Title: Twelve Days To Pontificate – #1 – Partridge In A... Tree Thing
Fandom: NCIS
Rating: PG-13 (Um... sort of? Flapjack useth words. Soap deserving ones.)
Disclaimer: They all evade my grabby hands. Wah.
Warnings: Extreme cheese. No spoilers. Set in season seven, just because McGee's all sexy and competent and muy bonito and that gets me hot. (And not to exclude everyone else... they are all perfect in my book.)
Summary: Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive.
Note: Well, I introduce to you... my bulky holiday project. Big surprise, right? I was considering having this center around a fandom I've never experimented in before, but I just... oh, NCIS. It's my cleverly disguised Kryptonite, apparently. Anyway... this quite possibly could be the cheesiest thing I've ever written. (That's right, written, as in already; you didn't think I was actually going to attempt to write a chapter a day with the hectic season coming to a climax? I'm not that reliable, people!) This could be classified as Grade A fluff on crack, but I don't care. I want cute. I want sappy. I've been writing too many angsty / bittersweet pieces lately and I need a release in the form of Christmas joy, if you get my drift. You may guess what the pairing turns out to be, though, knowing me and what I love and what I've previously written and/or/most likely rambled on about; you can probably figure it out in the first few seconds upon glancing at this post. *wink* There's a grande hint for you. But I don't care if the 'surprise' is ruined (or rather, predictable in a completely pleasant way); I worked hard on writing this and to tell the truth, being a soulless, bandwagoning fluff monster is kinda fun. So read it, hate it, love it; point out all of my characterization flaws and the obvious lack of an enlightening plotline.
I give you the first day of Christmas. Use it well, young grasshoppers.
"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... a partridge in a pear tree."
Timothy McGee was in a bad mood. A really, really bad one. Like the kind where you just want to push the nearest jolly-faced, bell-jangling, ho-ho-ho'ing Satan... er, Santa Claus into a patch of ice and watch his hospital bill rack up points. Christmas was not a happy season, despite the overabundance of feigned plastic joy. Those who were out shopping for people they thought they loved were miserable, running out of money and/or brain cells; steadily approaching a homicidal outbreak. Those who didn't have nearly enough money to even think about blowing their meager salaries on a y-chromosome deprived Tickle Me Elmo, or that Zhu-Zhu piece of crap that looked like a hamster on acid had to stay home and convince their doe-eyed children that Santa was doing his best to make it a lovely Christmas; he just possibly might be running a little late that year. On account of not existing and all, darlings.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, with an fresh, extra helping of shit and maybe go screw a reindeer.
Tim was usually a pretty optimistic person, actually. Nerds had to be. He prided himself on being happy with his pleasant, prison-record free life. (Technically. That little 'incident' with Tony and the dogs and the whole stealing evidence thing had been a mere complication.) But adult nerds with depressing jobs, no hope of a romantic future, and a habit of waking up on the wrong side of the bed every week and half point five degrees before the holiday season... they... well, they ended up feeling a little hopeless.
Tony looking up with those huge, optimistic-and-he-knew-it forest green eyes and singing out a, "Good morning, Sunshine!" when McGee practically threw his backpack into the side of his desk upon entering the bullpen was the wilted, rotten cherry on top of his already fantabulous shit sundae. For some childish reason that he had yet to know the acceptably rational answer to.
Tony's forehead crinkled minutely as he demonstrated nearly perfect use of his frowny face. "Did the Grinch steal your cookies?"
"Damn it, Tony, I am not in the mood."
The frowny face transformed into an almost delighted, oh ho! glimmer of recognition. The grin that spread its way across Tony's mischievous features was nearly Cheshire cat-like in quality. He steepled his fingers. "McGoo?" There was the expectant tone, the edge in the senior field agent's voice as he prompted Tim into spilling his heartfelt story over hearty cup of bromance and then, subsequently, teased him endlessly for it.
"Tony, please," McGee growled pathetically (it was more of a whine) as he sat down and rubbed the tips of his fingers rhythmically into his forehead. "Not today. I need pain medication. And a straight jacket."
Tony eyed him with a puzzled look – because, come on, really, McGee in a bad mood? – that Tim could detect from the eyes in the back of his head. Eyes that he had developed involuntarily after working for six years with an overgrown manboy. It wasn't the holidays, not really. It was everything. It was one of those days in which McGee had woken up vulnerable and despondent, and to top it all off, nearly drove into a semi on the way to work. That was not like him. In fact, despite the verity that it had been completely his fault, he had actually, momentarily considered pulling out his firearm and shooting the beer-guzzling, polar bear look-alike's tires off.
That had also been not the sort of thinking that Timothy sported on a daily basis. Maybe he had caught the flu; that had been going around, hadn't it? Or some rare brain fungus. It could happen.
"Timothy McGee. Pal. Buddy. Inquiring minds want to know the reason for your obvious displeasure on this fine, peaceful, snowy December morning."
"It's nothing, you overzealous squirrel. Leave things alone and they might actually mend themselves, Tony. And get off my desk."
Tony pouted from his sideways perch on the edge of said desk. He had a habit of appearing out of nowhere. He was quite proud of it, actually. "Don't get your what I am sure are very fashionable pantaloons in a bunch, McGrowlybear. I just... thought you looked particularly murderous today." There could have been something sincere in the spark that flashed momentarily in Tony's eyes, but none of it mattered because whoever it was meant for wasn't even paying attention, anyway.
McGee tried to keep his hands from digging dangerously into his keyboard, he really did, but they had creepy little finger minds of their own and Tony noticed. Tony not only noticed, but he actually backed away, too. And that was almost more unusual than Tim wanting to assassinate a truck driver. Almost.
"...Sorry. I'll leave you alone."
Just like that? McGee was about to physically reach up, un-wrinkle his set, anger-molded forehead, and lash out an intelligent, 'Wait, what?' when Ziva materialized in front of the elevator folding her hands like a wise, grey-bearded maharishi. The only difference was a... creatively dressed Abigail Scuito clinging off her arm and grinning from ear to ear.
Women and the holidays. This will be a delightful week, the sarcastic part of McGee bellowed from the recesses of his mind. Sarcasm had to climb out of the stained, rusty old file cabinet and dust himself off first, though, so the voice was sounding a bit parched.
Tony slid out of McGee's popped and rampaged personal bubble with a grin, eying Ziva and Abby. "What have we here, ladies?"
"Merry Christmas, Tony!" Abby waddled over in a flurry of bells and jangling accessories. With the grace of a ballerina and the stamina of a major league football player, she tackled him.
"Abby, I... I don't know how to tell you this. It's going to be very hard, but... there's an entire two weeks until the festivities. And a lot can happen in two weeks," Tony ended with a wink; voice already running out of vital oxygen the longer he spoke and the longer the forensic scientist kept a death grip around his ribs. "Abby," he wheezed, and she promptly let go in a flash of sparkling teeth, launching into what was most likely a premeditated frenzy.
"Tony, how can you say that? Two weeks goes by like this," Abby growled, snapping her fingers in his face to enunciate her point. "I have no time to lose. The earlier you start, the better. I need presents. I need to spread Christmas cheer for all to hear. I need to find a garbage band version of Deck the Halls! And if I have to do all that, who, may I ask, is going to convince Gibbs to let me put a reindeer headband on him this year? Time flies! My lab isn't decorated yet! I think my hair's actually falling out, Tony, look, there is a bald spot right there and it's not a figment of my imagination, I swear-"
Tony backed away slowly with hands spread in front of him, opting for 'hiding' behind his desk and silently praying to the entire nation of Keebler's Elves that she wasn't going to transform into some rabid, holiday stress-related beast and start throwing things. Ziva followed suit.
"Abby, not you too. Honestly? Christmas is an over-hyped propaganda setup designed to drive innocent civilians into spurts of unexplainable rage and selfishness," McGee groaned, and instantly three pairs of wide eyes were on him.
"What?"
Abby almost looked as if she would start crying at any moment. "McGee? But... that's not like you! You love Christmas!"
"I've never specifically said that. I usually go along with it just to make you happy." And wow, the negativity was making Tim really blunt. It would have been satisfying if he hadn't seen Abby's smile melt slowly off of her face. It had been a half-crazed, frazzled, mildly disturbing smile at that, but the moment it was gone, so was most of McGee's stomach acid.
"Yes. Yes, you... um... have," Abby replied defiantly, as if forcing herself to believe it. "Oh God. Now we're all going to have to watch Elf. I can see that the celebratory spirit is seriously lacking." With that, she stomped away; oversized glittering bells tied to her boots jangling with each deafening step.
"Well, McScrooge. Just look what you've done."
Ziva blinked. Four years of Abigail Scuito drilling each and every American custom into her head, from hanging stockings next to a fire hazard to manipulating children into accepting gifts from a fat bearded man, and she still couldn't understand why some people took Christmas so literally.
Three hours of paperwork later, in which McGee had been actually blissful in doing something that required almost no human contact, and they were back on schedule with the dead bodies and everything that reminded him of how much he hated people.
Good lord, that sounded pathetic.
He was kneeling down and snapping pictures of a young female petty officer; alcohol-stained locks of dark brunette hair forming a halo around her heart-shaped face, and thinking... God, she was gorgeous. It was one of those wretched, what the hell were you thinking, world? moments, and hell, it was painful.
It was also safe to say that Tim didn't expect Tony to sneak up next to him.
The camera fumbled from its loose grip, nearly tumbling onto the young girl's leg before Tim grappled for it, growling out a spiral of crystallized ice into the cold December air.
Tony almost snickered, but he totally kept his cool. Pun possibly intended.
"God damn it, Tony! You could have caused me to compromise evidence! Or, er, something!"
Tony held up his hands. "Um, whoa. I was simply stepping closer to investigate this crime, because, uh, y'know, someone died and all, and here you are being all, 'Grahhr, me so angry, let me snap off my dashingly charismatic coworker's head because he breathed my air!'"
Tim's eyes narrowed fractionally, and he cocked his head to the side; minutely pretending that Tony wasn't there.
"Tim. Oh, silly, silly boy. You know that trick never works on me anymore." Tony slapped a hand onto McGee's shoulder, puffing out his chest and grinning broadly. "I am the grand inquisitor of all that goes on in the lives of my coworkers. It's my specialty. Everyone comes to me when they're in woe. I can tell that you need a shoulder to cry on. Or at least sniffle lightly whilst pretending that you aren't crying, because we're men here and that's what friends do to help each other."
Tim turned his head, then sighed; a simple exertion of air leaving him feeling at least three years older. "Are you done?"
"Yeah. I really didn't know what to add to that sorry excuse for a... a... damn. McGee. Words?"
"Superfluous rant?"
"Yes, thank you. You, always, with the thesaurus brain and the explaining stuff." Tony spread out his arms to flail about his hands in what was most likely an attempt at showing McGee how... orb... shaped he was.
"Abby put you up to this, didn't she?"
"And there you are with the jumping to conclusions."
"Tony."
Tony scrunched up his nose, looking thoroughly as though it pained him to tell the truth.
"Out with it. Come on, I know she doesn't want me 'suffering in the month of Jesus's birth', or whatever nonsensical crap she spoon fed to you in her lab after bribing you with sugar cookies and the promise of her special mistletoe; and you're in for a big disappointment, by the way."
"Hey! I'm not that gullible! And I... come on, McGoo. You're grumpy. Swearing like an old man with a hangover. It's not like you, and sorry if this doesn't sound sincere enough or whatever, but I actually was not lured into Abby's lab with the promise of freshly baked morsels, thank you very much." Tony fiddled with the folded edge of his trench coat. "She hasn't even made any yet."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Okay, so you're sincere. What do you want me to do about it?"
Tony rocked on his heels like a kid begging for candy, pushing out his lower lip. It was frankly creepy, seeing a grown man do that, but then again... it was DiNozzo. "Tell me things," Tony sang. "Talk to meee..."
"There's nothing to talk about," McGee snarled out shortly, stomping to the other side of the corpse and trying (and failing) to be suave about it. "I'm angry, it's cold, and truck drivers need to keep their eyes on the road. That's all I'm saying."
Tony (suavely) walked over to McGee, flicking the edge of his cap absently and snapping more pictures. They were silent like that for a moment, lost in the quiet of the biting winter air and the sound of Gibbs in the background snapping at a witness for being incompetent and too 'damn wordy'.
Ah, Christmas.
"You know, I'm not gonna tease you, or anything. Everyone has their bad days. I just thought you never had them."
Tim raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, yeah, that made no sense."
The work was short. Traffic had basically been on their side on the way to the crime scene, but Ducky had yet to arrive and the snow was picking up.
Gibbs was pinching his nose, most likely clenching his teeth as the bar owner whined, "C'mon, man, it's Christmas! Or like, getting there. Whatever. Tons of payin' customers, y'know? The bar was loud, the people were generous..." All the while never really catching on that Gibbs was not in the mood to hear the nervous sweaty man's entire life story, and if he wasn't careful there would be pain involved.
"Abby kind of went into a decorating frenzy after what you said. It's like your blatant pessimism fueled her," Tony added carefully, cutting awkwardly through the tension with the skill of a three-fingered butcher.
"Great."
"You know, it's cool if you want to actually tell me what's going on. Like if someone..." Tony almost skirted around the topic for fear of unleashing angry Tim-wrath. Or, god, hurting his feelings. Years ago he wouldn't even have considered that. "...um, died...? If it's writer's block? Because, if you want, we could go over the worst topics first, and if I miss any just let me know. Okay. Sarah's turning tricks. Your typewriter exploded on contact. A level six sorcer-"
"Don't even start." Tim groaned. "You know, this consoling thing; you're really bad at it."
"Tell me about it. I was not very popular in kindergarten. Did you know five year old girls actually expect more than a Ring-Ding and a pat on the back for accidentally hitting them in the face with a Nerf ball?"
The edge of Tim's mouth twitched. No. He would not smile. He would not even give Tony the boyish satisfaction of pulling a curl out of one single inch of his mou-
"Why, Timmy! Is that a smile I see on the horizon?"
Damn it.
Tony turned to McGee, snapping out a precise photograph of the wintry goddess's still form without even looking; the corner of his own mouth crinkling in a smile. With Tony's smiles, though, it was imperative to figure out if they were of the fake variety, as in cheer-you-up-because-there's-awesome-benefits-in-it-for-me, or please-for-the-love-of-everyone-who-doesn't-know-who-Gary-Cooper-is-be-happy-because-I-want-you-to-be. Because, despite his obvious denial to being more than the world's most astounding special agent with delicately carved facial features and hair that purposefully fell in all the right places, Tony DiNozzo was an emotional roller coaster. Or at least a Tilt-A-Whirl. Something that appeared fun and carefree when you first glanced at it, but one slight mistake, one infinitesimal thing gone wrong in the structure and it could all fall apart.
"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch," Tony purred out playfully, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His smile reached his eyes and it was the sincere kind; for a moment tempting Tim to grin back and go for an attempt at their familiar banter. "You really are a heel. You're as cuddly as a cactus; you're as charming as an eel-"
"My God, Tony, stop. For the love of every song in the world that ever had a clever rhythm or interesting lyrics in it at all, please," McGee groaned, but he was lighthearted and for some reason, slightly less irate, so he just went with it. The small, rare feeling of stability.
"Uh-huh. Sure, McFrosty. Whatever you say." Tony yawned. "It's quiet," he murmured, as an afterthought. It really was. The crime scene was almost out of another world; quiet and peaceful for the bloody stage of a murderous act; a small pocket of alleyway tucked behind a grimy bar. The fresh, freefalling snow nearly masked the stench of old beer, sounds muffled themselves in the ashen paradise, and Gibbs had most likely stomped off somewhere to call Ducky for the third time in a row and end up smashing his phone. Again.
"Tony... it's not that I'm unhappy."
"What?" Tony's ears almost visibly twitched as he rapidly blinked a snowflake out of his eye; obviously not expecting Timothy to start the nitty-gritty of their conversation so quickly. "I mean... what?"
McGee grinned. There it was. And he wasn't even going to take it back. "I'm feeling a little..." He shifted on his feet. Come on. It was only Tony, and what was he going to do? They were past the jokes, mostly. "It's pathetic. I'm feeling hopeless and... a little pessimistic. Holidays tend to do that to me. I'm just an expert at pretending to be happy."
"Oh, cut the crap," Tony sighed. "You're not an emotionally distant person, McGee. You may think you are, but you like being around people. I can see that, you know. I'm more than a pair of eyes and an awesome butt."
McGee subtly ignored the latter comment. "I know. Maybe I'm just being ridiculous."
"Well, if there's anything I've come to know about authors – and when I say that, I mean you – is that that they always over-think everything. Every small detail, every emotional defect. They're eccentric, jumpy, and naturally impossible to please. Uh, and I say that with all the love in the world," Tony added.
"It's just... you've got to learn when to let go of some things, McGee. I've always considered myself a roll with the punches, go with the flow, take whatever life throws rudely in my direction kind of guy. I know that wouldn't please you, living like that. You've gotta analyze everything." Tony twisted his lip. "Damn, all of that came out insulting. What I'm trying to say is... I'm not a therapist. I can't tell you how to think, but I am. Be happy, Tim. Live life or something. All of this..." He flailed weakly at McGee. "...all of this depression stuff is pointless. And probably all of my ranting is, too. But I want you to take something out of it. You've got a ton of people who care about you."
Tony finished his speech with a punctuated nod, slightly breathless and pink-nosed from the cold air, and McGee snorted affectionately. It was... dare he think it, sweet – or some form of it – that Tony himself had actually attempted to raise his spirits. He really hoped there hadn't been any cookies involved.
Tony stood up from his crouch, then, brushing the feathery snow off of his pant legs and stretching. "You should talk to Abby," he added casually, scratching the back of his neck. "Christmas; it means a lot to her. More so than you think. She craves togetherness. She can't handle it when one person isn't there for her. It screws up her whole perspective."
McGee stared at the pallid young girl's features below him, looking but not seeing. "I know."
Tony nodded, knowing that Tim couldn't see it but not particularly minding. He had evidence to bag, Gibbs to introduce a new cellular device to, and maybe there would be a few extra seconds to check his Italian leather soles for water damage. "See you at headquarters."
Tim twisted his lip; pondering. "Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. Really."
"You're welcome, McGee."
Tim was padding around his apartment hours later, pacing; it was a bad habit and he knew it, but there were some things that were hard to shake. He was thinking again, regrettably, about life and happiness and love and every shoddily composed fortune cookie he ever had the bad taste to read, and it really was pathetic.
Timothy McGee was not a happy person.
"Damn it," he griped loudly to the empty air that wouldn't answer, flopping down on the chair he used primarily for writing. He was alone. He had always felt alone. Oh god, Tony had been spot-on. Authors always analyzed every small detail. But maybe he was overreacting. Coffee. Yes. Copious amounts of unnecessary caffeine would help...
McGee stood once more, scrubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. He couldn't go to bed. Sleep would only lead to lying awake staring at the mocking shadows on the ceiling and trying not to think about what it would be like if he really did have no one. And that was the most nauseating, emotional, depressing thought ever...
Knock, knock.
Tim blinked, staring at his apartment door almost hesitantly through a blurry pair of sleep-deprived eyes. He hadn't been making any noise whatsoever, merely wallowing in his own dismal menagerie of glum, so it couldn't have been the neighbor upstairs. The last time he checked, Sarah hadn't been caught up in any elaborate college murder schemes. But if it was someone from work trying to barge in to 'attempt' to cheer him up like Tony had earlier, he didn't really know if he could handle that. Especially if it was Gibbs with a bottle of hard liquor, or worse, Abby clutching at a carefully chosen set of Christmas DVDs.
Answer the door, you girl.
Well, McGee did. You know what they say – curiosity killed the NCIS special field agent with nothing else to lose. And there was no mouthful of Tony teeth grinning maniacally at him; not a terrified baby sister dripping with someone else's fatal blood. He glared out into the empty hallway like an angry, wounded animal; nearly slamming the door before he noticed it.
A small, decorative pine tree, from the looks of it, stood only about a foot high; tiny and vulnerable at the foot of his doorstep. It was rough, though, real and wild; Timothy realized as the stinging scent of pine graced his nostrils. He kneeled down to pick it up, almost reluctantly as if expecting it to explode or dissolve or burst into flame (hey, it could happen; he had consumed quite a bit of coffee already); nearly dropping it when a bird poked a tiny russet head out from the thinned branches and let out a squawk that couldn't have possibly been big enough for its body.
Tim's heart thudded. Who the hell leaves a pathetic excuse for a creature tied to a pathetic excuse for a midget tree outside the door of a pathetic excuse for a person? It didn't make sense. No one did that. It was probably for a neighbor, yeah, that was it. Someone lost their, um... bird and tree thing and both were thoughtfully returned to them in the middle of the night...? Damn it, rational thinking was difficult at two in the morning.
His hand felt around to the bottom of the pot that the miniature 'tree' was encased in, and McGee's fingers came away clutching a small note typed out on an ordinary old piece of printer paper.
Merry Christmas. From a friend.
Note: Good gravy, this was depressing. And longer than I meant for it to be. Don't even question the blatant disregard of a creative ending; I was kind of watching Psych while writing that (yes, I win at multitasking), and it happened to be Lights... Camera... Homicidio! from season two, with the drama and the Spanish soap opera and Shawn wearing what was most likely rose blush and guuuuuhhh. I have a weak disposition and I'm easily distracted. Plus, this whole updating every day thing is stressing me out. If you know me, you know that I take my own sweet time with writing... Anyway. Feel free to comment. Or kill me. Whichever is quicker. (New chapter tomorrow, if I don't die first!)