll come in there."

Tony opened his mouth, then stopped. Instead, he shrugged, walked to the bed and stood ready to assist.

Tim gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was getting easier, well, relatively easier, than it had been that first day, but getting out of bed still left him shaking and breathing hard. Tony gave him a hand and helped Tim gain his feet.

"You okay there, Tim?"

Tim nodded and gave Tony a weak smile as he shuffled across the apartment to the dining table. He carefully lowered himself into the chair and slowly relaxed with a slow exhale, allowing the pain to dissipate. He closed his eyes a moment willing his heartbeat and breathing to slow back to normal. Finally he faced Tony. He shrugged. "I'm okay."

Tony looked doubtful, but soon had the table set and plates of ravioli, salad and breadsticks lined up.

"How is the case coming?" Tim took a bite of the ravioli, allowing the warm pasta and cheese to melt in his mouth. He smiled. It was exquisite.

"Not much going on now," sighed Tony attacking his own food. "No sign of either Yancy or Jenson, and the Admiral is ready to kick us all out on our collective butts." He shoveled a large piece of ravioli into his mouth. "Frankly, I'd have no problem with that."

Tim shifted but nothing. The two sat in silence and ate. Finally Tony spoke up.

"Tim, listen, I feel terrible about what happened. You could have been killed. I'm still not sure why you weren't. I mean, those assholes were more than willing to blow up the admiral's car with all of us in it, but why didn't they kill you?"

Tim poked aimlessly at his food as his brain began to wander into those dark places he was trying so hard to wall off. The painkillers made it hard to keep his defenses up.

Where is your father?

I…don't…know.

Oh, Agent McGee, I'm sure you can do better than that. Hmm. You don't need to use all of these fingers do you?

Snap… Snap… Snap.

"Tim? Tim, come on buddy, it's okay. What's wrong? C'mon, snap out of it!"

Tim blinked to find himself staring into Tony's wide, worried eyes. His heart was pounding in his ears and a cold sweat covered his body. He snatched his hands back under the table so Tony couldn't see them shake.

"I…uh…um…sorry. I…I'm okay, Tony. Really. It was nothing." He stared down at his plate, unable to meet Tony's worried gaze. Again he fought to slow his pain-filled shallow breaths. It was like he'd just run a marathon. He gripped his chest against the pain.

"Dammit, Tim, you are not all right! Look at you!" Tony's face suffused with a dark fury. "Those bastards need to pay for what they did to you."

Tim ran a shaky hand across his face. Nausea roiled in his gut. "It could have been worse, Tony. I could be dead."

Tony collapsed back into his own seat and ruffled his dark hair. "Tim, I can't stand seeing you in this much pain. You're my partner. I feel somehow responsible, like I didn't have your back."

"Why should you feel guilty? You didn't even know I was there. I should have brought Dorney. I shouldn't have gone by myself. It's my own damn fault."

"Well, buddy, if you hadn't been there, I probably wouldn't be here now, so I'm grateful for that much."

Tim's mouth tightened in a brief smile. Neither said anything for several more moments, concentrating on their food once more.

Tim picked at the ravioli. "Does my dad know? About all this, I mean."

Tony snorted. "No. Hasn't even asked about you."

"Good. I don't want him to know. It would just confirm what he's always thought about me; that I'm weak and can't handle myself." And he was right.

Tony's eyes narrowed as if he heard McGee's thoughts. "Tim, you are not weak! Did you reveal your dad's whereabouts? No! After the way he's treated you, no one would fault you if you decided to drive those killers right to the admiral's door. But you held up under hours of torture and didn't tell them a damn thing. You have nothing to be ashamed of and don't you go thinking otherwise."

Again Tim just nodded, but deep down, he didn't believe it. He still had to prove to his father that he wasn't just a computer nerd and glorified paper pusher.

xxxx

It wasn't quite as soon as Tim would have liked, but a week later Ducky finally agreed that as long as Tim did nothing but desk work, he could return.

"If it begins to be too much, Timothy, you go home," Ducky had admonished. "We want you to heal and overdoing will not be in your best interest or ours."

McGee was still in pain, but he could at least move around without feeling like he was going to keel over or throw up. He was determined to do his part in finding Yancy and Jenson. However, it seemed the pair had gone underground. A week went by with no sign of the would-be assassins.

Tony and Ziva were eventually taken off the Admiral's protection detail with other agents assigned to insure John McGee's safety.

"Thank god, that is over," muttered Ziva settling down at her desk. Tony grunted his agreement as he dumped his backpack beside his desk.

McGee ducked his head. He had such mixed feelings about his father. All his life all he wanted was his dad's approval yet so rarely did he receive even the slightest word of encouragement. He knew he harbored many bitter feelings towards his father, but deep down, he still loved him. He glanced at Ziva who was busy at her computer. He felt badly that his colleagues had been treated so rudely by the admiral. He quietly returned to his own work.

A day went by, than another, and another. Other cases demanded their attention, other crimes needed to be solved. Until something new happened concerning Admiral McGee, they were stuck.

Another Saturday arrived. McGee was grateful to have a day to rest. The strain of working while trying to heal was taking its toll. There were a couple of days he almost asked Gibbs if he could go home, but he fought back the impulse and remained at his desk. There was plenty to do, but watching the team leave without him to investigate a crime scene was hard. It made him feel useless.

Today, though, he was on his own and he decided it was time. Time to go talk to his father. He had been toying with the idea for a couple of days now. He remembered his grandmother, Penny, telling him he would need to take the first step, be the one to reach out. His father was so stiff-necked, he'd never bend and admit he'd been wrong. Tim hated not having a better relationship with the man he'd greatly admired as a boy. But he and his father were so different, it was hard to come to any kind of understanding. His father had been livid when his only son refused to follow his footsteps and join the Navy, like so many McGees before him. That was the breaking point.

Tim looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't look too bad. He'd lost some weight in the past couple of weeks. He hadn't had much of an appetite. He was still determined his father not know what had happened to him at the hands of Jenson and Yancy.

Tim reached down and picked up his keys from his desk. He knew he wasn't really supposed to be driving. Ziva had been giving him a ride every day to and from work, but he hadn't taken any pain killers today. I should be okay. He wanted to do this alone.

The drive to the safe house was uneventful, the traffic light. Tim was thankful for small favors. He just hoped the admiral was there. Tim didn't want to call. Figured his father wouldn't see him if he knew Tim was coming.

A light rain was falling by the time he parked across the street from the house. He looked around. Nothing alerted him. He rubbed his brow with a grimace. The headache was better but it still lingered and right now, the stress was making it worse.

Quit stalling Tim.

He took a breath to steady himself, careful not to inhale too deeply, and climbed stiffly from his car. He looked around again. Nothing to be seen, yet he still had an odd feeling of being watched.

He plodded down the wet sidewalk until he stood outside the safe house. He rang the buzzer.

"Yes?" A tinny voice emanated from a speaker near Tim's head.

"Agent Timothy McGee."

Nothing happened for a moment. Then the gate buzzed and Tim pushed it open. Agent Carter stood in the doorway.

"Agent McGee, we didn't expect to see you here, especially since your team has been taken off the protection detail."

"Lucky!" Morales' voice could be heard from farther in.

Carter glanced back at her partner and shook her head with a smile.

Suddenly, her eyes went wide and she gasped reaching up to her neck. She groped blindly towards Tim before collapsing in a heap by his feet. Tim stared dumbfounded, trying to understand what he was seeing.

"Carter?"

Morales appeared in the hallway, struggling to pull his gun. But he was too late. He too gasped and collapsed.

Tim's brain whirled unable to comprehend what had just happened. He then heard footsteps running towards him and as he began to turn around, a rough shove sent him sprawling to the ground. He cried as a bolt of white hot pain shot through his ribs, black spots forming in his vision.

This was not good.