This came to me last night at one after a night of NCIS watching. I suppose in some way it spawned from another story I'm working on.
Sunday Afternoon
It was Sunday afternoon. And like every Sunday afternoon for the past three months he found himself sitting there, just sitting, not saying a word. What was he supposed to say? The words had run dry seven Sundays ago.
He shifted his jacket around himself. It had grown much colder over the past few Sundays, but it was nowhere near as cold as he had felt that Sunday afternoon. They were not supposed to be working, but the case couldn't wait—most of them couldn't. Still, having to work on a Sunday was a drag. If God rests on the seventh day, so should he. He always wondered why Sunday was the first day on the calendar. If Sunday is the Lord's Day, being the seventh day since he did all His creating on the previous six, shouldn't it be the last day—the seventh day—on the calendar?
He snorted. Even in his head he strayed away from the business at hand.
He shivered and then adjusted his ball cap. Were it not for a clear sky, he would swear it was going to snow, or at least pour down freezing rain. It may as well have done that on that Sunday afternoon. It would have been appropriate for the way he felt. It should never have happened. It was in the high seventies the afternoon of that first Sunday in September; but for him, it was below freezing.
They were not supposed to be working that Sunday. But they were. The case couldn't wait for Monday. It was too important; it had to be solved as soon as possible. And that's what that first Sunday in September was supposed to be—as soon as possible.
Why couldn't Saturday have been as soon as possible? He thought hard. Would that really have made a difference? He would never know. Life has no reset button.
He blamed himself, though there was nothing he could have done to stop it. He had no control over it. Why'd it have to end like that? It should have been him. No, he wasn't the one they had wanted, but still, it should have been him. They were not holding the gun to his head, but in his mind, that didn't matter.
His desk was still void of life, even after three months. Someone could be sitting there now, but he would have none of it. No one was allowed to sit at his desk. No one was allowed to touch his computer. No one was allowed to touch anything on or in his desk. He saw to that everyday. It bordered on ridiculous, perhaps it was obsessive; but he didn't care. No one understood his reasoning, no one except….
He closed his eyes as a cold breeze bit his face. He adjusted his ball cap again. He opened his eyes and stared at the plaque on the ground. There was a name on it, two dates; the second date—that Sunday. That Sunday, they should have been doing something other than working, but there they were.
What's that song by U2? Sunday, Bloody Sunday? Yeah, that's the one. That was the first Sunday in September. So it had little to do with the song itself; but that one line, that title. Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
It should have been him. It should have been him lying face down in a pool of blood. It should have been him taking that bullet to the head. He should have been the one being executed. It should have been him, not….
He felt tears beginning to fall. He wasn't supposed to cry. He had already done that. He had done too much of it for his liking. He tried to choke back his tears. It was useless.
They got away. They were not supposed to get away. They got away while he was holding the dying man in his arms. They got away; but at that moment, he didn't care. All he could see was…. The tears fell harder. He wiped them away furiously. It was a futile attempt. They were not supposed to get away.
His case was cold.
They were going to find them. Gibbs had said so. No matter how long it took. they were going to find them. Those bastards were going to pay. He would see to that.
It was Sunday afternoon. He wasn't at work today. Maybe next Sunday he would be, or perhaps the Sunday after that. Sometime in the future he would be working on a Sunday. But Special Agent Timothy McGee would never work on a Sunday again.
Because of them.
But they, they would pay dearly for what they had done. He would see to it. It was cold, but not as cold as it was going to be for those that had murdered his Probie.
No one was allowed to mess with his Probie. And sure as hell, no one was allowed to murder him.
The case was cold, but not as cold as he felt.
It was Sunday afternoon. And like every Sunday afternoon for the past three months, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo found himself sitting in front of his Probie's grave, just sitting, not saying a word.
fin
I've been caught up in the relationship between Tony and Tim for some time now. I suppose I just find it intriguing. I don't think this type of brotherly love would exist for Tony were his probie someone other than Tim. But that's my thinking.
Anyway, I hope you liked it. It was my first NCIS story.