The Mariner
It's raining.
As a kid Tim liked the rain. He and his sister would go down to the creek on base at Alameda after a storm; they'd stomp in the puddles- or push each other in. And when they'd get home, dirty, wet, their dad would growl at them about catching their death in the cold even though it was summer. McGee he'd hit over the back of the head, but it never really hurt that bad.
"McGoo!"
A paper ball hits the side of his computer and interrupts Tim's childhood nostalgia, alerting him to his partner's presence. He glances over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of Tony sitting at his desk, rolling paper scraps into more ammunition, but for once irritation escapes him. The windows behind Tony's head are more interesting than the arsenal accumulating in front of the senior field agent. They're all fogged up and misted over from the rainy weather outside.
Tony throws another piece of paper and it lands just short of Tim's desk.
"What, Tony?"
"It's your turn to get coffee."
"It's raining outside." Tim points at the cup still sitting at the edge of Tony's desk. "And Kate just got us all coffee thirty minutes ago."
Next Tony throws the cup. It hits Tim in the head.
Tim is thankful for small mercies- the cup is empty. However, he's not thankful for the rain or the ease with which he bends to seniority. Puddles are so much more inconvenient when you're wearing designer shoes instead of torn up jeans and tennis shoes.
"Kate wouldn't make me do this." Tim grumbles while he puts on his jacket and grabs his keys.
"Well I would." Tony opens the top drawer on his desk and sweeps the rest of his paper ammunition away for safe keeping, pulling out a rubber band instead. "And Kate's not here."
The rubber band, unlike the coffee cup, misses Tim's head.
Some things don't miss though.
Ari didn't miss.
It rains then too, when they're searching the roof for the sniper nest. It's raining so damn much Tim can feel it seeping into his skin all the way to the bone. He's cold and he's tired and Tony hasn't said a word since they started sweeping the rooftop with flashlights. Evidence bags are stuffed in their pockets like candy and their hats are pulled down on their heads so tight that it might cut off circulation, but the wind would blow them off if they weren't.
They find the shell casings because he slips on one of them.
"You ok probie?"
Thunder is rumbling over head and lightening illuminates the backdrop of the D.C. sky. Tony reaches down with his hand, helping him up. So much for staying dry. Tim can feel the rain water slide down his neck and under his clothes as he brushes the front of his jacket off and wipes his hands on his pants. It's an automatic motion that makes him feel like he's ridding himself of something unwanted, not that he ever had anything there to begin with besides some gravel and dirt.
For a moment he wonders if Tony looks at his own hands and sees blood.
"No." It's all Tim can say as he bends over to pick up the shell casing, placing it in a bag and stuffing it deep down in his pocket so that he doesn't have to think about it too much. He can feel the rain on his face as the wind picks up, but when he licks his lips it tastes salty.
Tony just sort of nods, doesn't even try to fake a smile, marches on past Tim to where the other bronze casings probably lay abandoned. One of them held the bullet. Tim hopes it's not his. He hears Tony call something over his shoulder, but he doesn't catch it at first over the crash-bang of the storm that rages on over their heads.
"Did you say something?"
"Yeah. I said 'me either'."
When another flash of lightening lights up the sky, there are more shell casings scattered all over the ground and they begin to pick up all the pieces.
"He's going to be ok, right?"
Tim can't ask Abby because she'll probably burst into tears and try to use Bert as a weapon. He won't ask Tony because the senior field agent will probably call him 'McWorry' and not give him a straight answer. Jenny scares him when she's pissed.
So he asks Ziva because she is the only one who seems sane at the moment. Or ever. Tim tries to tell himself it's because she's trained to handle these sort of high stress situations, not because she – sometimes – acts like an emotionless robot with scary knife wielding abilities. And maybe normally he wouldn't ask Ziva. The Mossad liaison is nothing if not intimidating, but since they're eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria while the rest of the team is back at the yard following up on the case, Tim feels compelled to start some sort of conversation.
"Gibbs was in a twenty by twenty foot square room on a cargo ship when the bomb went off, McGee."
Tim winces at this, reminded that she is also the only one who forgets the definition of optimism.
"But he's going to be ok?" He asks again, twirling his fork in the cafeteria spaghetti, but not eating it.
Ziva shrugs a little, taking her time chewing her own food. They fall into a lull, each finishing their respective lunches. Tim's eyes wander to the nearest window. Outside it's raining. He faintly remembers that it's been raining ever since they got Gibbs off that ship. An involuntary chill runs down his spine as he pulls his eyes away and turns back to find Ziva watching him, twirling a strand of her hair around her index finger absentmindedly. They sit that way for a while, but then Ziva looks to the window and back at him.
"He's Gibbs." She says.
And for what ever reason those two words make him believe that everything will be alright.
The rain stops when Gibbs hands in his badge.
McGee watches Tony tear himself up after Ziva almost becomes another person with a bullet lodged somewhere inside her skull. No one says anything afterward, because the tension in the bullpen is balanced on a precariously thin piece of thread. Tim can see the ghost of the psycho serial killer lurking in Ziva's eyes and it doesn't take an MIT grad to know something isn't right.
This time the bad guy missed, but Tim wonders if Ziva thinks that he shouldn't have.
The day progresses and the gloomy atmosphere remains the same. Between Tony and Ziva - who are too busy bitching at each other to notice anything else - and the ever stoic Gibbs, Tim feels a little stranded at sea. He finds himself retreating to Abby's lab for some much needed R&R while she processes the DNA on the dead body they found in the homicidal maniac's bedroom earlier that morning.
He tip toes into the goth's lair, but he wouldn't doubt if she's got some sort of alert system set up that runs on invisible lasers, because she catches him in stealth even over the blaring of her techno music. Tim is pretty sure – if the ringing in his ears is anything to go by – that there are enough decibels pounding out through those speakers to deafen the entire city.
"Trying to hide, McGee?" Abby casts him a knowing look over her shoulder and a grin as she kills the music.
"Trying to avoid the fallout from world war three upstairs." She doesn't seem to catch on, so Tim clears his throat and tries again, taking a seat on the stool next to her computer. "Tony and Ziva are... Fighting."
Abby considers this statement carefully.
"Fighting?" She asks. Tim just sort of nods and balances his weight on the stool by pressing the palms of his hands to his knees.
"Yeah. And I don't like it, either. Tony and Ziva bicker, they banter, but they don't-"
"Bitch like an old married couple?" She offers.
"Well, actually..." But Tim can't finish the sentence. He frowns and tries to picture something in his head and what he gets is a somewhat disturbing image of Tony and Ziva in rocking chairs on a front porch, complaining about the weather.
Speaking of weather the clouds outside Abby's lab windows are looking a little grayer than they had been that morning. Thunderstorms were supposed to hit the city tonight. The idea of an onslaught of unwelcome water makes McGee scowl and he get's that itchy, uncomfortable feeling at the collar of his shirt when he thinks about it. He tells himself it's too much starch.
Really, it's too many bad memories.
"We need to get you home, Tony."
It's a plea that falls on deaf ears, or drunken ears, because Tony is definitely drunk, maybe more like wasted. But Tim's going to make sure he's dead if he doesn't at least try to walk.
"Thanks, but no thanks McGee."
Tony continues to sit against the brick wall of the alley outside the bar where Tim found him fifteen minutes ago. The faint glow of neon lights from the sign above their heads highlights the smile Tony forces onto his face. There are rain drops too, scattered and leaving stains on Tony's cheeks and the sidewalk before evaporating back into the night air. It's been sprinkling on and off and somewhere in the distance there is a tell tale rumble of thunder.
"If you want to stay out here and be a lightning rod, then fine." He nudges Tony's foot with his own, but baiting does nothing if the fish you're trying to catch won't bite.
"Lightning?" Tony muses, closing his eyes. "Lots of smoke and noise and dramatic lighting, right? Sounds like my kind of party."
It would be so easy to lean over the last few inches and head slap the man where he sat, but Tim resists. Alcohol makes Tony lose enough brain cells without any physical trauma to add to the mix. That and there is this very annoying, very persistent thing called sympathy that's gnawing at the back of Tim's brain like a dog after a bone.
"Don't make me tell Gibbs."
Tim lowers his voice when he says this, turning to lean against the wall next to where Tony is sitting. He watches the clouds in the distance light up with flashes of light and breathes in the thick humidity that is summer, catching the taste of rain on his tongue like a warning. Tony stirs beside him and when Tim looks down at his partner he sees his eyes for the first time that night. He really sees them, because Tony is starting straight up at him and even though he is silent, they are screaming.
"I'm sorry." Tony manages to choke out these two words just as the rain begins to pick up.
This time when Tim helps him up Tony doesn't try to push him off. With a little effort Tim even manages to get Tony's arm around his shoulder as they begin the tedious task of making it out to the parking lot. They're side tracked momentarily by Tony's plague scarred lungs, a coughing fit sending tremors through the older man's body that force them to stop.
"I'm sorry." Doubled over, trying to catch his breath, Tony says this again and again. "You know that right? I'm really, really sorry."
The rain doesn't let up. It soaks their clothes and gets in their eyes and swamps their nose until the only thing they can see beyond two feet in front of them is a continuous sheet of gray water. Tony's question still hangs in the air though. It's not Tim's place to answer- it wasn't ever a question for him to begin with.
But he does anyway.
"She knows."
"Why do you think she did it?"
He and Ziva are looking at the pictures she's just captured from her rainy stake out. They're sitting at his desk with fresh coffee and waiting for Tony to bring them take out. And while they're waiting Tim takes a moment to watch Ziva out of the corner of his eye, she doesn't notice because she's looking at the pictures, but Tim thinks he prefers it that way. He'd hate to be caught staring.
It's times like these he's thankful that she is there, alive, breathing.
"There are millions of possible reasons, McGee." Ziva leans back in her chair, spinning from side to side thoughtfully, eyes still trained on the image of Major Gordon Holcomb and John Mayne's first wife. "But as to which one it is, she is the only one who knows. Her husband was dead to her, so she moved on, that is what I think."
Tim nods, because it makes sense.
And there are millions of possible reasons for anything and probably a million more possible outcomes. Everything happens for a reason.
Tim isn't really a spiritual person. He's always relied on things like numbers and figures, not hope and faith. Time can change a man though.
It's changed him.
Tim thinks it's funny how he realizes things like this at the strangest moments. He thinks it's funny how the littlest things seem to matter most when you least expect them. But those are the things to be held onto, to be remembered. Life is easy to get lost in without something to guide you, but those memories, those moments, will navigate you through even the most treacherous waters.
"Ziva?"
"Yes?"
Outside it's still raining and Tim can see their reflection faintly in the glass of the windows.
"Do you remember my sister, Sarah? We used to play in the rain when we were kids."
At the mention of childhood recollections, Ziva is very quiet. She watches Tim carefully, as if debating with herself about something.
"When I was little, my brother and sister and I would stand on the balcony of our home in Haifa and watch the storms roll in off the sea."
"That sounds nice." Tim says.
"It was." She replies.
And sitting there with her, with his memories, with the rain, Tim decides it still is.
A/N: Reviews are love.