"It's pretentious, like that book title: 'Cedar falling on Snowflakes'," Tony said, keeping his eyes glued to the road.
"That's 'Snowflakes Falling on Cedar', Tony," McGee corrected him from the passenger seat.
"Really?" Tony seemed genuinely surprised. "I like it better my way: cedar, snowflake, neeeeaowwww, splat!"
McGee winced. "It's the moving story of a young….". Then he paused and sighed. "Oh, who am I kidding? It's the literary equivalent of a chick flick."
Tony laughed victoriously, eliciting the faintest of smiles. "We'll make a man out of you yet, Probie!"
They pulled up outside a shiny metal warehouse baking in the sun. The walls formed a fairly efficient solar reflector, complementing the harsh white cement road. Tony killed the engine and observed the scorched building from the sanctuary of the air-conditioned car, squinting against the glare.
"How many warehouses do you reckon we've been through, all together?"
McGee did not hesitate. "Since I've been with you guys, I make this number fifteen."
Tony regarded him levelly. "I don't know which is more worrying: the fact that you know or the fact that I knew you'd know."
"If you don't want to know," said McGee opening the car door reluctantly, "don't ask."
The solid wall of heat hit them full force as they left the car's comfortable cocoon. Tony popped the trunk and together they baulked at the black NCIS jackets lying there: black jackets in 100 degree temperatures, not going to happen. Tony slammed the trunk shut. They fell into step as they approached the warehouse door.
"There's only one thing I hate more than searching warehouses," McGee remarked as they stood either side of the doorway.
"What?"
Tony kicked and the door flung open with one mighty stamp of his foot. The smell of partially roasted Naval personal wafted towards them.
"That," said McGee.
McGee turned his head and gagged a little. No amount of Vicks under his nose was going to stop that power train. He'd have to stuff the actual jars up his nostrils to have any chance at all. He glanced at Tony to see how much flack he was going to catch but Tony was sporting his own sour expression.
"Turn on the lights, Probie."
"You turn them on."
"I'm the senior field agent."
"I have the more highly developed gag reflex."
Tony eyed him for a moment, then stepped in and flicked on the light. The rotting corpse materialised before them, still in full military uniform.
The yellow plastic tape melted to the searing metal walls as they cordoned off the building exterior, but neither doubted the outside work was the fun part.
Photographing and sketching the festering remains of the human body in oppressive heat was never going to be high on McGee's list of things to do. The putrid smell had impregnated their clothing, and he doubted he would ever wear the outfit again without people sniffing suspiciously at him. Every now and again it would become too much for one of them and they would race outside for a gulp of thick, steamy air and a sip of hot saliva-slimy water.
Tony looked up as he heard Gibb's car finally pull up outside. A second engine told him that Ducky and Palmer had probably followed in convoy. He bounced up from where he was squatting, wordlessly encouraging McGee to do the same. Tony watched as McGee struggled slowly to his feet and swayed precariously, his face deathly pale. Grasping McGee's sweat soaked shoulders to stabilize him, he was surprised by the amount of strength required to achieve his aim.
"OK?"
"Yeah," said McGee faintly.
McGee closed his eyes for a moment to rein in the sensation of movement. His head seemed to be fizzing. He had an almost irresistible urge to lie down on the floor, regardless of the rapidly decomposing potential bedfellow.
"I think I just got up too fast," he mumbled.
"Let's get you somewhere cool," Tony suggested, wrapping an arm around McGee's shoulders and leading him out.
"Ahhh," Ziva sighed, happily stretching her arms out widely. "Finally, it's nice and toasty."
Stunned, Gibbs turned to glare at her.
"What?" she asked innocently, "It's just like home."
"Remind me never to visit your house," Gibbs remarked. "Where are those two?"
"A little help Boss," called Tony.
Gibbs came to an abrupt halt as he laid eyes on the two agents. McGee whiter than Abby made up to celebrate International Mime's Day, and Tony, with the genetic advantage of slightly more melanin, looking latte coloured, but still dangerously pale.
"Back of Ducky's van, both of you," he instructed, darting back to open the rear doors of the vehicle, "he's left the air running."
McGee had the vague sensation he was floating. Nothing was making sense at the moment but at least he wasn't hot anymore. Instead, shards of cold were shooting down his body. He felt crappy. He had a national best selling novel under his belt, he was a living, breathing thesaurus and the only word he could conceive to describe how he felt was 'crappy'.
He felt hands over his body hoisting him into the cool oasis. He lay panting on his back on the hard metallic floor, his core temperature plummeting. Bottles of water arrived. Cold, cold bottles drenched in condensation. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Tony, sitting beside him in the van, looked down with a huge grin. He took a final swig from his bottle and tipped the residual water over McGee's face with a laugh. McGee responded with an exhausted smile. When he could move again, Tony was in trouble.
It was half an hour before Gibbs opened the door from the blast furnace. Tony and McGee looked up at him suddenly like two guilty school boys. The interior of the van looked a lot wetter than when it started its day. Ducky was not going to be pleased.
"While you two were cooling off in here," Gibbs' eyes roamed the interior of the van incredulously as he dug out a notebook from his top pocket, "Ziva has been interviewing the partner of our dead sailor."
"Looks like our missing marine and his partner were scheduled to attend a 'couples workshop' starting tonight and running all through tomorrow," Gibbs read.
"And at that event," Ziva took up the story from her position outside the van soaking up the heat, "our navy officer was due to deliver sensitive naval information, to person or person's unknown."
"Is his partner in on it?" Tony asked.
"Not as far as we can tell but we are holding him just in case," said Ziva.
"The Navy is interested in the recipients of this information," Gibbs started.
Tony's eye's lit up. "Undercover boss?"
Watching the action from his ring side seat, McGee rolled his eyes. More surveillance of Tony and Ziva going at it hammer and tongs in bed, he did not want to sit through.
Gibbs smiled slyly. "Yes Tony: undercover."
Tony grinned at Ziva, who stared back blankly.
"Don't look at me," she said.
Tony turned questioningly to Gibbs, "Boss?"
"It's a same-sex event, Tony. You're taking McGee."
McGee's eyes opened wide mirroring Tony's horrified expression.
"You're kidding, right?" Tony pleaded.