A/N: No plot to be found here. Just a small ficlet inspired by the crazy winter weather we've had this year. I have no idea why I had to make it so depressing or dramatic, but apparently that's what I do and I just have to accept that. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.
"How does this snowstorm rank in the history of DC snowfall, Hank?"
"Well, Jolene, that remains to be seen. But the last time DC got at least 28 inches of snow was in 1922. And of course the most recent storm of two thou-"
The radio cut out as Tim turned the key in the ignition, sitting in silence as the engine stilled. He stared straight ahead, watching as snow the size of popcorn soundlessly coated his windshield. He made little effort to view the neighborhood beyond the blanket of snow and glass made foggy from his breath. The sound of children's laughter reached his ears and he allowed himself a small smile, recalling one winter his family spent near the naval shipyard in Portsmouth. The snowfall had been remarkable, and there were days on end where he and Sarah were kept home from school. Tim taught her how to build towering snowmen and defendable forts of ice. Tim had never seen taller snowbanks in his life.
Except, of course, for this year.
His smile faded. This year, he'd never hated winter more.
The snow was boundless and no longer held any beauty for him. Forever gone was the attractiveness of winter. Gone were the days of Sarah begging him to create just one more snow angel before the two of them would head inside for hot chocolate with marshmallows. That was all tainted now.
Tainted with the memory of Tony's blood and Tim's own cries of distress behind the inadequate cover of one such snowbank.
Tim shivered in a way that was not entirely related to the chill in his car.
He'd spent the last 36 hours at the hospital, waiting for Tony to wake up or show any sign of improvement. Endless hours of doctors and specialists, of tests and screenings. Fleeting hope and stark reality that Tony may never regain consciousness intermixed together so delicately that Tim could do nothing outside of sit at his bedside and watch.
So that's what he did until Ducky insisted that he go home and get some rest. He'd reluctantly left but didn't drive home, instead finding himself pulling down a residential street he'd traveled only once before.
He was spared the internal struggle of debating on whether or not to knock on his boss' door when there was a rapping noise on his window. Tim rolled it down and blinked against the crisp wintery air that rushed in and around Gibbs' silhouette.
"Grab a shovel, McGee."
He didn't have time to respond before all he could see was his boss' retreating figure. Tim exited his car, but not before cranking the window back up and remembering to grab his gloves. Tim crossed the un-plowed street and trudged toward the garage where Gibbs waited, a shovel in each hand.
"I was actually hoping we could talk, Boss."
Gibbs said nothing. Tim looked left and then right. Both neighbors flanking Gibbs' house were clearing their driveways as well, but wisely using heavy duty snow blowers. He turned and looked at the driveway behind him. The drifts were so high that it was hard to determine where grass met concrete. Tim sighed and looked back at his boss, his face unreadable through the falling snow.
With one last look of envy toward the neighbors, and a look of dread at his less than desirable footwear, Tim snagged the offered shovel and went to work.
At one point the snow abated as the pair of agents worked in diligent silence. The rhythmic scooping and pitching of snow did nothing for Tim's exhaustion, but did remarkable wonders for his emotional state. Tim felt calmer than he had in days. His fear of failure was muted against the burning of his muscles. The chill that seeped through his leather jacket brought a new clarity to Tim's clouded mind.
"It wasn't your fault."
Gibbs' firm statement caused Tim to hesitate but he didn't turn or stop in his work, even if he could feel his boss' eyes on his back.
"I know it wasn't. I just wish…" Tim trailed off as he finished scooping his particularly large pile upward and atop his growing mountain of snow. He watched in peculiar fascination as smaller pieces cascaded down, forming their own little avalanche before resting, once again, on the driveway.
"He was comforting me," he restarted, unable to hide the anguish in his voice. "He was bleeding out in my arms, but he was trying to make me feel better."
He finally turned to face Gibbs before continuing, his voice soft and broken.
"I just wish there was something more I could have done."
"You were there for him, McGee. When he needed you, you were there." Gibbs sadly shook his head. "Sometimes that has to be enough."
Tim didn't fully understand, but he nodded and looked down at his feet. The snow flurries began to fall once again, and when the wind blew, the flakes coiled around Tim's legs like snakes. He contemplated asking for reassurance, but knew that's not why he'd come. He'd been seeking exactly what he'd just received: Gibbs' unique form of guidance and support.
His head snapped back up when Gibbs' cell rang. Their gazes remained locked throughout the short conversation and Tim held his breath until it was over.
"That was Ducky."
Tim's shovel slipped out of his frozen fingers, sinking down into the half-cleared snow bank. He searched Gibbs' face for the slightest sign of fear or grief, but he found it as unreadable as when he'd first arrived.
"Tony?" Tim asked in a quiet voice.
Gibbs stepped forward and placed a hand on Tim's shoulder.
"Let's get to the hospital, Tim."
END.