Looks like I'm over five years late on my word. Well, as they say, better late than never! Enjoy this chapter, and, hopefully, there will be more to come soon enough. My endless gratitude, dear fans, for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and alerting this story. Each and every one of you has been a boon upon my heart.

Chapter Ten: The Swelling Storm

"It was just before you sent us in for Webb." Timothy stared hard at the table top. He had to coax the memories from his subconscious where they resisted his conscious recall, putting a barrier between himself and the painful past. "I was standing there, focused on the door in front of me. I heard someone running towards me over the gravel, but they slammed into me before I could turn and prepare myself. Grabbed me by the neck and pinned my back against the wall. I-I saw that... it was him." Timothy lowered his head, a tremble in his shoulders as he stared into his memory with wide eyes.

"You all right?" Gibbs asked. The question sounded ridiculous as he was in no way all right, but Timothy shook himself and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just... "

"It's okay, take your time." Gibbs was ready for Timothy to divulge not just the facts, but his own personal reflections as well. Helping him come to terms with the assault could only make him stronger.

"It's stupid," Timothy said, shaking his head. "But, I just- I felt like a stupid teenager again. Weak, out of control. Scared. It felt like all my field training abandoned me."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "But it didn't. You fought back."

For a moment, a small, satisfied smirk graced Timothy's features. "I did. He slammed my hand against the wall, and, when I dropped my gun, he kicked it away. He stabbed me here-" Timothy touched near his right clavicle. "-and ripped my mouthpiece and headphone off. He threw the mouthpiece, and I knew I had to get to it, to alert you guys. I dove for it and picked it up, alerted you. Then he stomped it, and my hand." His hand, still bound to heal his broken fingers, gave a little wave at the thought of the memory.

Timothy thought back to that blind terror and unexpected pain. He had learned how to fight, though, in his time as an agent, and how to disassociate with pain in order take lifesaving measures.

"I was really off, from the pain," Timothy admitted. "And scared. He was just so angry, and he made me feel, well… helpless. No, he reminded me that he could make me feel helpless." His tone steeled up a bit, and the young agent looked his boss in the eye. "He picked me up by the collar and said, 'Remember me, Timmy? Remember this face?' Just- just so furious. I realize now that I can't even imagine how he sees the world, like I still had this image of what... what he seemed like he was, when we first met... I knew I had to somehow get in control of the situation, or it would end badly, and well- I didn't, and it didn't."

"But you know he is completely at fault. You did your best and didn't deserve any of this." Gibbs pressed it like a question, and, after a contemplative moment, Timothy nodded in agreement.

"I-I know that now," Timothy said. "Well- most of the time. Most of the time." He lowered his gaze.

Time, Gibbs knew, was necessary after years of repressed memories and this recent attack.

"He dragged me down the alley and threw me on the ground. He had the knife out at this point and s-said, 'You thought I was done with you?'" Timothy's voice shook, but resolved resentment pushed him on, his eyes darting in the landscape of his memory. "'I'll never be done with you.' And he-" Timothy touched his forehead, then gave up and sank down in his chair, leaning into his hand, elbow propped on the table. He gave a steadying sigh, glancing up for just a moment. "With the knife at my throat, he-he groped me with his free hand. He said, 'And if you even think about telling anyone about me-' and held my mouth open, and that's when he cut my tongue."

Gibbs put a light hand out towards Timothy's, almost making contact. "Tim, you're doing great." Timothy had put his head down, hands in fists. He was humiliated and furious. He felt possessed by the spirit of his teenaged self, frustrated and enraged, burning alive with the ghosts and visions of the past.

Slamming a fist against the table, Timothy looked up at Gibbs. His eyes smoldered in fury. "I let him hurt me. Again. He could have shot you guys. He could have done anything." Unfazed by this fury, Gibbs recognized the sensation of unrelenting, violent anger. It was unhealthy, self-consuming. All-consuming. "I will not let that happen again. Because if I see him again, Gibbs, I'm going to kill him."

"McGee," Gibbs said, sharp enough to make Timothy's intense fury subside for a moment. "McGee, you know that's not what you should do."

Suddenly, Timothy was on his feet, moving so fast that his chair slammed over backwards to the ground with a clatter. "Then what am I supposed to do, Gibbs?!" Timothy demanded, angry and desperate. "Just wait till he hurts me again? Or-or hurts one of you? I won't do it. I won't allow that to happen while I'm around."

Gibbs kept a careful calm about himself, holding up a placating hand. "Tim, it's all right. We won't let ourselves get hurt, just as much as you would protect us from getting hurt. And when we get this guy, you won't ever have to worry about him hurting anyone ever again."

Timothy paced away and paused for a heartbeat longer. After pushing the jitters of rage and fear from his body, the young agent stood his chair back up and sat down, this time propping his chin on laced fingers like a prayer, though careful to avoid pushing down on his broken fingers.

Letting silence distance themselves from the heat of Timothy's response, Gibbs continued to prod for information. "Do you remember what happened after that?"

"Mostly. Well, up until a certain point," Timothy said with a reluctant sigh. "I was in serious pain then. My hand, my collar bone, my mouth- and I was scared for my life. Then I saw you guys at the end of the alley." Timothy gave a wry smile. "I was so glad to see you both, but then he pulled the gun, and I was terrified of you guys getting in a firefight. But no, he just shot me, and I don't remember anything after that. It was like a fireball in my chest, and then I was in the ambulance with Tony, then waking up with you in the hospital."

"You don't remember waking up with Abby?"

Timothy raised an eyebrow. "I woke up before that time with you? No, I don't remember that."

"That's typical," Gibbs said. "Surprising that you retained anything between the shot and the second surgery. But, if that's all, then we're ready to move on with the investigation." Gibbs hesitated. Timothy had yet to be told about the stranger Tony had seen in the hospital. "You need to look at a sketch that Abby made up of a suspect. Can you correct it?"

Timothy went still at the suggestion. "Someone saw him? When? From where?"

"Ziva glimpsed him when he turned around to fire, and we pulled some fuzzy images from an ATM," Gibbs said, just a tad slower than before. "And Tony saw a suspicious person at the hospital one day." Timothy stared in disbelief that boiled down into anger after a moment.

"And you all were going to tell me when?" His voice was tight like a coiled spring, contained venom held in check by a mere fraying thread of willpower. Timothy had grown tired and frustrated after his interview as the roller-coaster of emotions sucked away at his mental and emotional reserves.

"I'm telling you now," Gibbs said with his usual confident edge softened. "You have had a constant guard detail, all our agents carry their weapons, and security here has been raised. There's nothing to worry about."

"That makes it all the better." Timothy said through gritted teeth. He struggled not to seethe, knowing very well that his own response, though justified, lacked correct proportion due to his current shaken state of mind.

"Yes, it does, because would it have been a great idea to tell you in the midst of healing? When you're not even an investigator but the victim?" Gibbs said, cutting back to defend his choice. "I decided it was for the better this way. I wanted you to get your strength back before you lost your head in this matter."

It took a moment, but Timothy calmed down, realizing that his anger stemmed from the fear of proximity, and that it would have been bad to have known right after the surgeries.

"All right. You're right," Timothy said, embarrassed, making to leave, moving with a mechanical sense of purpose. "I'm sorry. I'll go look at the sketch."

"Don't apologize," Gibbs said, but not with the usual bite to it. He looked Timothy square in the eyes, and Timothy was taken aback by the gentleness there. "You have nothing to apologize for."

Half standing, Timothy felt shaken. Some sliver of himself, deep in his brain, kept wanting to apologize over and over for causing a hassle, for disrupting lives, for worrying others. For making a fuss over something that had little actual end effect on his life. His hands laid palms flat to the table to support himself as the strangest sense of both frustration and relief flooded him.

"No, Gibbs, you don't understand," Timothy protested, sitting down and covering his eyes with one hand. His voice wavered, but he pushed on. "I'm sorry- I don't even know what it means anymore. I just- regret everything that's happened. I've regretted what I've done for so long. All the mistakes I've made. If I had just done something different, maybe he wouldn't have found me again. Maybe he wouldn't have attacked me to begin with. Maybe- I just- If I had…" He trailed off, chewing his lip, wordless in his weariness.

This time, Gibbs reached out and did lay his hand over Timothy's as it curled into a fist on the table top. It was a gentle and unimposing motion, laying to rest as Timothy's hand relaxed and allowed Gibbs to provide a reassuring touch.

"The only person you could possibly need to apologize to… is yourself," Gibbs said, voice soft and warm. "For holding yourself responsible for something that wasn't your fault for so long. But to me, to your team, to the people who care about you? No, there's nothing to be sorry about." Timothy has his eyes down, unresponsive but brow furrowed in thought. Gibbs continued. "And I know you'll doubt that, you'll doubt yourself. But as time goes on, it gets easier. You'll feel better. And eventually, it's going to be okay."

Timothy let a heartbeat of silence stretch between them before he looked up to speak. His eyes were red but his look of determination banished any doubt from Gibbs' about whether or not the young agent had made up his mind.

"Maybe one day," Timothy said. "But not until we get this guy."

Thanks for sticking this out with me. This story has a special place in my heart, as it helped little fifteen-year-old me figure some things out, and I hope it can help someone out there, too, or perhaps bring some confusing issues to better light. Please review! I'll see you in the chapters to come.