Author's note: This popped into my head at random when I should have been sleeping. I hope you like it. F.
Disclaimer: I own nothing NCIS...
Abby lay awake.
The ridiculously long, hot bath she'd indulged in hadn't had its desired effect. She was still awake, still stressed from the past few days, still endlessly reliving the moment the elevator doors had opened to reveal the team.
She'd ignored the men, her men, and gone straight to Ziva and that was right and fitting at the time because she knew they were alive and mostly well, but she'd thought Ziva was dead. But now she twisted restlessly, unable to get comfortable, because the image of the men, her family, bloodied, bruised, dirty, wouldn't leave her mind and she worried. She hadn't let herself worry while they were gone, and now it was stored up. She didn't worry about what might happen to them, but what might become of what had happened to them. She worried about Gibbs, whether using his sniper's skills would bring back bad memories. She worried about Tony, about what being forced to bare his soul might do to the surprisingly private federal agent. And McGee... McGee was different to the other two. Training aside, this wasn't what he did. She worried about him even more than she worried about the other two. Because in her surrogate family, Gibbs was her dad, Tony was her brother... but Tim was hers.
Unable to lie there any longer, she flung back the blanket and got out of the coffin. She wanted to see him, to make sure he was ok. She hunted for the keys she'd dropped when she got home, while the compulsion to check on him grew stronger until it became more of a need than a want. She needed to see that the cuts under the blood were minor, that the dirt had washed off, that the bruises would heal, that however he became unconscious wouldn't become serious... that under the tough exterior he'd displayed for the mission, he was still her Timmy, the one she'd come to depend on and even love in a way that had nothing to do with canines, but was too new and too scary to admit to anyone.
Finally triumphant in her search for keys, she rushed out of her apartment, not caring that it was cold out and she didn't have a jacket, too desperate to make certain he was ok.
...
She chewed anxiously on her bottom lip. His apartment was in darkness; he was probably asleep, like she should be. The compulsion to see him warred with the knowledge that he was exhausted. Compulsion won. She used the key he'd given her to take care of Jethro to let herself quietly in. The big German Shepherd was awake in his bed, looking at her curiously but not interested enough to stir. As silently as she could, she made her way through the apartment to his room, peeking carefully around the door. He was sound asleep, the dark rings under his eyes showing clearly how exhausted he was and the even darker shadows showing the bruises. She watched him for a moment, feeling slightly guilty about invading his privacy like this but somehow unable to make herself leave. He was ok and still looked like her Timmy. Unable to resist the temptation, she slid under the covers on the vacant side of the bed, holding her breath lest he react with weapons drawn, being the highly trained federal agent that he was. But all he did was roll over and loop one arm about her waist, pulling her closer and murmuring her name. She smiled delightedly- so he dreamt about her, did he? - and snuggled up to his chest and closed her eyes. They'd talk in the morning; he was safe and warm and home where he belonged. For now that was enough.