A/n: So this episode made me very sad. Just so everyone's clear, this happens in the episode House Rules, after the case but before McGee writes the letter.
I don't own NCIS
At two twenty-six in the morning on Christmas day, Gibbs heard his front door open and shut.
He straightened up from his hunched position over his workbench where he'd been cleaning up wood shavings and tools, and poured two jarfuls of bourbon instead. Moments later, Tim McGee walked into the doorway to the basement. He seemed out of place; partly, because of all of Gibbs' agents, McGee was the one who leaned on him the least. He wasn't one to seek solace in the famous Basement. But more than that, Tim looked lost to the world in a way that couldn't be explained away by his surroundings. Gibbs' gut lurched, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
McGee steadily made his way down the stairs and onto a stool by the wall. Gibbs leaned against the wall beside him, handing one of the jars to the young agent. Tim took it, but made no other move.
Moments passed; how long he stood there, Gibbs didn't know. But it didn't matter. He swigged his bourbon.
When Tim did finally speak, his voice was small, but steady. "He died this morning. A couple of hours ago."
Gibbs said nothing, as McGee expected, but that was okay. Gibbs knew his agents, and knew that this one needed to do things in his own time. He'd give him as much as he could.
"We…we knew it was coming," Tim went on, "He'd been getting weaker, and yesterday, he was just…" Tim stopped and sighed, running out of words. He gulped down the contents of his jar in one swig. "I just needed a minute."
"Your family?"
"Mom's handling everything. Penny and Sarah are with her. I…I should be with them, but…"
"You needed a minute."
"…I'm tired, Boss."
Another length of silence followed, and Gibbs refilled his jar. McGee refused any more.
The next time Tim spoke, the steadiness was gone. It was subtle, but an unsure tremble in his voice gave away his insecurity. Gibbs was reminded of the green agent he'd pulled onto his team all those years ago. "B-before…" he cleared his throat, started again, "Before all of…this, we hadn't spoken to each other for seven years."
Gibbs nodded. He'd known about the estrangement, but had not been aware of how long it had been. It made sense, though, when he considered it. It would place the time father and son stopped talking around the same time McGee had become a field agent on his team.
"Did I waste it?"
"Waste what, Tim?"
McGee acted as if he hadn't heard the question. Maybe he hadn't. "I mean, even if we had been in touch, it wouldn't have been any different than before," even as he said it, Gibbs could see him losing a bit of conviction, "but…these past few years, we'd…"
"You didn't waste your time with him. You don't waste time, McGee."
"I hardly even tried, after I got this job."
"You made things right."
At this, Tim stood and began pacing. "No, I didn't," he said, "There was still so much I had to say to him. We didn't come close to fixing everything we had to. I didn't get a chance to make it right."
Gibbs stopped him, and said, "Things don't need to be perfect to be right, Tim."
McGee stopped in his tracks to consider this. For a long moment, the basement was still again, but Gibbs could sense his agent coming to terms with everything. Eyes red, but refusing to shed any tears, McGee looked sorrowful, surely; but he no longer looked lost.
"Thank you, Boss."
"Want me to tell Tony?"
McGee considered, "No. I'll tell them all later. It's Christmas, and I know he'd come, but…"
"He'd want to know."
"And he will. Soon," he nodded to himself, and Gibbs felt a little better; he knew McGee wasn't lying, "But he's got his own father to worry about today. I'll tell him later, when we've got things sorted out." McGee then made his way to the stairs again. "I should go. I shouldn't leave them too long."
"My door's always open, McGee."
Tim turned to look at him as he reached the doorway once more, "I know. Merry Christmas, Boss."