Cold Christmas
by channelD
written for: the season
rating: K plus
genre: drama
- - - - -
disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.
- - - - -
We had to work on Christmas Day,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day
We had to work on Christmas Day
At 8 o'clock in the morning…
Tony strode into the squad room, warbling his version of the notable old Christmas carol as he walked. Light snow still clung to his coat, not having all melted yet.
"Hey, what; the heat's not on in here?!" he said, about to take off his coat and thinking better of it.
"It is indeed cold," said Ziva, sitting at her desk with parka still on and the hood up. Her gloved hands clasped her cup of tea, and she was shivering.
Tim, also still in his coat, hung up his desk phone. "I've gotten through to Maintenance. They'll send someone out, but it may take awhile. There's only one guy on call today, it being Christmas."
"Where is our fearless leader Gibbs? Maybe he could use some of his scrap wood and build us a bonfire."
"We have not seen Gibbs yet," said Ziva. "And he has not called."
"That's not like him," Tony frowned. "Who else is stuck with having to work on Christmas, instead of laying around drinking eggnog, gorging on Christmas cookies and candies and watching endless showings of old movies?"
"That's what you do every Christmas, Tony."
"Yes, and isn't it great? But answer my question, McGift."
Tim pulled up the day's duty roster. "Ned in Legal, Elle in Intel, Pedro in MTAC Support…and two guards. And us. That's it."
Ziva smiled impishly. "Until I started with NCIS, I worked every 25th of December and it never bothered me. It does not today, either."
"Good attitude, Ziva," said Gibbs, coming in with a tray of cups of hot chocolate and a plate of what looked like homemade spritz cookies.
"Thanks, boss!" "Thank you, Gibbs!" His team dug in. "Worth you being late, boss!"
Gibbs glared, mildly. "I told you yesterday I would likely be late, DiNozzo. There was one last batch of toys to pick up for the Toys for Tots drive."
"My bad, boss. You did say that."
"There's, ah, no heat in here, boss," Tim supplied. "Maintenance is sending someone to fix it."
Gibbs only grunted. No doubt he'd had his share of holidays with problems needing fixing. "Do what you need to do to stay warm. If you need to take whatever time in the gym to run laps, do it. Christmas Day is usually quiet here." His cell phone rang. After a moment, he sighed and turned back to them. "The Director is down with a bug, so I've got to go be the face of NCIS at the Toys for Tots press conference at the Pentagon. I should be back in a couple of hours."
He waved his arm at their three sets of puppy dog eyes. "No, you can't come with me. You'll have heat here soon enough. Get some work done."
When Gibbs left, Tim slapped his cold hands and said, "Bet the heat never goes off at the Pentagon."
"It wouldn't dare," said Tony.
- - - - -
"Okay, Mel; I'll be right down." Tim hung up his phone at smiled at his teammates. "The furnace repair guy's here! I'll go escort him…unless one of you wants to do it?"
It was five minutes before 11. They had survived, in some misery, nearly three hours of cold. Nearly three hours of constantly making more hot drinks to warm their hand and their insides, of doing calisthenics, of laps in the gym. Even so, the cold left them dull, and work on the current case was not going fast. "No; you summoned him; you deal with him, Probie," said Tony.
"He is probably a nice old man, about 70, a widower, who will tell you charming stories like Ducky does," Ziva said with a smile.
"Or he's a serial killer looking for his next victim…take your sig, McGee," Tony said wickedly.
Tim frowned, but did get his sig from his drawer and put it in his holster.
- - - - -
"The furnace room's down here," Tim said, leading the repairman. "Here, on the first floor."
"Not in the basement? I saw windows from the outside, you do have a basement."
"We do. I don't know why the furnace room is where it is. It's been there for well over 20 years, anyway."
"Man! That's ancient! I've never worked on anything that old!"
Tim turned to stare at the repairman, whose face was marked by pimples. "Just how old are you, anyway?" he asked, though not sure he'd like the answer.
"I'm nineteen," the young repairman huffed. The embroidered name on his shirt pocket read Ralphie. "I was nineteen last week."
"And do you think you can fix something older than you?"
Ralphie grinned insouciantly. "You'd better hope I can, 'cause I'm the only one in the family business working today." He grinned more at Tim's frown. "Don't worry, Pops; I can fix anything."
At least I don't have to pay him. Tim unlocked the furnace room door. "Have at it, then." He switched on the light and set up a folding chair for himself.
"I work better without someone looking over my shoulder, Pops," said Ralphie.
"Too bad," said Tim. "Can't have you running loose in the building."
"You think you can stop me?"
Tim only smiled, and shifted position so that his sig became visible. Ralphie's eyes widened and he got straight to work.
- - - - -
In a little over half an hour, the furnace had been made to come back to life, and Tim escorted Ralphie out. "It should be nice and warm in here within an hour," he reported gleefully to Tony and Ziva back in the squad room.
"For that, McGee, Tony and I are buying you lunch," Ziva said.
"Of course, the only thing open within a mile is our own break room, but sure…claim your prize from the vending machine," Tony said grandly.
Tim rolled his eyes. "Thank you. I'll take a can of chicken soup, if any are left."
"You got it."
"Gibbs isn't back yet?"
"Nope; and he hasn't called, either. We might as well break for lunch; it's not like this place is a hotbed of activity right now." That was true enough; not a phone had rung all morning.
"You said 'hot'," Ziva repeated dreamily.
Without Gibbs around, and considering it was Christmas, they enjoyed a leisurely lunch of microwaved soup, fruit Ziva had brought, and Gibbs' Christmas cookies. Ziva lifted her cup of tea in salute. "A Merry Christmas to you two," she said. They thanked her.
"I do believe it is getting warm in here, at last!" she said next, and slowly pulled off her parka.
"I think you're right," said Tim. "I'd be happier if I didn't have this headache, though."
"Always something, Probie?" Tony smirked.
"Fine. You want my headache; you can have it."
"Is that all you're giving me for Christmas?"
"No. My stomach is uneasy. You can have that, too."
"I already have a stomach, but thanks."
"What did you get for me?"
"Now now," Ziva chided. "We said we would exchange gifts at the end of our shift; not before." She then grimaced.
"Your head hurt, too?" asked Tony. "Or did McGee send you his headache by…airwave magic, which means he has no gift for me?"
"I do have a gift for you, Tony," Tim responded. "And I still have my own headache. Why don't you have one?"
"The DiNozzos do not get headaches; they give them," Ziva said, causing Tim to applaud her.
"Har-dee har har," Tony sneered. "It just so happens that I have a headache, too, now. McMedicine! Throw me your bottle of aspirin!"
Tim moved to comply, but stopped himself. "Don't even think of putting a plastic bug in the bottle, like you did last time."
"Who, me?"
"I shall watch him, McGee." Ziva took off her coat and gloves. "The temperature is actually getting pleasant. Although I feel like I could use a nap…"
"You never nap," Tony frowned. "It would be like Gibbs taking a nap. Unnatural. Against the laws of the universe. There would be a rift in the fabric of time."
"You do not know me as well as you think you do." Ziva yawned. "Just 40 wunks. That is all I need…" She folded her arms on her desk and put her head down on it.
"The word is 'winks'."
"Are you certain?" asked Ziva, already sounding half-asleep. "How can one wink if they are sleeping?"
"Well, someone should do some work around here if she's going to sleep," Tony growled. "McGee. Do some work."
Tim gave him a cold look. "No problem. I'm the one Gibbs would be expecting to be working, after all."
"Oh, you wound me! Well, as the senior agent. I'll supervise you. Start typing…" Tony leaned back in his chair, and thought that closing his own eyes was a good idea.
Tim typed for a moment, and yet couldn't figure out why the words on the monitor seemed to be in motion. He tried squinting, and tilting his head, but if anything, that made it worse. There was a sour taste in his mouth; no doubt a side effect of his upset stomach. "Oh, man," he said, getting to his feet unsteadily. "Tony…?"