A/N: Apologies up front: I publish first drafts so I don't edit. If I spent time editing, I'd never publish anything or finish the story. This will have McAbby so, you've been warned. Also, if you're a Bishop fan, I don't have a handle on her so she is not a prominent character in this tale. If you're a Ziva fan, she'll make an appearance at some point. If you're a Tiva fan, if you squint a bit… maybe….

oOoOoOo

Abby's Lab-Evening

Major Maspec was snoozing on the back wall and the monitors were all darkened for the night. A soft rain was falling, streaking down the windows in spider web patterns. Abby had turned out the lights as she finished loading her cart for her trip upstairs.

The load was light but cumbersome to carry. The balloons alone were a hassle but they were worth the trouble. She grinned as she pictured the design she was going to make come to life. It was a welcome home and an apology of sorts.

It was also, she hoped, the beginning of a conversation that was long overdue—a conversation with McGee… about him and her.

But first there would be celebrating and conveying of an apology for the rotten way they parted nearly two weeks earlier. Abby had spent part of that time figuring out where things went wrong and the rest of it making plans to make things right. Each of those activities were fraught with anxiety as she spent the whole time worrying about him.

McGee was on assignment. In a dangerous place: Afghanistan.

Making that even worse was that he was there without back up.

At least, without his team's back up.

McGee was thousands of miles away assisting another NCIS Agent, Stan Burley, with a case. He needed computer assistance on the ground. The Director had chosen McGee to be that assistance. Without a need for Gibbs or the rest of the team, McGee was sent to help Burley on his own.

Since leaving, Abby had sent McGee a dozen emails. None of her read receipts had come back, indicating either he did not open them or had but managed to trick the system into thinking he hadn't. She was banking on it being the former. McGee was simply too honest to deceive Abby about whether he was reading her messages. He was, most likely, practicing avoidance and ignoring them.

Not that she blamed him. Not entirely.

She had been a bit harsh when she shouted him out of her lab.

She regretted that now.

Which was why she was going to make a big deal about his return, she nodded as she pushed her cart into the elevator and headed up to the squad room level. If he had not read her email by the time he returned on Monday, he would at least be left with no doubt and know instantly upon returning that she was not angry with him when he saw her decorations.

That would help ease any hurt feelings he might be harboring because she needed to talk to him to say more than 'I'm sorry.' She needed to tell him how she was feeling… in her heart.

oOoOoOo

Tony jogged up the stairs to the upper level and cast his eyes to commotion now unfolding at McGee's desk. It had been empty for the last 10 days. Vance had sent Tony's Probie to Afghanistan to help a Agent Burley with an investigation into a security and intel breach in a Marine unit. Burley had been stumped on the technology used; pulling the information out of the ether was not his specialty. McGee, however, had the necessary skills. He was wrapping up his part of the investigation and was scheduled to leave the next morning according to Tony's information. His final check in with the Navy Yard was scheduled for 9 p.m. that Friday night—in just a few minutes, Tony noted as he turned his eyes away from the squad room.

He wanted to maintain plausible deniability about the creative and apparently happy-fueled vandalism occurring below. Abby was at McGee's desk doing… something. Whether she was sweeping for DNA traces to clone her favorite punching bag or setting up a booby trap to spring on him when he returned on Monday, he did not know and did not want to know.

Tony entered MTAC and nodded to the techs as he put on his headset. The darkened screen came to life to reveal a tired and sunburn looking McGee on the other end. He yawned through Tony's greeting.

"McSleepy," Tony said. "Is it past your bedtime?"

"It's 5:30 on a Saturday morning, Tony," he groaned.

"Oh, right," Tony nodded. "You're a few hours ahead of us. I don't see your helmet or flak jacket. I'm impressed and a little disappointed. I was hoping for a little striptease so I could direct and produce a blockbuster for the summer. I call it 'Timmy Gone Wild: Afghanistan Vacation'."

"Timmy's not stupid enough to take them off until he is out of the country," McGee said as he yawned again then he lifted the bulletproof vest. He slipped it over his head. "I just woke up 10 minutes ago, Tony. My bunk is right next door to the comm center. I didn't even have to step outside to get in here so I saw no need to gear up to talk to your guys."

"Why so tired?" Tony asked. "Out partying with the locals late last night?"

"Just ready to head home," he said wearily.

And he was. Sleeping on a cot was uncomfortable, especially after flying military transport thousands of miles from home then being lifted by chopper to the inland Marine base to help deal with this computer security issue. That, along with an unexpected jaunt out to a ship in the Arabian Sea a night earlier and back again, was wreaking havoc with every muscle, every joint and ever sinus membrane in his body. His asthma was flaring and his inhaler bit the dust two days ago. Add to that how he never slept much in a war zone and it all added up to one thing: McGee was homesick.

"Yeah, about your homecoming, you might want to be wary of any welcoming overtures you receive from a certain forensic scientist of the goth persuasion," Tony warned. "They might be innocent, or they might be trap is all I'm going to say. Considering the sparks that were flying before you left…"

McGee looked at him questioningly as he tried to focus his fatigued thoughts on any mishap in the lab that resulted in stray electrical current. He shook his head in a lost fashion.

"That's a good dumb face, McGee, but I'm not buying it," Tony stated. "Bishop clearly heard some discouraging words coming out of Abby's lair, and your name was mentioned prominently during them. You two were on outs the day before you left, and I hear that you've been ignoring her ever since. So, tell Uncle Tony: What did little Timmy do wrong this time?"

McGee hung his head. This was not a topic he liked to broach with Tony. McGee's friendship with Abby was at times awkward and frequently complicated. The latest patch of rough water was his fault—like the majority of them, he supposed. He had made the mistake of asking about her boyfriend, Burt. McGee had not seen the strapping member of the Park Police at the office much recently and had simply hoped it meant the guy was busy rather than something worse keeping him away.

"You're in the Multiple Threats Assessment Center using encrypted satellites that for just a half an hour of air time cost more than you'll earn during your whole career combined," McGee said. "You really think this is the best usage of the nation's money and resources?"

Tony grinned at the techs in the room who rolled their eyes, relaxed in their chairs or chuckled at the scolding.

"No one's going to rat us out so we have time to chat," Tony said confidently. "Gibbs and Vance will be here when it suits them. It's a sign they trust you. After all, I hear you're the guest of honor over there. Poor Stan had to eat sand at Camp Nowhere while you got flown out to the carrier to dine with the captain of the USS Harry Truman."

McGee slouched and tossed a frustrated look at the camera

"Admiral Porter was aboard," McGee explained with his aggravation bleed through the stuttering static transmission. "Both he and Captain Jackson were friends of my father. I was… obligated to accept the invitation."

"Oh, obligated," Tony guffawed.

"Vance ordered me," McGee snapped. "As did my mother."

Tony chuckled and shook his finger at the screen.

"I see," he grinned. "Mommy said so. You ask your mother permission for everything during the day?"

"Admiral Porter is a friend of the family," McGee said through clenched teeth. "My mother knew I was here—I told her about the trip in case she tried to call me and started to worry when I didn't respond. Since she knew I was here and he was in the same hemisphere, she sent him a message. I didn't have much choice once Admiral Porter got Vance involved."

"Uh huh," Tony goaded him. "You'd rather be sleeping in a tent surrounded by concertina wire than safe and warm on a Nimitz class air craft carrier hundreds of miles from a warzone? Right. Not buying it."

McGee scoffed and shook his head as he leaned away from the camera and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. They felt like they were filled with sand. Considering where he was, he did not discount the possibility.

"If I have to be on a ship, I'd prefer it be an aircraft carrier, but I'd prefer even more to not be on a ship at all, so yes, the relatively quiet warzone is preferable," McGee argued, knowing he was simply dancing like a marionette as Tony gleefully pulled the strings. "Listening to my father's friends tell me how impressive and perfect he was while asking me why I never followed in his footsteps is not how I like to spend the evening."

Tony nodded and chose to leave off a jab of how he suspected McGee would like to spend his evenings. The guy looked beat both physically and mentally. Part of that was the trip and part was surely his dinner on the seas. Tony usually forgot that McGee was a Navy brat with a lineage equivalent to that of royalty. He could see the toll the evening with the late admiral's friends took on McGee; Tony even felt for him… a bit. Father's, he knew, were a tricky business. His own occasionally flirted with felonies and women whose husbands were likely to commit them. McGee's father had been a four-star admiral—highest rank in the Navy—and rumor had it he was either slated to be the next nominee for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Security Counsel or the next Secretary of Defense when he died.

"Well, for as uncomfortable as that was, it is nothing compared to what you will endure when you finally come home to face the wrath of Abby," Tony predicted.

"All did was I ask if Burt had the flu," McGee simplified, knowing if he tried to evade more Tony would go into full interrogation mode and make the conversation feel like waiting in line the DMV in one of the lower levels of Hell.

"Wishing the guy to his sickbed isn't going to win you points, Probie," Tony said knowingly.

"I didn't wish him anything," McGee scowled. "I just asked where he was since I haven't seen him around. I said I hoped he didn't have the flu. When I left, half of DC had it, Tony. I was just concerned."

"Right," Tony nodded. "Good little boy scout that you are, you were just looking out for the welfare of the man who may have swept your first love off her feet for good. Yeah, not buying it."

McGee felt his face get pink but knew it was out of anger rather than an admission of any sort. Yes, he cared about Abby. He always would, deeply, and he never tried to hide that. Why should he? They were friends, close friends, very dear friends, and his feelings for her were more than just friendship. They were bigger than that word, deeper than it could ever convey, but he also knew she did not love him—could not, in fact, not in the way that he wanted. Knowing that broke a part of his heart; that it would never heal didn't matter. Most of the rest of his heart worked just fine, and he could still find happiness with most of a working heart—his grandmother Penny assured him it was possible.

"Burt seems like a good guy," McGee said diplomatically. "Abby was going to break up with him a few weeks back if you recall. I'm the one who told her to give him a chance. It looks like she did. I think that's good. I'm rooting for him."

Tony observed his partner with a knowing and pitying gaze. He shook his head and adopted his superior and scolding tone.

"I think you're deluding yourself so badly that you actually believe that," he said. "Abby is apparently not so convinced of your altruism or she wouldn't have sliced and diced you about sticking your nose into her love life."

"That's not what happened," McGee scoffed.

"I'm just giving you some free, friendly advice," Tony continued. "You need to step back and just let yourself heal."

"Heal?" McGee repeated as he rolled his eyes. "Your little guy group is rubbing off on you in a creepy way, you know that, Tony?"

"Look, you've had a rough couple of months," Tony said firmly. "First, you lost your father, and now you're recovering from Delilah dumping you. You've done an admirable job keeping up appearances and not letting that pain show to the rest of the world, but I'm a highly trained investigator with uncanny skills of perception. I know what's happening."

"You know nothing," McGee said but even he heard the defensiveness in his tone as he pulled his eyes away quickly. "Delilah didn't break up with me, and we are not having this conversation while you're in MTAC."

"Makes it hard to discuss it in the parking lot when you're 7,000 miles away," Tony said assuredly. "Look, I know you two broke up like three weeks ago. Know how I know? 'Cuz that's when you stopped writing your long emails at lunch. It's also the time you stopped getting your long missives from her in the morning. No more keyboard chats to keep up with your woman around five each afternoon. No more constantly checking your personal cell for messages. You've come in looking tired recently, but not the kind of tired you get from skyping with her at 2 a.m. to accommodate your time zone straddling romance. You also started staying a bit later each evening as well, which tells me there is nothing else on your evening schedule. Look, I'm saying that I know and that I'm sorry for you. I liked her. She was good for you."

McGee ground his teeth as sounds in the camp began to rise signally the Marines and the contractors were getting ready for their day. With any luck, he would be on the transport out at noon. It would take him the entire day and part of the next, but he hoped to lay his head on the pillow in his own bed by early Monday morning. The last thing he wanted to do now was get into a squabbling match with Tony, but he could see no wait to avoid it short of cutting the transmission.

"She didn't break up with me," McGee insisted. "We agree, mutually, that the time and location differences are taking their toll on both of us, and it's time to evaluate where we stand. She might be posted in Okinawa for the next two years so we discussed things and we're just seeing how things go not… being together… for now. So drop it."

"You haven't been together in the same country much for months," Tony said. "Long distance never works. You knew that going into this. You gave it a good shot, but it just wasn't meant to be."

"Meant to be?" McGee echoed and shook his head. "Now you sound like a radio therapist. I'm fine, Tony. Really. We're just…"

"On a break?" Tony grimaced. "It worked for Ross and Rachelle in the end, but they're kind of the exception."

"Who?" McGee blinked trying to place the names and coming up empty with any mutual friends he and Tony held.

"From Friends," Tony answered pointedly. "TV show from the late '90s? Tell me you've seen it, McMustSeeTV. What were you, living in a cave?"

"I know what Friends is," McGee shook his head. "I just never watched it much."

"Never watched one of the most popular TV shows of all time?" Tony gaped. "Everybody watched Friends, even people who didn't watch Friends watched Friends because their friends watched Friends."

"That makes absolutely no sense," McGee replied but was ignored.

"There wasn't much of an internet and x-box wasn't invented in the 1990s," Tony continued. "At least I don't think it was. What were you doing in the '90s that was so engrossing that it kept you from keeping up on the crowd hanging out at Central Perk?"

"Uh, going to junior high, then high school, then college and applying to graduate school," McGee said flatly as Marines in the Comm Center began eavesdropping on the conversation with interest that only those who had no real entertainment could feel.

"You were still in high school in the '90s?" Tony repeated. "When did you graduate? I was the Class of '86 and I'm only six years older than you."

"Where'd you learn your math?" McGee groaned as he corrected him. "You were born in '68; I was born near the end of '78—that's a 10 year difference. I started school early then I skipped a grade so I was only 16 at graduation, and we've had this conversation before."

"Oh, right," Tony smiled victoriously. "I remember it now. Is that when I found out I was already an NCIS agent (and so were you probably) when you finally lost your virginity? Never mind. Stop trying to change the subject, Probie. Just accept that Abby's happy with her mall cop, so she can't soothe your broken heart."

McGee looked at his helmet and considered putting it on so when he pounded his head on the table it would hurt less. His face twisted in frustration as he sensed Tony strategically pushing his every button.

"He's a member of the Park Police, not a mall cop," McGee defended the fellow law enforcement officer.

It was bad enough that McGee did think Burt was a good guy. McGee preferred it when he found nothing likable about Abby's boyfriends. Allowing Tony to put him in a position where he was outright defending the guy was simply unfair.

"Right, he's a cop that patrols the National Mall, ergo: Mall Cop," Tony nodded. "Look, my point is that you need to just leave Abby to her happiness rather than seek sympathy for your aching heart. After all, rule 12, right?"

"Rule 12 doesn't apply," McGee insisted. "I am not trying to get her to… And anyway, Abby doesn't even know Delilah and I are… apart. I didn't tell her, and I wasn't going to tell her—or anyone. I'd appreciate it if you didn't either."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but no one else would really care; although, the NSA is surely listening in on this chat and will want you to explain why you wasted millions in tax dollars to have it in this manner," Tony said. "Look, all I'm saying is, just let yourself adjust to life without any chance of getting lucky or having someone who wants to talk to you about something other than work. You'll fall back into that single groove like you never left it. I have great confidence in you, McGee."

The door to MTAC opened and closed with a hush. Vance and Gibbs descended the ramp as the two agents spoke. Neither noticed the newcomers until Gibbs spoke.

"If you two are finished with your online date, we'd like to get back to work," Gibbs said.

"Right, Boss," Tony nodded and tossed a sketchy thumbs up at the screen. "Hang in there, Probie."

Vance's steely gaze was enough encouragement for him to leave the room quickly. He tossed his headset at one of the technicians as he hurried up the ramp.

Tony made his way to his desk. He noted, with some surprise, that the desk to his right was looking a good deal more festive than when he left the squad room several minutes earlier. McGee's desk was now festooned with crepe paper streamers, glitter, shiny pinwheels and a large bouquet of Mylar balloons. There was a foot-tall card with the words "Welcome Home" propped against his monitor. Tony thought about sending McGee an email to correct the intel he provided him regarding Abby's threat level, then decided against it. After all, he had already shut down his computer, and Zoe was waiting for him.

Back in MTAC, Vance received the briefing he had requested on the base's system vulnerabilities. It was as he suspected. The problem was with Simon Corporation (also know as Simocorp), the private security force at the base brought in to help train locals in law enforcement techniques. McGee held his opinion of them. It wasn't his place to say he thought they were likely all rogue cops and dishonorably discharge military personnel. That was sort of par for the course with government contractors in these locales. What he did speak about was the computer security threat they posed and the theory he and Burley had regarding infiltration of their ranks by local Taliban sympathizers.

"I've notified the base commander," Vance said. "He already suspected as much."

"I know," McGee nodded. "He briefed Agent Burley and I not long after I discovered the breech in their computer system. The question is whether anyone higher up with the contractor's administration knows about it or if this is just a local issue."

Vance caught Gibbs cold glance that let him know he wanted his team to take a look at that himself. A case could be made to allocate resources to the investigation as Simocorp was headquartered in DC, where it was primarily a lobbying firm that was close friends with senators and congressmen on the defense spending committee.

"We're looking into that, Agent McGee," Vance said. "Do you think you are going to learn anything more while you are there?"

"No," McGee shook his head as the roar of several engines outside caught his attention followed by the distinctive pop of gun fire.

"McGee?" Gibbs stepped forward. "What's going on?"

"No idea," he said, reaching for his helmet and checked that his sidearm was in place. "Sounds like…"

What he thought it sounded like he never got the chance to say. He turned as the door to the Comm Center flew open. There was an explosion just outside the portal that knocked the camera equipment to the floor. It lay on its side still broadcasting as a cacophony of sounds filled the room. Small arms fire and automatic weapons sounded off camera as a body dropped to the floor at the edge of the frame. The helmet the individual was wearing, the one he had just donned and not yet strapped in place, rolled across the floor obscuring most of the man's face. However, there was enough visible to make an identification. His eyes were closed and his face was swiftly turning a deathly shade of pale

"McGee!" Gibbs screamed.

There was no answer as the feed was cut.

oOoOoOo

Ramstein AFB Hospital-22 hours later

Gibbs stood in the hallway of and sipped the bitterest coffee ever to cross his lips. Germany might make a lot of good things (cars, beer, knives, and bratwurst) but they were no good at coffee. Of course, Gibbs reminded himself, this was an Air Force Base so some of the blame did reside with the flyboys.

"Agent Gibbs?" a man dressed in scrubs and wearing a pair of reading glasses approached him. "I'm Captain Donaldson. You're a colleague of my patient?"

"You're McGee's doctor?" Gibbs asked rather than answer as all thoughts of fatigue and rotten disappearing. "How is he?"

"Critical still," Donaldson nodded. "I'll need a release from his next of kin allowing me to speak to you."

"I'm the one investigating what happened to him so you're going to speak to me with or without a release," Gibbs ordered.

"Marine?" the doctor wondered and discerned his answer from the look in the agent's eyes. "Fine. You're an agent with what? Army CID? JAG corps?"

"NCIS," Gibbs said and held up his credentials. "McGee is one of my agents."

"Agent?" Donaldson nodded and sighed. "That explains a few things. His chart didn't have much identifying information, and there were no dog tags with him or medical information in the database. He also doesn't look like a soldier, but a civilian I can believe."

"He's a special agent," Gibbs said with an edge in his voice. "What can you tell me about his condition?"

"Well, how much do you know already?"

Gibbs kept his expression hard as he provided the barest of details to the man as it was his knowledge rather than Gibbs' own that needed to be filling the conversation.

"He was shot during an attack on a base in Afghanistan… I don't know how many hours ago now," Gibbs said. "It was a chest wound. That's all I have so far."

Donaldson nodded and led him down the hall to a small office where a chart was sitting on the desk. Gibbs picked it up without asking. He could feel the pages were still warm from having recently come off a printer. What he saw was not encouraging.

"He was shot twice actually," Donaldson said. "Once in the thigh and once in the upper left thoracic quadrant."

"A couple inches to the left of his heart," Gibbs deciphered from the screen shots taken from what appeared to be a camera in the operating room.

"That's the entry point, yes, but the bullet traveled," the doctor nodded. "It nicked his aorta."

"I'm going to need that bullet," Gibbs said.

Donaldson nodded then grabbed his phone. He placed a call and ordered the projectile brought to him. The receiving party apparently agreed quickly as the conversation ended almost as soon as it began.

"Amazingly, the full bleed didn't begin until the patient was aboard the USS Harry Truman," Donaldson said. "It appears that it had only collapsed his lung and was pressing on the vascular tissue. Something caused it to shift once he was aboard and that's when it pierced the artery."

"How do you know that's when it happened?" Gibbs asked looking at the hastily scrawled doctor's notes to that effect.

"He would have been dead within 3 minutes of being shot otherwise," Donaldson said confidently. "As it was, the doctor aboard the Truman was paying close attention and when his vitals dropped, he opened the patient's chest and was able to temporarily clamp the bleeding."

Gibbs clenched his teeth at the sterile way the doctor referred to McGee simply at 'the patient.' He understood medical personnel could be detached in a professional way, but Gibbs himself was having a hard time doing that himself. This was not just some nameless, faceless patient. It was one of his agents. A member of his team. A member of his family. As he read further details in the file about grafts and replacement tissue, the anger toward whoever did this burned hotly in his chest. The answers to the who were not going to be found at Ramstein Air Force Base, but Gibbs was not permitted to go to Afghanistan. Burley was heading up that part of the investigation. Gibbs was in a support role this time and that did not sit well with him.

First off, his team didn't know what had happened. Tony had gone for the night by the time Gibbs and Vance got a channel open to Afghanistan and learned McGee's fate. Bishop was on leave to see family for several days. McGee… Well, he was unconscious and going to remain that way for a while. Gibbs' plan was to assemble the team as soon as he had something useful to tell them and tasks to give them.

Ducky would be his first contact. He was planning to send the medical records to the medical examiner at the Navy Yard. Donaldson was allegedly a crack trauma surgeon, but Gibbs wanted a set of eyes he knew and trusted on the medical information, even if most of his patients never recovered from their ailments.

In addition to that, his priority was getting his agent home alive. There was a chance McGee knew or saw something during the attack that would be helpful.

"Primary graft rather than gortex?" Gibbs questioned as he looked up from the report at Donaldson for an explanation.

"Think of it like a water balloon with a slow leak," he said. "If you squeeze the balloon, even if you're holding your finger over the hole, it's going to get wider and burst eventually. The repair job they did was just a stopgap measure. Here we were able to put him on bypass and repair the damage using some of his own vascular material. The human body has parts to spare. We harvested a length of vein from the patient's leg and were able to use it to graft over the damage near his heart. This way, he won't have to worry about taking anti-rejection meds for the rest of his life."

Gibbs looked squarely at the man and asked the question foremost in his mind.

"And just how long is that going to be, Doctor?"

Donaldson sighed and shrugged unconvincingly.

"I don't know," he replied. "I've seen soldiers pull through injuries as bad as this. I've seen ones with lesser injuries perish. We're doing everything we can, Agent Gibbs. He's made it through the initial trauma, one emergency surgery on the Truman, the long flight here and now a second major surgery—all within 30 hours of the initial injury. That's impressive, but it's taken its toll on him as well. A lot of this being a success is on him to fight. Right now, he's doing a damn good job of that, but I'll be honest. I don't know how much he's got left in him."

Gibbs nodded. McGee was a fighter, in his own way. Gibbs knew it was a lot to ask of any soldier to fight something like this. And this man wasn't a soldier but he wasn't willing to give up on his agent.

"Don't count him out just yet, Doc," Gibbs said. "He can surprise you. When can he be transferred back stateside?"

"Not until he's stable," Donaldson shook his head. "The patient will be in recovery for a few hours and then we'll move him to ICU. After that, I'll check his progress. He will be going to Walter Reed?"

"Bethesda," Gibbs corrected.

"Alright, James Conrad is the head of their cardio unit," he replied. "I'll brief him on the case and consult him about transferring the patient."

"Timothy McGee," Gibbs said bluntly. "The patient has a name. It's Special Agent Timothy McGee."

"Of course," Donaldson nodded, dismissing the ire with a wave of his hand. "I'll let you know if there is any change in his condition and when you can see him. Will any of his family be coming to the base?"

Vance would be calling Carol, McGee's mother in a while. Due to the circumstances surrounding the attack, word had not yet been sent to his family about what happened. Part of Gibbs knew he should be making that call, but he would leave it to Vance. Gibbs would speak to Mrs. McGee when he had something to tell her.

"I'm here," Gibbs said simply.

oOoOoOo

A/N: More to come…