Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

Author's note: Tons of stuff regarding Tim's parents, where they live, and where he grew up have been made up for this story. Do not treat this as canon.

- - - - -

He couldn't see the bad weather here, from inside Autopsy – the cold-as-the-specter-of-death rain and the combative wind that had swept in like an invading army Thursday evening, and was still here, four days later. It wore at all of them: making them fearful in the image of danger that it wore on its hip like a holstered weapon. With so little information coming out, Imagination struggled against Reason to overwhelm them and turn their thoughts to that which was dreaded. Maybe that was why he was hiding out here, so the weather wouldn't see him; wouldn't invisibly snap and bite at him, wouldn't pull him into the pit of despair.

He'd already been there, on its brink, all Friday, all weekend. But it was Monday now, and he had to show up at work. And still the demons in the weather circled the building, howling, howling, howling.

"Jethro, she's here." Jen, on his phone.

"I'm on my way," Gibbs said into his phone, not envying the Director being the first greeter; hearing the tension in her almost whispered words. She must be in her outer office, door closed to the visitor in her inner office, or else in her private bathroom. Afraid to be overheard, in either event. He was about to hang up, but stopped. "Sum her up?"

"Fury," Jenny said simply, and disconnected.

Fury, Gibbs mused. Not furious, but the incarnation of Fury itself. Or else the Furies, the mythological goddesses who avenged victims, sometimes with horrifying brutality. It was what they would expect; maybe what they deserved. If it were my child, I would be Fury, too...

He couldn't hide down here in Autopsy any longer, feigning interest in one of Ducky's long rambles. "Gotta go, Duck. Sorry."

"It won't be as bad as you think, Jethro," the older man said, surprising him. "I'm sure she's as much human as you or I. She's just—"

"Yeah." He took to the elevator; about to face, and relive, a hideous moment.

- - - - -

They had pounded down the stairs to find just an inch of shoe visible under the rubble. They called Tim's name, over and over, and he didn't respond. There was so much rubble; it was too heavy to move. Gibbs had to finally pull back an almost hysterical Tony, his savagely cut and blistered hands mixing grotesquely lavender-gray with plaster dust up to his elbows, who didn't want to give up digging.

The professionals came, those who specialized in rescues, but their work was so slow because they had to be so careful. An hour dragged on, melted agonizingly into two, and though they didn't say it out loud, each of the team members feared that the rescue effort was becoming a recovery.

Then at last the pros had him free. "He's alive!" said an EMT, but the look on his face was anything but optimistic as the still form, bloody, black and purple and dusty all over, was pulled out; loaded onto a stretcher; initial aid given. Gibbs took out his cell phone, pulled down the directory, then pocketed the phone. Not yet.

- - - - -

Rain slapped the MTAC windows furiously, perhaps realizing it had found him. Gibbs quickened his pace; aware he'd been dawdling. The rain was thick enough so that the other Navy Yard buildings were just ghosts. It was late morning, yet there was no brightening, no cheer in sight.

Cynthia, Jenny's secretary, gave him a proceed-with-caution look as he entered Jenny's office, but said nothing. He knocked on the inner office door, and opened it when bade to do so.

The woman rose when he came in. Couldn't be out of respect for him; why would she have any at this point? And they were about the same age. No, she must be habitually meeting new people; higher-ups or important visitors, requiring her to stand and formally greet.

Jenny had risen, too; perhaps because the woman had done so. The Director appeared to be calm, but Gibbs could see the tension running through her. And she had out the nice china coffee service – not a good sign. "Mrs. McGee, may I introduce Jethro Gibbs; Tim's supervisor. Jethro, this is Cleo McGee...or do you go by Cleo Hansen?"

It was a subtle attempt at distraction on Jenny's part, but that didn't faze the woman. "Either will do. Hansen is my maiden name, which I still use professionally. I wish we were meeting under other circumstances, Mr. Gibbs—"

"Just 'Gibbs', please. Or 'Jethro'. He said the latter unwillingly, felt he had to because Jenny had called him that and he didn't want to seem standoffish. Not when so much, emotionally, was at stake here.

She projected strength of spirit, this woman who was Tim's mother. On the tall side for a woman, without being tallish; hair a few shades lighter than Tim's, with tiny hints of gray; eyes the same color of summer grass. She wore a long skirt; a shield, perhaps, against the chilly weather – was it as chilly back home for her? –comfortable and practical instead of stylish. But she was attractive in it; perhaps in part because of the power she radiated, coming not just from anger. She must be one who would not suffer fools, and not give a damn about what people thought of her. People at her level, professionally – whatever it was that she did, and Gibbs couldn't remember – often did not.

He shook the hand she offered, but her eyes held no warmth for him. They all sat.

"How is Tim doing today?" Jenny asked. This time, she was not just making conversation; they really wanted to know. No one from NCIS had seen Tim since Thursday, the day of the incident.

"Better," Cleo said simply. "They're sure he'll pull through now. He's making progress. But he still has a long, long way to go..."

She wasn't going to make it easy for them. Gibbs wasn't surprised when Jenny tried another tack. "Tell us about Tim, as a boy."

Cleo thought. "Then I need to tell you about myself, first. I am an atmospheric scientist; a meteorologist –"

"Like on TV?" Jethro asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. She hardly seemed the type to be charming TV audiences with cute weather graphics.

"No." There was a naked edge to her voice, as if she'd been asked that innumerable times. "I'm an operational meteorologist, working in research. My specialty is storms. We lived in Oklahoma for several years, until the late 80s, and there I worked with the National Severe Storms Laboratory."

Ah. A federal employee, like us...

"Over much of the Midwest, and certainly the Plains states, the sky is an enormous bowl over the earth; humbling. You can see for miles. When he was small, I would take Tim outside and teach him about the clouds, the wind, the rains – my lifelong passions. What the clouds in the sky at the moment would do. How convection makes clouds form. What brings the wind and the rain. What a thunderstorm, a wall cloud, a tornado is about..."

Her eyes softened, just a tad. "He was young. Maybe five, six. And he got the notion that I controlled the weather. It took a long time to disabuse him of that." There might have been a smile there, had she not closed her eyes for a moment.

But Jenny did smile, encouragingly.

Dang, why am I even here? Gibbs thought. Jenny's so much better at this sentimental crap than I am.

Cleo was already on to another memory. "Tim has a...playful sense of humor, that I've always appreciated. When he was 12 or 13, he started sending me a postcard for Mother's Day. It would always be a picture of a mummy, and on it, he'd always write, 'Happy Mummy's Day!' He's done it every year since; always a different postcard; there are so many at hand when you live near a large city with museums. We both enjoy running gags, and this one is just like him..."

Why didn't I know that he liked running gags? Why do I feel like I've only known him superficially?

Jenny's phone rang; the two-beep tone that Gibbs knew meant Cynthia had someone on the line. Jenny picked up the phone, listened a minute, then looked stressed as she addressed them. "Mrs. McGee, I'm so sorry. It's the Secretary of the Navy, something urgent, and I have to take his call. Jethro will be happy to continue this with you, and of course I'd be pleased to see you any time later; just give me an hour or so..."

They were dismissed; Gibbs less than happy to be left alone with a woman who probably wanted to see him eviscerated.

He suggested lunch, and he called in an order of something good from a Thai restaurant; and bribed Tony to watch at the door for the food taxi. Gibbs and Cleo settled in a conference room to wait; soda to keep them going until the food came.

"So...uh, Gibbs...tell me what happened Thursday. How my son almost died on your team's mission."