This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so I'm not too sure about the rating, but as far as I can tell there is nothing above a K here, but let me know if I'm wrong! Comments and constructive criticism are very welcome, feel free to tell me "it sucked" but I would like to know why so I can improve it, and do better next time. I did proof read it a couple of times so spelling errors should be minimal, but let me know if you spot any and I'll try to fix it. The next chapter should be up sooner rather than later but feel free to get on at me if you want to continue reading and I haven't got my lazy brain in gear. Thanks.
Disclaimer: I do not in any way shape or form own the characters or plotlines of NCIS, no matter how much I wish I did. I am simply borrowing them for my own entertainment and will return them to their rightful owners once I am done letting my imagination run wild. Think of it like a library service.
His head was exploding. That was the only explanation Timothy McGee could come up with for the sheer magnitude of pain he was feeling, as he opened his eyes, waking up to the intense sensation. It was lancing through his skull, encompassing his entire head with what felt like a crushing force. But that wasn't right... his head was exploding, how could it be being crushed at the same time? He couldn't follow that train of thought, it was beyond him to try and make sense of such a complicated idea, and so he abandoned it, moved on to something else.
He tried to determine what he had done to incur such a wrathful vengeance from his body. He had no memory of consuming any alcohol, let alone enough to cause this type of reaction, and he was pretty sure he had gone home alone, and not gone out with either Tony or Abby, which vetoed the hangover explanation. He tried to remember if he had hit his head, or if someone (again Tony came to mind) had hit it for him. He considered this for a moment, he was pretty sure Gibbs and Tony had head slapped him yesterday, at least once, but that had never had that kind of impact before. Maybe his body had simply decided it had, had enough. Whatever the explanation, McGee ceased to care as the pain once again came to the forefront of his mind as it steadily increased in intensity.
How to get the pain to go away? He focused on that idea instead, maybe then he could focus on the crushing vs. exploding phenomenon, and the cause of it. Pills. His mind supplied. They have pills for this, medicine. He was pleased, now he had a plan, a goal; he needed to find the pills to make the pain go away. He lay still for moment thinking, where did he keep the pills? Cupboard, kitchen cupboard, the solution came again. It occurred to him momentarily that his thought process was being slowed drastically; shouldn't he have worked that out sooner? But his frustration was short lived and surpassed by his feeling of relief; he was closer to his goal, the removal of the pain, which was still pounding through his head. Maybe then he would be able to think clearly.
He continued to lie on the bed for a minute, before it occurred to him he should move to reach the pills. They were in a different room, and so he would have to get up. Again he thought that this course of action should have become clear much sooner, but the pain continued to lap at his thought process, depleting his capability to think. As a particularly intense wave of pain invaded his mind he forgot how long it was taking him to process, and simply narrowed his focus onto simple thoughts that he could hold onto through the onslaught he was experiencing. Get up, get pills, get rid of the pain.
He began with a new sense of purpose, and slowly sat up in the bed. Until this point he had remained still, entirely too focused on the pain and his plan to remove it, to concentrate on the task of forcing his muscles to move. Now that he was moving again, he also became aware of two more sensations, both of which were unpleasant.
The first was that he felt uncomfortably wet and sticky. The tangled sheets surrounding him were soaked, and they, along with his baggy t-shirt and boxers clung to his skin. Sweat, his fogged mind deduced. He had obviously been sweating, tossing and turning in his sleep, unconsciously aware of his body's impending rebellion against him.
The second was a wave of nausea, which hit him hard and fast as he shifted into an upright position. He breathed deeply, inhaling large amounts of air in an attempt to dispel the feeling, leaning back against the headboard until his stomach stopped clenching so uncomfortably. Once he had pushed it down to a tolerable level he once again began to get out of the bed, extricating himself from the damp sheets, before placing his feet on the floor and standing.
Being fully vertical, the nausea returned at a much higher, less bearable level, and it took a large amount of will power not to vomit over his bedroom carpet. He stood still for a moment and closed his eyes, blocking out what little light there was in the room, and once again breathed deeply in an attempt to calm his stomach. Once he no longer felt like vomiting was an immediate threat, merely a very likely future event, he attempted walking again, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness, that brought the nausea back near its previous level. Despite this he continued on, vainly hoping that the pills he was so desperate to reach would provide some measure of relief from the attack.
Eventually, he made it to the kitchen, steadying himself against the counter as he began to sway. He searched through the cupboard clumsily, the pain reaching a crescendo in his skull, and hampering his movement. He could have wept with relief when he finally found the box he was searching for, putting it down on the counter and retrieving two of the sought after pills.
He thought about dry swallowing them simply to get it over with, but reasoned a sip of water might help with the near desperate need his body had to empty his stomach, or at least push back the feeling, providing him with a short reprieve. He shuffled a short distance so that he was standing leaning over the metal sink, and reached into the cupboard above to retrieve a glass. With shaking hands he placed it under the tap, wincing as the noise of the rush of water caused the throbbing to increase. He shut off the water, and gathered the pills off of the counter, placing them in his mouth and taking a tentative sip of water to wash them down.
The effect was instantaneous, as the cool water hit his stomach he felt it clench tightly, and was assailed by the nausea once again, more forceful and demanding than ever before. He staggered out of the kitchen and made it to the bathroom off the corridor, falling to his knees on the cold hard tiles, before he gave into his body's demands and vomited into the toilet, expelling the water and pills he had just swallowed. His hands gripped the edge of the seat, holding on tightly as his muscles spasmed and shook from the exertion. He felt the sweat forming on his forehead and back, mixing with the residual dampness from earlier.
He continued to use the porcelain seat for support as he leaned over the bowl, anticipating the continuation of the heaving. However, after that first round his body seemed to have finally decided he deserved a break, and the nausea receded once again. Once he was sure it was not going to make an immediate return, he allowed his body to sag, pushing away from the foul smell, and gingerly reaching up to flush the chain. The water was much louder here than in the kitchen, and his closer proximity meant that the stabbing sensation the noise caused was much more powerful than before, and elicited a groan from his lips. He considered trying to make the journey back to his room, and calling someone that could help, however his expulsion of the pills meant the pain was increasing rather than dulling, and his already much abused head refused to supply him with the name he needed, while his shaking muscles gave out from under him, making the journey impossible, even if he could have remembered who it was he wanted. He gave up then, and allowed his head to sink down to the floor, his flushed cheek resting against the cool tile.
He hadn't realised how hot he was until he made contact with the blissful coldness. Once he acknowledged how warm he was he lost all willpower to even contemplate making the attempt to regain a vertical position. He drew his knees up to his chest before he allowed himself to go boneless on the floor, the tiles cooling the raging furnace that was his skin. The last vague thought that managed to surface in his protesting brain was that he needed to get up soon for a reason he couldn't quite recall. But the fever he was running as well as the pain still running rampant conspired against him, and he ceased his futile attempts to recall the need for waking and gratefully sank into oblivion.
So like I said the next chapter should be up soon. Don't worry someone will eventually come to poor Timmy's rescue. I think this is going to be a McNozzo fic – more likely friendship than slash, but it could go either way, let me know if you have a preference and I'll try to take that into account.