This is my eighteenth NCIS Mystery and the seventh of my Second Season, set roughly in the 5th Season of the televised series. The list of stories became so extensive I moved it, with summaries, to my profile.
The usual legal disclaimers. I own no one but Siobhan (Shavonne) O'Mallory, whom Tim McGee calls 'Shav'; and Samantha Sky, who apprenticed under Ducky Mallard during Jimmy and Michelle Palmer's honeymoon.
This story follows, by over a week, the events depicted in 'Have Yourself A Merry...'
Rating: T or NCis-17. Non-Con sexual situations, violence and disturbing imagery. Mature audiences.
Hatred
By JMK758
Chapter One
Fireworks
"Almost time!" Michelle Palmer calls from the window that overlooks the Navy Yard to beyond the Capital Mall. It's the final moments of Tuesday night, December 31, music fills the room all night from a dozen synchronized radios and her excited call summons the party in the huge Operations complex to join her at the expanse. She reaches out and tugs her husband closer, the tall man snuggles in behind her as the agents crowd into spaces at the window.
"Sixty seconds!" someone calls unnecessarily as they look out into the night. Someone cuts many of the main lights to dim reflections in the wide windows. The capital building and Washington Monument form a backdrop to the festival.
Samantha Sky quickly snags a spot at the window beside Michelle. At five two, the blonde M.E. Apprentice is even smaller than the petite agent. She shares a silent glance with the woman that says 'let the mountains find their own places'.
Another champagne bottle pops behind them, the cork ricochets off the skylight. "Incoming," someone warns. DiNozzo, in the back, backhands it and bats the missile across the huge room.
"Home run!" Melanie Kelman calls.
"Only kind I hit."
"Yeah, right."
"Here it comes!"
x
Outside, the falling snow is illuminated by the lights of the Naval Station to cast its own enchantment on the scene. "Fifteen!" someone calls, the coordinated chant taken up as late arrivals infiltrate the growing crowd where they may.
"TEN!" The chant rises in volume and intensity, the crowd seems to surge to the rhythm. "Eight – Seven – Six – Five – Four –THREE – TWO – ONE – HAPPY NEW YEAR!" The cry fills the complex and is echoed in other rooms; hugs and kisses of varying intensity are exchanged. Over cheers and bedlam the strains of Guy Lombardo's orchestral 'Auld Lang Syne' fill Operations. Immediately the first of the colorful fireworks explode over the Capital dome to begin a spectacular and awe-inspiring production.
Music fills the air, simulcast over various media and in some cases warbled from throats that range from skilled through hopeless, all with ribald intensity. Not surprisingly, the greatest fervor is given to the Navy and Marine Hymns. Fireworks near and far turn Washington into a vast vista of color amid exclamations of appreciation.
x
"Thank you for inviting me, Doctor," Samantha Sky looks up to her mentor beside her when the display concludes twenty minutes later. The venerable man had not had to 'snare' any prime position by the window; a path had been cleared for him.
"Think nothing of it, my dear. I'm happy to have you." Each agent and employee had been permitted a single guest; for Ducky the choice had been quite easy. Sammy had been his temporary Assistant M.E. in late November and early December while Jimmy and Michelle Palmer were on their honeymoon. The diminutive woman's unrestrained enthusiasm fits well with the celebratory atmosphere.
They had last encountered Sky, to many of the agents' surprise, at the Christmas Pageant at Saint Mary the Virgin Church, which Chaplain O'Mallory had arranged and to which she had maneuvered many of the agents into making substantial contributions. When the priest had learned of the young woman's violin skills, Fifth Violin with the Washington Renaissance Orchestra, she had recruited her support. The Apprentice Medical Examiner had backed up many presentations, while her solo rendition of 'Ave Maria' had utterly entranced the crowd which had filled Hamilton Hall a few days before Christmas.
x
"It was really great," Michelle Palmer enthuses about the pyrotechnic display as she curls her arm about her much taller husband's.
"Yes," Tim McGee agrees as he steps up and hands Siobhan O'Mallory a glass of champagne. She sips it and he watches the way the lights play on the glass and in the lenses before her emerald eyes. He tries to keep his smile from looking as sappy as it feels. She catches his eyes on her and leans in to give him a kiss on his cheek.
"Come on," Michelle urges the priest, "you're dating. You can do better than that!"
"Yeah, McChaste," DiNozzo chimes in, "you can do better."
Siobhan's blush is deeper than the redness of her ruby dress, the kind of blush only redheads seem able to achieve. Knowing she is blushing only makes it worse.
"Not everyone is comfortable with public displays of affection, Anthony," Ducky chides in an attempt to salvage the moment. He knows the Episcopal Priest must be cautious of her image even within the more liberal limitations of her denomination - or perhaps because of them.
"I always am," DiNozzo assures him.
Sammy Sky rushes in and a hop brings her a foot up with her arms about the much taller man's neck. She plants a passionate kiss on his lips to a raucous chorus of encouragement and quickly drops back to her feet and backs away. DiNozzo momentarily looks like he'd been hit by a truck and must shake himself back into the room with the realization that the kiss is already over.
"That's not fair! I wasn't ready."
"Sorry, Agent DiNozzo, only one kiss a year."
He can at least join in the laughter, freely scoring her the point.
x
Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge, is quite happy the festivities are taking place here, because he doesn't have to travel and for two hours he doesn't have to be the boss. He wasn't surprised when Director Jenny Shepherd had expressed the same sentiments a short while ago. He glances at the woman at his side.
"It's good to see people enjoying themselves here," Shepherd says as they watch the festivities from the throng's edge.
"You don't think people enjoy their time at NCIS?" he asks with a secret smile.
"It's not the same. Family, friends, loved ones..." she can't keep a note of wistfulness from her voice, even knowing it takes far less to give herself away to her companion. They are both here unescorted tonight.
"What do you say," he asks quietly, "to a bottle of brandy I've been saving? In your office?"
She looks up to him with an affectionate smile. "I say you always have the best ideas."
x
People drift away from the window to expand the party back throughout the room, the crowd breaks into smaller groups. Tim and Siobhan linger, momentarily alone. "You're so beautiful tonight," he tells her quietly. Her usual 'uniform' is black pants and pale blue shirt with the notable inch high stiff white collar to encircle her throat. Tonight she wears a ruby dress that to Tim suggests a precious gem, while red high heeled shoes bring her to his height.
"Thank you, Timmy."
"Cheers." He raises his glass of champagne.
"Sláinte." She still tries, whenever she can, to teach him some of their shared heritage; an advantage being privacy. But though their glasses ring softly, before she can take a sip, he speaks.
"To the most lovely and loving woman in the world."
She's flattered, takes a sip of the champagne to try to cover her feelings at the depth of this surprising toast. "Thank you, Timmy."
She wonders why she feels so shy. She is not shy with him; it has been far too many years for that, so she has no idea what makes tonight feel so different.
Tim considers his toast a woefully inadequate understatement. Siobhan's red hair is swept back and a small golden cross on a necklace is her only ornamentation, while the ruby dress she wears is heart-stoppingly flattering. To him, she has never been anything other than the most beautiful woman on Earth.
x
"Karaoke!" someone calls loudly.
"Yes! Who's up?"
Tim tries to nudge Siobhan forward. "No, Timmy, not me."
"Come on, Shav," he draws her back toward the bullpen, "you've got a gorgeous voice." He particularly remembers her rendition of 'You raise me up' at the Christmas Pageant.
She stops him at the entrance. "For singing Hymns, not Pop – the measure's all different."
"Come on."
But she stands her ground, her hands raised to ward off his urges, "Timmy, no!" Her brogue grows sharper with her emphasis.
"You tell him," Michelle Palmer says. "The one time I was compelled to sing in public, I wound up engaged."
Most join in the laughter and a few people who have imbibed more than their fellows are prevailed upon to add their questionable talents to the mix. Though Kevin Lamb's effort raises images of a constipated moose, some do surprisingly well; none more so than Ziva. Her rendition of 'Fever' silences the room; holds everyone spellbound until applause threaten to burst the windows.
It's one-thirty when the party gradually winds down. Some are obliged to begin work while others must see themselves home for rest before the start of their own shifts.
xxx
Tim drives Siobhan back to the Rectory of St. Mary the Virgin Church; the light snow requires only the occasional brush of wipers to clear the windshield. The trip to New York Avenue NW isn't particularly long, but he's in no hurry to get there. The falling white provides a decorative enhancement to the city; it flutters in the illumination of street lamps and dances in headlights to cover the city in a thin sheet that barely hides the colors of parked cars. As they near their destination, Tim becomes aware during a lull in their conversation of very soft humming from beside him. "You're in good spirits – or are good spirits in you?"
She laughs, a little embarrassed. "I'm afraid some of the latter, a chuisle. But I'm not drunk. Happy, but not drunk; I don't get drunk."
Her brogue is a gently flowing river he would be content to sail on forever. Her Gaelic endearment comes to 'my beloved', literally 'my pulse', from the longer 'mo chuisle a croi', 'pulse of my heart'.
"I remember that night in Sophomore year, after that game against Boston when –"
"Hush! Really, an old friend with a good memory is a trial indeed," she puts her hand upon his arm. That night had been well over fifteen years ago, when she'd been a very enthusiastic High School cheerleader and thoughts of a Clerical life were non-existent. "Here's hoping the New Year is better than the old."
"I don't know; that year had some good points."
"Some very good, cara." She leans against him as closely as she might against the restraining belt. "Athbhliain shona duit."
"And to you too, darling; may it be a wonderful one." Since they'd gotten back together in a more serious relationship, she'd begun to teach him some of their shared heritage, including language. It allows them to exchange private words. He'd taken the lessons at first just for the beauty of hearing her.
x
As they drive in silence for a few moments, late fireworks occasionally punctuate the snowy night, and Tim steals glances at her. Her long white coat and one-in-a-million red hair remind him of a snow sprite.
"Timmy, what?"
"What?"
"You keep looking at me."
"Can't help it, you're too beautiful not to look at." And he has lost too many years with her, but no longer.
"Thank you," she's flattered and cuddles closer, whispering, "Tá mé i ngrá leat."
"I love you too, but you make it hard to drive."
"So pull over."
"Too late, we're here," he turns right and stops the car on the curb facing the black metal gate of the church parking lot.
"Darn." She could wish for another hour before they reached the huge Gothic structure.
"Tsk, tsk, such language."
x
He picks the pocket of her white coat and gets out of the car before she can protest, closes out the freezing air. He unlocks the gate, ignores the snow that falls lightly over his long black coat for he is warm enough from the woman's closeness, and pushes the portal wide. After he drives through, he recloses the gate but leaves the lock off. As soon as he settles in again Siobhan snuggles closer, her arms about his.
"You're in a mood," he observes, not about to hinder her.
"Have I ever told you how romantic I think fireworks are?" Freed of the belt, she leans closer to him and he's not slow to take the invitation when she brings her lips up in reach of his. It's a few minutes spent warming up from the two brief exposures before he shifts the car out of neutral, turns right and circles the lot so her door will be close to the Rectory's.
All the lights are off inside. There had been a celebration in Hamilton Hall, but obviously the scores of guests have gone home. When Siobhan looks up to the second floor of the Rectory she sees George Donaldson's lights are off. She's in no hurry to get out of the car; she wishes this night would never end. "You didn't answer my question," she reminds him.
"No, no you haven't. But I'm glad to know."
Tim doesn't want the night to end so soon and is sure she feels the same, so he pushes a CD already in the dashboard drive into place and presses the play button.
x
The flute and violin melody that comes from the speakers is instantly familiar to Siobhan. Though she knows the music to be decades old, titled 'Ruth' from Star Trek's 'Shore Leave' episode, she remembers when she'd found it in his collection and learned he'd programmed it as 'Siobhan's Theme'. She'd found it when they were on their way to a county fair, an afternoon together that was understood to very definitely not be a 'date'. It had been something that he'd never intended to reveal, and at the time the discovery had embarrassed him, particularly since he'd already been deeply committed to another woman. The discovery had started a day that had changed their lives.
She turns about in the seat until partially looking away and leans back, cradled in his arms, looking up at him from his lap. It wasn't an easy position to reach, but it feels so good. He supports her for a long kiss. To Siobhan, there is no better melody for kissing her beloved Timmy.
She's grateful for the privacy of the snowy lot. It is nearly 2:00 and they're alone for the first time in too many days. Now she can look up and left and see the snow cover the windshield to enclose them in this privacy, hiding them from the world.
Normally when they can see each other it is at Headquarters, or on a date in public. While in those latter times she is dressed inconspicuously, she normally doesn't go out of the Church into the public without her traditional attire. Therefore she has always had to be so conscious of being alone with him; always aware of the impression she gives to the public, always so careful of her image and reputation. Now that they are openly dating, privacy and solitude are opportunities she particularly treasures. "Timmy," she whispers up to him over the violins, "tá mé i ngrá leat."
"I love you too."
No passion burns in their warm embrace and warmer kisses; just the opportunity, so rarely accorded, to share their love openly. Here, in private darkness, they can share without regard to others who might see only a Federal Agent and a Priest.
"Timmy?" she whispers softly against his lips.
"Darling?" She lies supported in his arms so she can look up at him. The snow on the windshield closes them in, heaven granting privacy.
"Tonight …" she kisses him again, "tonight I could wish I could invite you in…"
He smiles, knowing her mind. After close to twenty years, it's so easy, and yet so hard. "But you're a good girl," he reminds her.
x
She sighs. He's right. Not only must she be ever cautious not to step over some perceived or imagined line her congregation would not tolerate, but they do not have a physical relationship. That's a part of their romance distinctly absent and he hasn't pushed. Too much has happened, too much trauma, for her to possibly be ready for that.
They're no longer teenagers; the behavior of carefree and reckless youth is far in the past, in their old lives. After three tumultuous years together, he'd gone to MIT, she'd gone to New York, and only two years ago had they reunited. But in that time, while he'd become an agent, she'd become a priest.
Now it's nearly twenty years since they'd first met and since those High School years so much has changed.
"But I'm a good woman," she admits with a sad sigh, one she covers by cuddling closer and kissing him. She reaches up, fixes an unruly bit of his brown hair that has come aside in their ardor. "So many choices I've made, but tonight," she whispers, "I could wish…." She doesn't finish, covers her thought with a kiss.
The music has ended and in the silence, her lips to his, she feels his words as much as hears them.
"Marry me?"
x
Siobhan goes still, fearing, certain, that she has misheard. She pulls back from his lips, her voice hushed. "What did you say?"
"I just asked you to be my wife."
The universe turns over as she looks up into the face of the man she's known for so long, sees only sincerity in his eyes. Her breath comes fast, a tingling charge flashes all the way to her toes. This just happened, a tiny voice in her mind whispers. Didn't it? The world tilts. Did it happen? Staring up into his eyes, all she can manage is a soft, breathy whisper. "You mean that."
"Yes, I mean it. Siobhan, will you marry me?"
x
The words are like a tingling spell that chases itself down and up her body. She sits up, pushes herself upright and turns forward in the seat. She can only breathe in shallow, fast gasps and fights a deep breath into her trembling chest. Her heart pounds, she can barely think over the drumbeat in her ears. Outside, the swirling snow continues to cover the world with a thin sheet of white and she struggles to grasp her thoughts which fly from the car in every direction. Yes, he said it. It happened. She's shaking and clutches her hands to stop them. "I… this is so sudden!"
"Shav, we're been together – on and off I admit – since we were teenagers. If we don't know by now that we're ccompatible–"
"Yes, I know, but … I mean you're right, it's been a long time for a courtship," she admits shakily. "And it's not like I haven't dreamed of it – I mean thought of it – I mean dreamed – it's just that it was never like–" she waves her hand vaguely at the car and the snow that dusts the lot, the white on the windshield has sealed them in.
"You need time to think about it."
"Yes." She manages to look at him. "No. I mean I … Oh God, please help me; I don't know what I mean. I feel – I feel like the world's tilting and it's going to dump me off. I'm drunk. I mean, I'm not drunk – I don't get drunk - but I must have gotten drunk and passed out and this is a – I –" she pulls the gold framed glasses from her eyes with trembling hands. The world vanishes in a shapeless mist, but she can't hide, not when he deserves an answer. And God help her, after years thinking of this moment - dreaming of this moment - longing for this moment - she doesn't have one.
She rubs her eyes, her temples; tries to stall, tries to organize her thoughts. She can't. What's left of her thoughts are as unclear and chaotic as her vision.
She pulls the gold glasses back on; the world reappears out of the blur. But unable to endure the confusion, she grasps the door handle and yanks it, opens the door to a blast of frigid air that slaps her face. She gets out, clings to the door to avoid slipping in her red high-heeled shoes, closes the door. Her heart pounds in her trembling chest; she still feels the world try to tip her off. She bends to look in the window.
"Timmy, I –" but the longer she hesitates the more the words elude her. Her heart aches when she sees look on his face, the hurt.
He puts the car in 'drive', slowly moves toward the gate. She ascends the four steps up to the Rectory door, shaking, doesn't feel the cold. Why can't she think? Why can't she do? She turns on the top step, looks back and snow hits her face in a gust of wind. The car has passed the gate and he gets out to close it. She watches him pull it, it starts to close–
x
"TIMMY!" Her yell shatters the night, focused by the door frame. He looks back as she leaps from the steps, slips, catches herself on the rail and runs, slips precariously on the dusting of white in her red high heels, races across the lot as he hurries to meet her. In her mad dash she slips in the slick snow and stumbles, her body goes faster than she can balance. She tries to right herself, staggers to disaster and slams into him, their arms tight about one another. "YES! Oh God Yes!"
"Yes?"
"YES!"
It's several minutes, standing warm in the falling snow, before any more words can be said.
x
He walks her back to the Rectory steps, his excuse the gallant one that he doesn't want her to slip again but in truth he doesn't want to let her go. When they're on those steps they kiss again and each is quite content if it would last to morning. Only five more hours.
When she pulls back, Siobhan realizes she can no longer feel the winter air or the snow that swirls about them and she tries to get her mind to work. "A chuisle, if we're going to do this – two things?"
"Anything."
"We don't say anything until we're ready. No one knows until we work it out."
"No problem." He still has to figure out where to get a ring. A moment later he realizes there are far more things to work out. "And?"
"I'm not doing a Palmer."
He laughs. Jimmy Palmer had agreed with Michelle Lee in the fall upon a date of May 1, five months from today. Then he'd had set up a warp-speed wedding that had nearly doomed the marriage before it had begun. Only love and a great measure of luck - his new Fiancé would say much more - had saved it.
"I don't care when it is, I'm going to marry you."
She gives him a gentle push. "But for tonight, a ghile mear - my dashing darling - go home. Get some sleep. You'll probably think better of this in the morning."
"I couldn't think better of it than I do right now."
x
She watches from the top step as he returns to his car. He pulls and locks the gate, drives away with a wave before she fishes the keys out of her white coat and unlocks the door.
Inside the foyer she removes her white coat, shakes out the snow and hangs it on the stand. The door is automatically locked. She goes through the inner door into the living room and finds a lamp beside the couch to her right, in from of the dark window, left on. The room is warm and her glasses immediately fog over. She pulls a cloth from her pocket, removes the useless aids, the fog instantly worsening. The only sound in the invisible room is the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock to her left. She cleans the lenses and pulls the gold frames back on and the living room reappears from the indistinguishable haze.
She crosses the room and turns off the lamp; the dim light that filters in from the parking lot and the street beyond is enough. Before her is the dining room, to its left is the kitchen, which far door meets the hallway to her left to surround the staircase to the second floor.
She goes through that left door to the hall and starts up the stairs, but gets only one step up when the smart phone in the small purse hanging at her hip starts to play 'Ode to Joy'. Never has it seemed so appropriate a selection.
She pulls it out, smiles as she reads the name displayed on the outer lid. She touches the control to quiet the music and says softly, "Hóigh?"
/Did you know I'm the happiest man in the world?/
"I'm the happiest woman. Now go to bed."
/I'll be right back./
She laughs. "Ádhraim thú."
/I adore you too./
x
She tucks the phone away and quietly ascends the dark stairs, her spirits many steps above her, her mind awhirl with happy anticipation and delightful plans. "Mrs. Siobhan O'Mallory-McGee," she tries, but shakes her head as she turns left and starts down the short hallway, past Donaldson's room and into her own bedroom, the second on her right.
She closes the door, her eyes already used to the dimness. There's just enough light coming in through the windows for her not to have to sting her eyes with the lamp.
"No," she whispers, having tried the name several times and not liking the flavor of it. She reaches back and unzips the ruby dress, "Mrs. Siobhan McGee." That tastes better, she decides as she steps out of the dress and lays it on the bed at her right. "Reverend Siobhan McGee." That tastes even better. She pictures the change to the sign outside the Church.
"Mother McGee." She giggles, has to admit that she probably is a bit tipsy, though not from champagne. She'd had little to eat and less to drink so she decides the effect is from the sudden change about to come in her life. As she reaches back and unclips the hooks of her bra, she sings softly the tune of the Irish ballad, "God bless you and keep you, Mother McGee."
A hand clutches her fingers in an agonizing vice, another rough hand clamped over her mouth and nose smothers her shriek, cuts off her air. She's forced forward against the edge of the bed and topples over; the heavy body crushes her into the mattress. She strains to breathe against the large smothering hand, her fingers crushed behind her. She can't scream, can't breathe as the body shifts upward, shoves her face hard into the bed, cuts off her air with hand and mattress.
Terrified, she kicks wildly, her empty lungs crushed. She strains for air as the world spins, her pounding heart loud in her ears.
As much as she tries, she can't breathe! She bites the hand holding her mouth and nose, bites as hard as she can, pulls her hands crushed behind her now by hand and heavy body, fights to raise her head from the mattress! Nothing helps! Pain grows in her empty lungs. Everything is spinning, terror drives her but nothing helps!
The body moves up higher, her face pressed down harder, sharp pain cuts into her right temple. Her heart slams, loud in her ears, threatens to drown out all else. She bites harder, digs her teeth into the hand. Panic and the smothering hand rob her of sense. The world spins, darkens, fades away.
The final thing she hears as everything goes black is a rough, hate filled voice grate in her ear.
"Say goodbye bitch!"