Line in the Sand
An NCIS Fanfic
By CaelumFelis
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or anything associated with it
Author's Note: Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your outstanding patience, and welcome to the first chapter of Line in the Sand. If the summary didn't tell you, this is an Alternate Universe fic, taking place in a fictional Kansas town located on the actual Chisholm Trail cattle drive route. I have taken every precaution I possibly can (within reason, of course) to make the historical aspect of this fic as accurate as can be with the materials I have at my disposal, as well as in keeping the characters as true to their personalities and occupations on the show as I could. However, due to the nature of this fic, some aspects of a character may be impossible to maintain, and I have compensated accordingly. It should be noted that this fic is Timothy McGee-centric, and with two exceptions, every main or secondary human character in this fic has appeared on NCIS at least once in the series. Some of the secondary characters may seem a bit out of character, and this is intentional in some cases, due both to a lack of appearances from the character which would increase my knowledge of his or her personality and to the demands of the story. However, if you see an obvious mistake, please feel free to point it out to me, and I will correct it if at all possible to do so. Please be warned, this is an exceptionally long fic (at the time of this writing, it is currently three chapters and 62 pages long, with this chapter alone amounting to 27 pages), and it will at times move somewhat slowly. The pace is intentional- the Old West wasn't all stampedes and gunfights, y'know.
WARNING: This fic contains mentions of racism, physical/emotional/sexual abuse, and corporal punishment. America in the 1800's was very, very different from the America we know today, and this fic reflects that where appropriate. I mean absolutely no offense to anyone, however, if you do find yourself offended, feel free to stop reading at any point. I won't hold it against you, nor would I blame you, for some of the more common views of this era run extremely contrary to my own personal ones.
All of that being said, sit back, relax, and enjoy Line in the Sand.
Sincerely, CaelumFelis
Chapter One
Arrival
December 12, 1869
Newton, Kansas
"One ticket to Ellsworth, please," Tim requested, studying the map next to the stagecoach ticket window. He knew Ellsworth was a pretty big cow town, hopefully they'd have some use for a schoolteacher, even if he was Irish.
"Round trip or one way?" The wrinkled old man on the other side of the counter asked.
"One way, please," Tim replied, muffling a cough. He'd picked up a nasty cold somewhere in Ohio, and hadn't been able to shake it. Over the past couple of days it had worsened, his coughs becoming deeper and more ragged, leaving his chest aching like he'd been sat on by a horse, and his fever worsening and sucking every bit of strength from his bones. Tim prayed that it was simply a very bad cold, but the dirty looks he got from passers-by made him wonder.
Wouldn't it be just my luck to finally make it all the way out here only to get taken out by the damned consumption, Tim growled to himself, massaging his aching temples.
"That'll be ten dollars," the ticketmaster said blandly.
Tim grimaced. That was all the money he had left he'd be broke after this. He'd have to get a job immediately upon arriving in Ellsworth, and it probably wouldn't be teaching.
That's if they even have jobs for Irishmen, Tim sighed to himself, handing over the coins. The ticketmaster handed over his ticket, and Tim nodded in thanks before sticking it between his teeth and picking up his rucksack and fiddle case with one hand and his library with the other. The old, worn crate groaned under the weight of all of the books, and Tim silently begged it to hold out until he could find a new crate. He shuffled over to hunker down under the building's overhang, sitting on his crate of books with his rucksack on his back and his fiddle on his lap. Feeling flushed and hot despite the nearly subzero temperatures, he crossed his arms over his fiddle case and laid down his head, telling himself he was simply resting his eyes.
He was startled awake the pounding of hooves on frozen ground and the crack of a whip in the air. Blinking bleary eyes, he realized that this was his stage, and hurriedly picked himself and his belongings up and joined the line. The driver scowled at him when he read the manifest, but Tim kept his head down and checked the cloth he'd tied over the top of his crate to protect his books. Finding it secure, he wordlessly helped to tie down the passengers' luggage, double and triple checking the knots without being asked. Satisfied, he climbed down and climbed into the stage, hunkering down in the corner as far from the rest of the passengers as he could get, gasping from the exertion. The other passengers, four women, a passel of children, and a couple of men, all scowled at him and moved away, taking the buffalo robes the stage provided for warmth with them. Tim sighed, and wrapped himself up tighter in his coat. Frankly, he was surprised he'd even been allowed to board, although considering that he'd paid for the ride, they couldn't very well turn him away simply for being sick.
The stage lurched into motion, and Tim felt his stomach turn. Oh hell, not this too…
Through the grace of G-d, Tim managed to keep the biscuits and melted snow he'd had for breakfast from making a reappearance, but it was a very near thing. He finally slipped into a restless sleep, the heat of his fever and the rocking of the stage preventing him from truly resting. He was kicked a few times, waking him up enough to realize he was moaning in his sleep, but not enough to rouse him completely. He was so tired…
And then it happened.
Tim awoke to a horrible pressure building in his chest, one he'd become intimately familiar with over the last few weeks of being sick. He tried taking small sips of air, hoping that the pressure would relieve itself, but instead it only grew worse.
No, he begged silently, eyeing the other passengers in panic, no, not this, please…
Something tickled the back of his throat, and suddenly he was coughing- great gasping, hacking coughs that set his chest on fire and caused his head to pound like a great bass drum. The world spun around him as he coughed, fighting desperately for breath, but he dimly felt the stage stop, and the door open, blasting him with a blessed wave of cold, clear air. Someone grabbed his arms, he was flying through the air, and landed with a weak thud in soft, drifted snow. He simply curled up where he lay, too weak and confused and frightened to try and fight back, as his rucksack, fiddle case, and crate of books were tossed down beside him.
The stage raced off into the rapidly fading afternoon light, leaving him alone on the side of the road, shivering with cold and fever chills, gasping for breath.
C'mon, McGee, can't stay here all day, he thought, trying to catch his breath and corral his thoughts into a coherent sentence. He staggered to his feet, hefted his rucksack onto his back, tucked his box of books under one arm, and his fiddle case under the other. Once he was sure he had everything, he looked around, straining his exhausted eyes as he tried to see through the encroaching gloom. He thought he could see some lights in the distance, but he wasn't sure if they were real or just a figment of his fever-addled imagination.
Either way, lights meant civilization, which meant warmth, and food, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.
Deciding, he headed off towards the lights, hoping that he wasn't hallucinating.
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Roop's Point, Kansas
SKG Ranch
Tony patted Diane on the flank, deftly pulling the milk bucket out from under her while she was distracted with affection. The milking cow was as temperamental as her namesake, and he wouldn't put it past her to simply tip it over to keep him and Gibbs from having the milk. He poured the fresh milk into the butter canister for churning, hung the bucket back on its hook, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping, determined to make it back to the house before the next snowstorm hit. It really wouldn't do for him to get lost outside in a blizzard and freeze to death- Gibbs was always saying that he didn't want to train another foreman, but he knew it was because the older man couldn't stand to lose another family member. Tony was his adopted son, handpicked off of the orphan train when he was just fourteen by Gibbs and his fourth wife, Stephanie. Stephanie had wanted a child to mother, while Gibbs was simply looking for someone to help him on the ranch. Funny how it was Gibbs who had ended up bonding with the scrappy, sarcastic teenager- Stephanie had ended up hating his guts. She died of consumption a year later, and Gibbs had never remarried.
Tony finished sweeping, bundled up, and locked up the barn, whispering goodnight to all of the animals, as was his custom. The sun was setting, and the wind was picking up, so he held his lantern up as high as he could and hightailed it for the house. Since they were done with their work early, and hadn't yet received a call out from the town needing the Sheriff, maybe he could convince Gibbs to play checkers with him.
A loud bark was all the warning he got before a huge brown and tan dog barreled towards him and pounced, knocking Tony back into a snowbank with a yelp.
"Jethro! Damn it, dog, get off!" Tony laughed, fighting back as the dog attacked him with a flurry of hot, smelly licks.
In mid-wrestle Jethro stopped and looked up towards the dirt road that ran in front of the ranch, his ears and nose twitching. A low growl, and the dog was off like a shot, Tony scrambling along behind, hand on the butt of his gun.
He didn't have to run far, as he found Jethro sniffing and whining at a shallow lump in the snow only a few yards away. Tony grimaced the lump looked distinctly person-shaped.
He dropped to his knees and started brushing snow off of the lump, revealing a threadbare brown frock coat wrapped tightly around the thin, gaunt frame of a man, his lips and fingertips tinged blue from the cold, and his face flushed from fever and wind. Tony cursed and pressed two fingers against the pulse point in the man's neck, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt a thin, faint throb in the vein. The man was alive, but barely.
Tony draped the man's arms over his shoulders and hooked his hands behind his knees. The man's upper body came to rest against his back, and Tony winced as he felt the man's ribs through the thin, threadbare layers of clothes that hung loosely on his body. He slowly began slogging through the now knee high snow towards the main ranch house.
"Tony!" He could faintly hear Gibbs calling him, sounding annoyed, resigned, and worried all at the same time. Tony hefted the man higher up on his back and picked up the pace.
"Boss! We got company!" He answered. He'd scarcely finished speaking before Gibbs was beside him, frowning at the unconscious man.
"What happened?" He demanded.
"Jethro found him half buried in a snowbank near the road," Tony replied. "He's barely breathin', and he's got a fever hot enough to scorch the sun. I think he may've gotten kicked off the stage."
Gibbs grunted, and helped support Tony as he carried the unconscious man into the house. They settled him in the guest room, where the spare blankets and quilts were kept. Diane, Gibbs's second wife and the namesake of their milk cow, had been an obsessive quilter, so they had more quilts than they knew what to do with. Tony slowly built up the fire in the little Dutch oven in the corner of the room, warming the room up gradually so that the sudden temperature change didn't stop the frozen man's heart, while Gibbs stripped and dried the man, gently rubbing life back into his limbs.
"Skinny bastard," Gibbs commented gruffly, frowning at the man's gently protruding ribs and collarbones. Tony nodded in agreement. While he didn't have the same skeletal gauntness of someone who hadn't had a single bite in weeks, he still looked like he hadn't eaten anything substantial in a good amount of time.
"Tall, too," he added, noticing with some amusement that the man's feet were hanging off the end of the bed. Gibbs snorted and threw a second quilt over him, making sure that his poor feet were covered.
"Not much we can do for him tonight, besides keep him warm," Gibbs said. "First light tomorrow, ride into town and fetch Ducky. I want to know what this kid's got that got him kicked off a stage in the middle of the empty prairie."
"Yes Boss!" Tony replied. He turned to leave, but suddenly remembered that there was a stranger in their house, one that could wake up at any time and slit their throats. He hesitated in the doorway, until Gibbs glared at him.
"I'll take first watch," he growled. "Go get some sleep, son, you're gonna need it."
"Yes Boss!" Tony replied, grinning broadly, before striding down the hall to his own room.
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Gibbs didn't really think that the baby-faced man knocked out in the bed in front of him was gonna be any trouble, but he never liked being caught off guard. He grabbed the chair from the corner and sat down next to the bed, taking out his knife and a piece of wood he'd been whittling. As he sliced bits and pieces off the wood, he studied the boy, taking in the fresh, unlined face, peaceful in sleep, and the ruffled chestnut hair, still damp from the snow. The boy's hands had been smooth, with the exception of the tips of his left fingers, and a small dip in the top of each middle finger, indicating that he didn't work, but wrote a lot, and possibly played an instrument. His feet, however, had been tough as shoe leather, and bloody, indicating that he walked a lot. A migrant? More like a vagrant, but his clothes, despite their incredible worn and cheapness, were not those of a thief.
To be perfectly honest, the boy struck him as someone who was simply trying to get a new start in life, and hadn't quite gotten there yet. There was a bone-deep weariness that surrounded him, even in sleep, suffocating him same as a noose. Gibbs recognized it from when he'd first met Tony, before the blasted kid had put on his mask and turned into a bitter, bullheaded clown. He recognized it from within himself, from a time before he'd come to Kansas and found the sky and the stars.
That weariness could possibly have something to do with the multitude of scars Gibbs had discovered while thawing the boy out. Gibbs knew a thing or two about scars, he himself had plenty. Work scars, war scars, some visible, some not, some accidental, some deliberate. Tony had scars too, only his were well hidden under a thick armor of sarcasm and bitter humor. But this boy… Gibbs had never seen so much visible cruelty written on a person's skin. Thick, deep gouges crisscrossed his back like threshed grain, shadows of bruises long since faded flitted across his skin, thin, ghost-like lines of old, deep cuts traced patterns in his flesh. A web of claw and bite marks twisted and turned down his left forearm. All of these spoke of a violent and terrifying past, something that made Gibbs's blood boil. He didn't cotton to punishing children with pain- that only served to make them hate the pain-giver more. No, there were so many simpler, easier ways to punish children for misbehavior, although looking at the boy in front of him, Gibbs had to wonder if even those would have been needed. He didn't believe for a second that the kid in front of him would have been capable of misbehaving.
A sudden shift in the bed in front of him brought Gibbs out of his musings, as an expression of confusion, followed instantly by terror, crossed the boy's sleeping face, and he wriggled weakly in an attempt to escape.
"No," he whispered plaintively, his voice a surprisingly sweet Irish lilt, hoarse and rough from coughing. "No, Da, don't, please… Da, please… I'll be good… don't kill me, Da, please don't… I'll be good, Da, I promise… please don't kill me… Da, don't! DA!"
Gibbs started as the boy's eyes flew open, fever-bright and terrified, and he began moaning in fear at something only he could see, thrashing weakly in a feeble attempt to get away. Gibbs leapt forward, clapping one hand down on the boy's sweat-slicked forehead, and gently pinning his hands down on his chest before he hurt himself or Gibbs.
The rancher's eyes widened as he felt the heat rolling off of the boy- they couldn't wait until sunup to get Ducky anymore. Unless something was done to cool the boy down immediately, he would be dead before first light.
"TONY!" He bellowed, gathering the boy in up in his arms. Feet pounded in the hallway before Tony raced through the door, pulling on his pants over his union suit.
"Here Boss!" He yelped, hurriedly buttoning up.
"Open that window, then get those neckerchiefs you left out in the lean-to yesterday and bring 'em here," Gibbs ordered, peeling back the quilts so that only a thin sheet remained on the bed. "Once you've done that, start fillin' up the washtub with snow and leave it in here to melt."
"On it, Boss!" Tony fairly leaped across the room and flung open the window, releasing a burst of cold air that flooded the room. The boy whimpered but stopped thrashing, relaxing against Gibbs, who pressed his hand against the boy's forehead again. The kid was already cooling down, hopefully the fever would break soon. He gently laid the boy back down again, drawing the sheet over him.
"'m sorry, Da… try to do better… won't let you down… Da, please… Da…" The boy murmured.
"Easy, son, just rest now," Gibbs said, brushing back the boy's sweat-matted hair.
"Got the neckerchiefs," Tony announced, racing back through the door, a large pile of frozen stiff squares of cloth cupped in his hands. Gibbs grabbed one and worked it in his hands, warming it just enough for him to be able to fold it into a compress.
"Good, Tony, now hang 'em up on the windowsill and go get that snow," Gibbs said, placing the still half frozen compress on the boy's forehead. "I reckon we'll only need a bucket, now that the fever seems to have gone down again. Once you've done that, finish getting dressed and come back here."
"Yes Boss," Tony replied dutifully, and disappeared again.
The boy gave a soft sigh, and smiled. "Sarah… so pretty… my little Fairy Princess… Looks just like you, Ma… miss you both… so much…" He whispered.
He settled back into a fitful sleep, and Gibbs relaxed a bit, readjusting the compress on the boy's forehead and gently wiping away the fever-sweat with a second cloth. Chuckling, he thanked his lucky stars that Tony had forgotten to bring the washing in before the snowstorm the previous day, or else they wouldn't have had anything to cool the stranger down with.
Tony returned, fully dressed and lugging a huge bucket of fresh snow in with him. "Here's the snow you wanted, Boss," he said, placing the bucket down next to the chair Gibbs was sitting in. "Need anything else?"
"Put on some water for Willow Bark tea, then get over here and keep him cool," Gibbs said. "I'm gonna go fetch Ducky, if the fever gets any higher, we're gonna need his help."
"Papà, there's a damn blizzard outside!" Tony yelped. "Snow's already piled halfway up the door! You go out in that, you and Charger are gonna freeze before you get past the gate!"
Gibbs glanced out the window, and realized that he couldn't even see the front porch. The storm that had been blowing in as they finished the last of their chores was on top of them, and the snow was coming down in tubs.
The boy suddenly started coughing, huge, wet, hoarse coughs that made Gibbs wince just from listening to them. Tony flinched and backed away, absently touching his own chest. His own battle with the consumption that had claimed Stephanie had left his lungs weak and sensitive, and Ducky had warned them that he most likely wouldn't survive another illness like it.
But Gibbs didn't think the boy had consumption. Consumption was a slow killer, taking weeks to come on fully, and weeks more for the victim to either succumb or get better. Judging by where Tony had found him, footsteps from a major stage route, the boy had been well enough to be let onto the stage, but had been dumped suddenly, most likely when he began showing signs of real illness. Ducky would be able to confirm it, but Gibbs suspected that the boy had pneumonia. Not much better than consumption, but the odds were more in his favor, providing he had a strong constitution. And pneumonia came on quick, in a matter of days or hours, which meant that he could be well enough to get on a stage but quickly become ill enough to get dumped.
The coughing spell ended, and the boy fell back against the pillow, gasping and wheezing for breath, moaning weakly in pain, his lips tinged blue.
"Tony, gather up all the pillows and blankets in the house," Gibbs ordered quietly. "We need to sit him up a bit, it'll help him breathe. That tea ready yet?"
"Almost, Boss," Tony replied.
"Soon as it's ready, bring the pot and a cup in here and then put some coffee on," Gibbs said. "We're gonna need it."
"On it, Boss."
December 15, 1869
Roop's Point, Kansas
SKG Ranch
Something was different. Tim was warm, not hot with fever, but truly, comfortably warm. He was lying on something soft, and wrapped in something even softer. His chest was still sore, but he was breathing easier than he had in weeks.
Someone was talking. Two someones. Both men, one with an upper crust British accent, and the other with a low, soothing drawl.
Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Tim slowly forced his eyes open, squinting through the bright winter sunlight streaming in through a small window to his right and magnified by an equally sized mirror on the wall to his left. The room he was in was small, dominated by the bed he was lying in, although even that was small, leaving his feet propped up on a pillow sitting on a large chest. The quilt that covered him was made of patches in all different colors and patterns with no discernable design governing it, resulting in a dizzying kaleidoscope of cloth that gave Tim a headache just looking at it.
"Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, young man."
Tim jumped as a distinguished looking gentleman sporting the most outrageous bow tie he'd ever seen leaned over him, peering at him clinically through round, wire-framed spectacles. The man placed a cool, callused hand on his forehead, nodding approvingly, while Tim fought his instinct to flinch away from the touch. The gentleman must've seen his discomfort, as the rest of the examination went quickly.
"It seems you've bounced back rather well from one of the worst cases of pneumonia I've seen in a long time, lad," he said, smiling gently at him. "How do you feel?"
"Better question is, who are you?" The second man said from somewhere off to his right, and Tim turned his head to find a pair of icy blue eyes studying him intently from beneath a fiercely furrowed brow. Tim gulped, the expression on the man's chiseled visage usually precluded a furious beating when seen on his father's ruddy face.
"T-T-Timothy M-M-McGee, s-sir, s-s-schoolteacher," Tim stammered, flushing uncomfortably under the man's stare.
A silvery eyebrow rose quizzically. "Little young to be a teacher, ain't ya?"
"I'm t-t-twenty-two years old, s-sir," Tim whispered. "I've been t-t-teaching since b-b-before I w-w-went to c-c-college."
"Ah, a well educated man!" The doctor (for that was the only thing the bow-tied gentleman could be, Tim mused, seeing as he was listening to his heart with a stethoscope) crowed happily. "Say, my boy, where did you study? Judging by your accent, if I may assume, I would think the University of Dublin, or perhaps Church of Ireland College of Education, since you are a schoolteacher, as you said."
"H-Harvard C-College, s-sir," Tim replied.
The doctor's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline. "My word, Mr. McGee, well done, well done indeed."
Even the silver haired stranger looked impressed, although the expression was soon replaced with suspicion. "Fancy schoolin' like that's expensive, gotta be pretty well off to afford it. People like that usually have connections, don't need to go lookin' for anything. What're you doin' way out here?"
Tim blushed again. "I got in on s-s-scholarship, s-sir, and p-p-paid the rest of the way m-m-myself," he answered. "Jobs for I-I-Irishmen in my p-p-profession have disappeared b-b-back East, s-sir, so I decided to try my l-l-luck out West." He blinked. "I'm s-s-sorry, I don't r-r-remember your n-n-names…"
"No apologies necessary, my lad, I'm afraid we've forgotten our manners," the doctor soothed, shooting a scathing look at the silver haired man. "I'm Dr. Donald Mallard, physician and occasionally coroner."
"Leroy Jethro Gibbs, rancher," the silver haired man grunted. "You're on my property, SKG Ranch. The nearest town is Roop's Point, 'bout four miles or so up the road. Where were ya headed, McGee?"
"Ellsworth, s-sir," Tim answered. "I'm s-s-sorry to put you up like t-t-this, Mr. Gibbs, I'll be on my w-w-way now." He attempted to sit up, but was rather forcefully pushed back down by a scowling Dr. Mallard.
"Now wait just a minute, young man," the old Brit said. "I already said yours was the worst case of pneumonia I'd seen in quite a long time, and your fever only just broke this morning. You're in no condition to be traveling, and besides, it's rather unlikely for a stagecoach to run this way in this weather. I'm afraid you'll be Jethro's guest for a while."
Tim grimaced. "I have n-n-nothing to r-r-repay either of you with for t-t-taking care of me," he whispered. "I s-s-spent the last of my m-m-money on that s-s-stage. I c-c-can't pay you b-b-back..." As suddenly as a candle being blown out, Tim was fast asleep again.
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"Whaddya think, Duck?" Gibbs asked quietly as Ducky quickly checked McGee's pulse.
"I think this poor lad has yet to grasp the concept of charity," Ducky replied. "He also has quite a long ways to go before he's fit to work. Go easy on him, Jethro, it appears that he hasn't had much kindness in his life. You might need to temper your usual gruffness around him, at least for a while."
"What about all of those scars?"
"All childhood acquisitions, if I had to wager a guess," Ducky answered. "I'd imagine his primary caretaker was quite heavy-handed in regards to discipline."
"Discipline? Ducky, the kid's nearly had the skin flayed off his back so many times I'm surprised he can move at all!" Gibbs snarled. "That ain't discipline, that's torture! And you can't tell me that the kid deserved it, no matter what he may have done as a child." Gibbs leapt to his feet and prowled over to the window, now closed against the chill of the frozen tundra around them.
"Jethro, we all know that you don't condone corporal punishment, but even you must admit that you are rather advanced in your way of thinking on the matter," Ducky reminded him quietly. "It's his father's right to punish his son in the manner of his choosing, although I will agree with you that the boy hardly deserved such overt brutality. However, that is in the past. What we must focus on now is keeping young Timothy from exerting himself as he recovers. Complete bed rest for the next week, and no traveling for the next month and a half." Ducky finished his exam and packed up his bag. "Now, I see that Anthony has cleared up a path to the barn, so I will take my leave of you, Jethro." He shot Gibbs a mischievous look better suited for a rascally boy than a prim and proper English doctor. "I'll talk to the mayor on Monday about that open teaching position in town. Poor Robert simply refuses to retire, even after that nasty bout with ague…" Shaking his head, Ducky tutted and strode out of the room, leaving Gibbs to sit quietly next to his guest's bedside, absently stroking the kid's chestnut fringe and wondering.
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When Tim awoke again, he found himself staring into a pair of distinctly canine brown eyes. He jerked back, the sounds of a dog's insane growls and flesh tearing under sharp teeth and claws filling his ears and the sight of flashing teeth and splattering blood filling his vision. He choked back a scream and weakly tried to wriggle away before the monster took another chunk out of him.
"Jethro, down! Down!" An unfamiliar voice commanded, and the huge brown and tan dog whined piteously but obeyed, revealing a lean, weather-beaten young man only a few years older than Tim. The stranger studied him intently with greenish hazel eyes before giving him an apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that, Jethro don't quite get the whole "personal space" thing," he said, his barely accented tone light as air. "He don't hurt a fly though, I promise. Name's Tony DiNozzo. I'm Gibbs's foreman."
Tim swallowed dryly, wishing he could get something to drink. "Tim," he rasped. "Tim McGee."
"The Harvard-educated schoolteacher," Tony said, nodding. "Ducky was really impressed. He's finally got someone to debate with. Lord knows the rest of us ain't smart enough to put up a challenge for him."
"Ducky?" Tim whispered.
"Dr. Mallard," Tony replied with a grin. "Everyone calls him Ducky, he says it's a name from his schooldays in England. You got any dandy nicknames from Harvard, McGee?"
Nicknames? Let's see… there's "Dogan", "Paddy", "White Nigger", "Fresh Off the Boat"… should I go on? Tim thought bitterly, remembering the gangs of boys that would follow him home from school every day until he was sixteen.
Tony must've seen the expression on his face, because he blanched. "Sorry, McGee, don't mean it like that," he said apologetically. Then he grinned. "I'll just have to give ya one then, McGoo!"
"McGoo?" Tim exclaimed, blinking in shock. What on earth?
"Tony!"
Both men flinched at the call, and their heads whipped around in tandem to find Gibbs standing in the doorway, arms crossed and glowering.
"Oh hey, Boss, me and Mr. McGee was just gettin' 'quainted," Tony said brightly, shooting the rancher a toothy grin that reminded Tim of a mischievous little boy.
Gibbs simply stared, and Tony squirmed in his chair. Tim sank down into his blankets and pillows and watched carefully, in case Gibbs's anger turned on him.
"You done with the path to the barn?" Gibbs asked, his tone bland, but lined with steel.
Tony nodded, his grin growing. "And from the barn to the road, wide enough for the wagon. Even dug up and thawed out Mr. McGee's belongings, including the fiddle. You know you got a whole library's worth of the most boring books I ever laid eyes on? Not a single novel in the bunch. Man should be shot for having a library like that."
Tim grimaced and sunk down further, expecting more insults and perhaps a cuff or two. But glancing at Tony, he realized that the older man's hazel green eyes were sparkling with good humor, his smirk gently teasing. He lowered the blankets slightly, and found Gibbs's icy blue eyes on him, gently curious, and a touch even… concerned?
"What McGee reads is his business, Tony," Gibbs rumbled.
"Yes, Boss." Tony's grin slipped off of his face, leaving him staring sullenly at the floorboards.
"Hey, the mutt needs to go out before he destroys the rug again," Gibbs said suddenly. "And the horses are probably getting stir-crazy. Go take care of it."
The grin was back, and brighter than ever. "On it, Boss!" Tony leaped to his feet, clapping Tim gently on the shoulder (Tim tried not to flinch but failed). "C'mon, Jethro, let's go." The tall, older man raced out of the room, the dog barking at his heels.
Tim sighed in relief as the dog left, and let himself relax back into the cocoon of pillows and blankets he was wrapped in.
"Don't like dogs?"
Tim jumped at the sudden voice, and his eyes snapped to the rancher now easing himself into the chair Tony had just vacated.
"G-Got attacked, s-sir, when I-I was t-t-twelve," Tim whispered. "My f-f-father debated for a w-w-week with the n-n-neighborhood men, s-sir, as to w-w-whether I s-s-should be p-p-put d-d-down for r-r-rabies." He didn't care to say which side his father was on. The simple fact that he was alive now proved that the old man had lost.
"Don't call me "sir"," Gibbs growled. "I work for a living. It's Gibbs."
"A-Aye, s-sir-er, Gibbs," Tim murmured, feeling his face flush.
Gibbs snorted, then peered at him thoughtfully. "You still lookin' to head to Ellsworth?"
"As s-s-soon as I am a-a-able to travel, s-er, Gibbs," Tim replied, feeling thoroughly awkward for not addressing his host more formally, as he'd been taught.
"Well, that won't be for a while, seeing as Ducky's forbidden you to travel for the next month."
Tim felt his heart sink. A month? I can't stay here that long! I haven't any money!
Gibbs tossed a ledger onto his bed, followed by a corked inkbottle and a gorgeous wooden dip pen that nearly made Tim drool just looking at it.
"How good are you with numbers?" Gibbs asked. Tim looked up and stared at him, trying to figure out what it was the man wanted. He sounded like he was offering him a job, but that couldn't be… he was sick, and besides, he was Irish. No one wanted to hire Irish folk, wasn't what all those "No Irish Need Apply" signs back east were for?
"I-I w-would s-say I-I'm b-better th-than a-average, s-er, Gibbs," Tim said hesitantly.
"I need you to try and make sense of these figures," Gibbs said, pointing to the ledger. "Tony caught our last bookkeeper doin' something he shouldn't, and I want to make sure he wasn't screwing us over financially as well."
Tim picked up the ledger, his hands shaking slightly. "W-W-What exactly did Mr. D-DiNozzo catch h-him doing?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"A-A-Actually, it does, s er, Gibbs," Tim replied. "I-I-It would mean t-that I have to l-l-look for different p-patterns. For instance, if your bookkeeper was simply g-greedy, the amounts he had t-taken would be very s-small and grow steadily, o-over a very long period of time, for f-fear of being caught. However, if he was u-using the money to feed some sort of h-habit, the amounts taken w-would be erratic, as would the dates a-at which he took them. I-I will also n-need to see one of your e-earlier account books, one this m-man had not worked on, t-to compare it t-to."
Gibbs studied him intently, and Tim fought the urge to hide from the intense blue gaze. Finally, the rancher seemed to nod to himself, and pointed to the ledger Tim held in his hands.
"Caught him trying to force himself on the proprietress of the town saloon," he growled. "Both she and the apothecary had complained of unwanted advances towards them by him, but it wasn't until Tony caught him trying to force himself on the proprietress that we truly investigated further. Turns out the bastard had forced himself on twenty other women in the previous town he'd resided in, and was wanted for multiple counts of rape."
Tim nodded, determined not to flinch at the raw fury in the man's tone and expression. "Greed then, if he was that obsessed with power and control," he murmured.
"How do you figure?"
Tim blinked in surprise. The man actually sounded curious, like he truly wanted to hear what Tim thought.
"R-R-Rape isn't a-about s-s-sex, s er, Gibbs," Tim stammered. "I-I-It's a-about u-using a-an e-extremely i-i-intimate and p-p-private a-act as a w-way to c-control the v-v-victim, t-through the t-terror and p-pain of the e-e-experience. Y-Your b-bookkeeper w-was p-probably v-very c-charming, v-very c-c-charismatic, a-and u-used to g-getting w-what h-he w-wanted. T-The f-f-fact t-that h-he g-got a-away s-so m-many t-times p-proves t-that h-he w-was s-smart, but h-had g-gotten s-sloppy t-the m-more c-comfortable h-he b-became, w-which l-led t-to h-his c-capture. H-He i-is o-obsessed w-with p-p-power, a-and i-in t-this c-country, t-the m-more m-money o-one h-has, t-the m-more p-powerful o-one b-becomes. H-he w-was p-probably e-embezzling f-from h-his p-previous e-employer, a-and u-using t-the s-stolen f-funds t-to t-try a-and i-impress t-the l-ladies h-he e-eventually r-r-raped. I-I-I i-imagine t-that h-he b-became q-quite a-angry w-when t-they s-spurned h-his a-advances."
"I thought he wasn't after sex," Gibbs protested, frowning in concentration.
"H-He w-wasn't, h-he w-wanted t-to c-control t-the w-women h-he w-was c-courting," Tim corrected. "I-I-I e-expect h-he t-thought h-himself i-irresistable, a-and f-f-firmly b-believed t-that e-everyone s-should b-believe i-it a-as w-well. W-When h-he w-was s-s-spurned, h-he p-probably t-took i-it a-as a p-personal o-offense a-and d-decided t-that h-he s-should s-show t-them t-the e-e-error o-of t-their w-w-ways."
Gibbs nodded, looking rather impressed. However, his eyes suddenly narrowed, and he glared at Tim. "I'm almost afraid to ask how you know all this stuff, McGee."
Tim gulped. "I-I-I t-took a c-course i-in p-psychology a-at H-Harvard, j-just o-out o-of c-c-curiosity," he stammered, blushing deeply. "I-I-I w-wasn't v-very g-good a-at i-it, I-I-I'm m-more m-mathematically a-and s-scientifically i-inclined, b-but it w-was i-interesting, s-seeing h-how t-the m-mind w-was t-thought t-to w-work."
Gibbs gave a skeptical snort, but seemed mollified. "Take a look, I'll get you one of our earlier ledgers. Don't stress yourself, or Ducky'll have my hide."
Tim smiled tentatively, and Gibbs smirked back as he stood and strode out the door. Picking up the ledger, Tim turned to the first page and, for the first time since leaving his last town of residence, felt himself start to relax. The numbers in front of him, written in a bold script so perfectly formed that they reeked of self-importance and spite, settled him in a way that people and conversation couldn't. He read the entire ledger cover to cover, familiarizing himself with the erroneous information enough so that he could recall it at a moment's notice. He didn't hear Gibbs return until another ledger was tossed onto the bed to land between his ankles.
"That's the accountings from the season before I hired that bastard," the rancher growled.
"Thank you," Tim replied, barely looking up from the doctored ledger. "Would you fetch my rucksack, please?"
A second later, Tim's only very slightly damp bag was deposited next to him on the bed, and Tim dug into it fiercely, pulling out the bottle of red colored ink he kept for grading papers and a thick notepad about the length and width of his hand. He placed both inkbottles on the small table next to his bed, tucked the pen behind his ear, and dumped the rucksack on the floor. He grabbed the second ledger, but didn't open it, instead placing the two books side by side in front of him, and grabbing the bottle of black ink and the notepad.
"Would you mind answering a question or two?" He asked, turning back to Gibbs, who was staring at him with a puzzling expression of incredulity and amusement on his face.
"Sure," Gibbs grunted, resuming his seat next to Tim's bed.
"When exactly did you hire this bookkeeper?"
"Last spring, I s'pose, calving season," Gibbs answered. "I needed help counting all the new calves, and any steer ready to be shipped up to Abilene. So 'round April or May."
Tim very carefully worked the cork out of the top of the inkbottle, dipped his pen, and jotted this information down.
It only took ten minutes to finish his questions and write down the answers, but by the end of it, Tim was exhausted, and his hand was shaking too much to write. So he tucked his pen back behind his ear, corked the inkbottle, and buried his nose in the undoctored ledger, not even registering Gibbs slipping out of the room like a shadow.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Howdy, McGenius, chowtime!" Tony crowed, entering the guest room with a pot of tea and a tin cup in one hand and a bowl of thick stew in the other. McGee was sitting up in bed, an inkbottle in one hand and a pen in the other, his nose buried in a ledger that was propped up on his knees. The man was covered in red ink it stained his fingers, his nightshirt, even his nose and cheeks and forehead, where he'd absently scratched itches with stained fingers. If Tony hadn't known better, he'd've thought the younger man was drawing blood. To be honest, Tony was a little leery about how fiercely McGee had attacked the accounts book Gibbs had given him, it seemed as though the young Irishman preferred paper and ink and numbers to real flesh and blood people. He'd tried all day to get McGee to put the book down and talk, but it was as though he were talking to a wall. Even Gibbs on a bad day was more responsive than McGee when his nose was stuck in that book.
True to form, McGee didn't even flinch at his entrance. Tony sighed, and put the bowl and pot and cup down on the bedside table. "Hey, McInky, time to eat," he repeated, settling in the chair next to the bed. McGee didn't respond, simply dipped his pen again and scribbled something on the page, muttering to himself in what Tony could only assume was Irish.
Huh, Tony thought, watching him leave another inky mark on his temple, so he talks to himself in the mother tongue, as well. Well I'll be darned.
"Ehi, McGee! Il tuo è stufato di andare a prendere freddo!" Tony snapped, trying to remember how his birth grandmother scolded. It did the trick, as McGee jumped and stared at him incredulously.
"Was that Italian?" He asked, the first words he'd spoken to Tony since waking up that morning.
"In effetti lo è!" Tony announced pompously, glad to have finally gotten a reaction from the younger man. "Ben fatto! Ora, hai intenzione di mangiare questa zuppa, oppure posso avere vero? Non ho ricevuto alcun cena di oggi, e la cena non è per ore."
McGee scowled at him. "Níl a fhios agam cad a bhfuil tú ag caint faoi," he said, sticking the pen behind his ear.
Tony grinned and grabbed the bowl. "Zuppa," he said, stirring the stew around with the spoon. "Mangiare!" He loaded up the spoon and popped it into his own mouth, smirking mischievously.
"Hey!" McGee yelled. He grabbed the bowl and spoon away from Tony and started shoveling stew into his mouth.
"Hey, easy there, kid! You're gonna make yourself sick!" Tony warned, reaching to place a hand on McGee's shoulder to calm him down. To his shock, McGee actually snarled at him and pulled the bowl closer to him, as though he was afraid that Tony was going to take it away. He did slow down, however, and Tony sat back and watched him worriedly.
Damn it, the kid reminded him of himself when Gibbs had first picked him up. He'd already been running around the streets of New York City for two years before being put on the orphan train, and was nearly as wild as a feral dog. He protected his food and very meager belongings with his life, and growled at anyone who came too close. It had taken Gibbs's unique brand of tough, Marine style love to get him to relax and realize that he was safe, that he could eat as much as he wanted without having to fight tooth and nail to protect it. It had taken him a year and a half to stop hoarding food in his wardrobe, and to stop sleeping with a knife under his bed. Even now he still had a tiny, nagging worry that whenever Gibbs went off to go after stray animals or stray people, he wouldn't be coming back. That he'd get hurt or killed, or was simply tired of him, and leave him alone again. And even though he was an adult now, and better equipped to handle being on his own again, he really, really didn't want to be totally alone in the world anymore.
McGee was nearly asleep by the time he finished the stew, and could barely keep his eyes open to gulp down the tea. Tony had to help him hold the cup, until the kid actually fell asleep mid-swallow, and the older man carefully took the cup away and gently rubbed the kid's throat to make him finish swallowing, the way he'd seen Gibbs do when Jethro was sick, so that he didn't choke.
"Ducky's gonna be steamed at you, McSickly," he murmured, carefully clearing away the inkwells and ledgers and notebook and pen and placing them on the bedside table. He tucked the quilt a bit more snugly around the younger man, and turned down the flame of the kerosene lamp bolted to the wall above the bed, until the light was no more than a pinprick. He grabbed the empty bowl and spoon and silently slipped out of the room.
"You're lucky I ain't the jealous type, McNeedy," Tony muttered as he walked down the hall to the main room of the house. "Gibbs's gonna have his work cut out for him with you, and he ain't gonna let you out of his sight until he straightens you out."
December 23, 1869
Roop's Point, Kansas
Gibbs's Mercantile
Jackson Gibbs looked up and grinned when his adopted grandson blew into his general store, bringing the cold wind and snow from outside with him.
"Tony-boy!" He crowed, stepping out from behind the counter and enveloping the boy in a huge bear hug. "How you doin', Bubba? Not driving Leroy beserk, I hope?"
"I'm behaving, Gramps, I promise!" Tony laughed. "And speaking of the boss, he wanted to let you know that we ain't gonna be in town for Christmas this year."
Jack blinked. This was strange Leroy and Tony had always come to Ducky's famous Christmas Dinner, ever since Leroy had adopted the boy twelve years ago. Ducky's annual feast was a town tradition- Ducky always provided the fowl, but every household in town brought an item with them to supplement. The boys hadn't missed a single year since Tony arrived- the kid hadn't allowed it, and Leroy loved the boy too much to say no.
"Well, son, I'm sorry to hear that," Jack replied, trying not to look too disappointed. "What's got you boys homebound this year?"
"Got a guest who ain't really up to bein' up and about," Tony said. "Boss don't wanna leave him all on his lonesome, and on Christmas of all days. He don't seem to got any family who want him around, and he's just a kid."
Jack nodded, an idea forming in his head. Tony must've seen it, because he gave the old shopkeeper a glare.
"I know what you're thinkin', Gramps," he growled. "You ain't movin' Ducky's feast to the ranch. Kid barely handles me and the boss bein' on the other side of the room from him, we ain't droppin' him in the middle of that mob. You wanna meet him, you come by yourself, y'hear? And make sure everybody else knows that too."
Jack studied his adopted grandson carefully. The boy's hazel green eyes were narrowed, the green and gold flecks in them flashing angrily. His fists were balled, his arms held out from his sides slightly, his booted feet placed shoulder width apart. Everything about him screamed threat, but Jack had seen that stance before. Of course, back then Tony had been half his current height and a third of his current weight, with a small girl and a mongrel pup at his feet behind him, but it was the same thing, ultimately. Something was poking his boy's protective instinct, and to try and force his own way would only make Tony lash out.
"I hear you, kid," Jack replied quietly. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you boys ain't disturbed without Leroy's say-so."
Instantly Tony's stance relaxed, and he grinned broadly at Jack. "Thanks, Gramps. That means a lot to us. Maybe we see y'all for Easter."
"I'm holdin' ya to that, boy," Jack growled playfully. "Now get on with you, you're scaring the customers away."
"What customers?" Tony scoffed, glancing around the empty store. "It's ten below outside and snowing. Everybody's at home, stayin' warm."
"Ah, be off with you, boy!" Jack yelled halfheartedly, aiming a playful kick in the pants at his adopted grandson. Tony laughed, pulled his duster tighter around him, and ducked back outside.
Hmm, I wonder if Ducky knows anything about Leroy's guest, Jack mused, eyeing the worsening snowstorm through the front windows of his store.
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David's Saloon
Ziva looked up as the door to her saloon opened, revealing a shivering, snow-covered Tony DiNozzo.
"Hey Ziva, what've you got that's hot? It's damned cold out there!" He called as he brushed, patted, and stomped the snow from his person.
Ziva grinned and called back, "Would that be an order of hot apple cider for you, Deputy DiNozzo?"
"Add a shot of whiskey and you've got a deal, Miss David," he replied, smirking hopefully.
"Are you not on duty, Deputy?" Ziva asked suspiciously, eyeing the small silver star pinned to Tony's duster lapel. She filled a kettle with cider and placed it on a cooler part of the small stove range behind the bar to heat.
"Zeee-vah, it's only one shot!" Tony whined, sitting down at the bar and placing his hat down beside him. "I'll barely feel it!"
"I am not going to get in trouble with Gibbs if he hears you have been drinking on the job, Tony," Ziva scowled. "It is the cider straight, or you can go right back outside again."
"Fine, but you're losin' profit, Zi," Tony sighed. "Hey, Boss wanted me to ask you if you'd want to come over for dinner Christmas Day, if you're not already goin' over to Ducky's. We're stayin' at the ranch this year, but neither of us can cook worth spit. We'd be much obliged if you'd whip up a nice little dinner for the three of us and a guest."
Ziva did not answer, busying herself with pouring out the drink into a clay mug, and refilling a few others' drinks as well. She was honestly stunned by the offer. It was exceedingly rare for anyone to be invited to SKG Ranch for any reason, much less for a holiday. Sherriff Gibbs and Deputy DiNozzo always came to Ducky's for Christmas Dinner, and though she personally did not celebrate the holiday, she had not missed the event since she had arrived in Roop's Point six years ago. She wondered what Ducky would say about her missing this year.
"I had already made plans to attend Ducky's Christmas Dinner, but perhaps I could stop by beforehand and whip something up for the two of you and your guest," she said slowly. "Would that be acceptable?"
"That'd be great, thanks, Zi," Tony said, grinning.
"Who is your guest?" Ziva asked, gathering empty glasses from a recently vacated table.
"Some kid from back East, got tossed off the stage in front of the ranch house 'cause he came down with pneumonia," Tony replied, taking a long swig of his cider and wincing as the hot liquid burned his throat. "Schoolteacher, name of McGee. Probably first or second generation off the boat, since he's still got the mother tongue."
Ziva nodded from where she was washing out glasses. She was a first generation immigrant herself, having arrived in America from Palestine when she was nineteen. Tony was a first generation immigrant as well, although judging by what she, Abby, and Jimmy had been able to get out of him the few times they had managed to get him drunk enough to answer questions, he had arrived in America at a very young age.
"McGee… that is an Irish name, is it not?" She asked.
"Don't get much more Irish than that," Tony confirmed, nodding. "I reckon that's why he ended up out here in the middle of nowhere, y'know? All those "No Irish" signs back East that Ducky's been ranting about the last few months. Kid really seems to have taken that crap to heart."
Ziva nodded sadly. She had seen the signs that Tony was talking about herself, as she had traveled west from New York to Kansas when she had first arrived.
"TONY!"
Ziva winced as her front door slammed open and a black and red blur raced inside and attached itself to Tony, who promptly choked on his cider.
"TonyTonyTonyTonyTony! I haven't seen you in days! Jack said you were here!" Abby Scuito, town apothecary/midwife, shrieked, hugging Tony around the neck and jumping up and down. "How about all this snow, huh? Did you and Gibbs get snowed in? Looks like we're definitely gonna have a white Christmas! Are you coming to Ducky's Christmas Dinner? What am I saying, of course you're coming! You always come! Oh I can't wait, it's gonna be so delicious and fun-"
"Abbs, need to breathe!" Tony wheezed, removing Abby's hands from his neck. "And sorry, but Gibbs and me ain't comin' this year."
"What? Why not?" Abby whined, latching on to his arm.
"Don't matter why not, Abbs," Tony growled. "Boss wants us homebound this year, so that's what we do. And no, you ain't draggin' everyone out our way, 'cause we're just gonna send y'all right back. You want to come visit, you come by yourself, y'hear?"
"Whhhyyyy?" Abby whined again. Ziva's lip curled slightly- she could not stand it when Abby decided to be childish.
"Don't matter, Abbs, so stop asking," Tony said shortly. "I best be gettin' back to the office. Thanks for the cider, Zi." He stood, jammed his Stetson onto his head, and wrapped his duster tightly around him before he swept out the door.
"He's hiding something," Abby growled, hands on her hips. "I'm gonna go see Gibbs."
Ziva watched silently as Abby wrapped her cloak tightly around her and raced out, slamming the door shut behind her.
"Adonai Eloheinu, tan li s'blanot," she muttered, collecting Tony's empty mug and wiping down the bar.
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SKG Ranch
Tim reclined comfortably on the chaise lounge in the large main room of the ranch house, nose buried in a novel he had found in the bookshelf behind him. His week-long period of bed rest was over, and Ducky had deigned to allow him short trips around the house. Considering the fact that he was exhausted just by slowly walking from the guest room he was sleeping in to the chaise in the main room, Tim knew he had a long way to go until he was completely healthy again, but simply being allowed to be up and about was glorious. He had started to become irreparably bored stuck in just his guest room, having finished sorting out the ledgers Gibbs had given him days ago. Gibbs, possibly seeing his impending boredom, had given him free access to his personal library, a large bookshelf placed against the wall in the front of the main room, next to a large window overlooking the porch and the front of the property. Tim was positive that on a clear summer day, one would be able to see for miles out that window, but right now, with snow piled almost to the top of the windows, he couldn't see anything, and so contented himself with the novel he had chosen, In Search of the Castaways by Jules Verne. He loved Verne's novels, and had been delighted to find this latest work from his favorite author in the library of a simple rancher.
"Likin' that book?"
Tim jumped and looked up to find Gibbs seated in front of the fireplace, whittling away at a small piece of wood with a small knife.
"I-I a-am, s er, Gibbs," Tim mumbled. "I-It's v-very i-i-interesting. I-I l-like M-Mr. V-Verne's n-n-novels q-quite a l-lot."
"Got that for Tony last year, thought he'd like the adventure," Gibbs continued, smirking. "Forgot that Tony's not much of a reader, and so the book's been sittin' on the shelf for the last year, waitin' to be taken to the library in town. Glad someone's enjoyin' it."
Tim nodded politely, although his mind only caught on to one word: library.
A library? Here? In the middle of nowhere? His thoughts tumbled over and over themselves like water over falls, and his excitement must've shown on his face, because Gibbs laughed out loud.
"What're you thinkin' 'bout, McGee?" He asked, blue eyes dancing. "I've seen that look before- Tony always gets it when talkin' bout some girl he's seen, or whenever he gets back from the theater in Ellsworth. Spit it out, son, so I can go back to my wood."
Tim couldn't help himself- blushing furiously, he divulged everything about his love for books and his desire to see this town's library. He half expected Gibbs to growl at him impatiently to shut up, as several of his classmates at Harvard had, or even to come up and cuff him hard on the back of the head, as they and some of his professors had done as well, but the gruff old rancher simply listened quietly, nodding politely every so often, his expression one of patient forbearance.
Tim's mouth snapped shut when he finished his monologue, and he waited nervously for Gibbs's reaction, hiding slightly behind his book.
"Ducky's gotta have another look at ya, and all this snow's gotta go away, but I reckon we can swing a trip into town for ya soon, McGee."
Tim blinked, and peeked over the top of his book to see Gibbs grinning at him. The younger man just stared back, hardly daring to believe his ears. This fierce, gruff, tough old rancher was willing to take him to a library? A real library? Tim hadn't set foot in a real public library in over a year and a half, as he began to look more and more like a vagabond as his funds dried up from lack of work.
Speaking of which…
Tim marked his place and put the book down on the shelf behind him. Gathering the thick quilt he was wrapped in around him like a cape, he carefully stood and walked slowly over to the chairs gathered by the fire, sitting in front of Gibbs, who eyed him curiously.
"I d-don't think I e-ever th-th-thanked you for e-everything you and Tony have d-d-done f-for me," he said quietly. "I d-don't think I'll e-e-ever be a-able t-t-to. Y-you and T-Tony have s-shown me m-more k-k-kindness in the l-last week t-than I-I've seen in… in m-my entire l-life. I-If there is a-anything I c-can do to r-r-repay you, you o-only need t-to ask. I-I owe y-you my l-l-life, b-both you a-and Tony."
Fighting every instinct in his body, he kept his gaze on Gibbs's icy blue eyes as the older man thought.
"Why were you on your way to Ellsworth, McGee?" He asked suddenly, studying him intently.
Tim sighed. "I h-had hoped t-to f-find work, i-if anyone w-w-would hire an I-I-Irishman," he murmured. "W-with Ellsworth b-being such a l-l-large town, I-I had h-h-hoped to f-find a p-person who w-would, at the v-very least, d-disregard the c-common feelings a-aimed t-towards my f-folk and be w-willing to h-hire me."
"What are you running from? What "common feelings" are preventing you from getting a job?" Gibbs asked, looking very confused. Tim returned his expression.
"I'm I-Irish, s er, Gibbs," he replied slowly, wondering. "E-Everyone h-hates u-us, b-because w-we t-take j-jobs f-from n-native b-born A-A-Americans. I-I c-can't c-count h-how m-many t-times I-I've i-interviewed f-for a-a j-job a-and b-been t-turned a-away s-simply b-because o-of m-my a-accent. I-It d-doesn't m-matter t-that I-I h-have a-a t-teaching d-degree f-from H-Harvard, I-I'm s-still a-a s-second c-class c-citizen, a-and t-too s-stupid t-to u-understand h-how m-much p-people l-look d-down o-on m-me." He knew that his tone had turned bitter, but he didn't care. Talking to Gibbs's was like talking to a favorite portrait- calm, unassuming, and just there.
"What if I told you that there was a teaching position available here in Roop's Point?"
Tim blinked and stared at Gibbs in shock.
"Old Man Davis is the current schoolteacher, but he's past retirement age," Gibbs continued. "However, he can't retire until he has a replacement lined up. Davis is the only trained schoolteacher in town, and he refuses to retire until he's sure of the person who's gonna take his place. The Mayor was getting ready to put an ad in various papers back East, but if you're lookin' for work, I'm pretty sure that Davis and the Mayor will be fine with you takin' over."
"Y-Y-You m-m-mean i-it?" Tim stammered, twisting the quilt in his hands. "T-They w-w-won't m-mind an I-I-Irishman t-teaching t-the t-t-town's ch-children? T-The p-p-parents w-w-won't m-mind?"
Gibbs sighed, and gently placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, ignoring the younger man's flinch. "McGee, I can personally vouch for Mayor Leon Vance's feelings. The man is this town's first black mayor, and he's the last person to be accused of being a bigot. He's an honest man, and he cares about this town and its people. He's only gonna want the best, and from where I'm standin', McGee, I can't see no one better than you. Davis is an old man, set in his ways, but all he cares about is retiring. If he's got both Vance and me leanin' on him to hire you, he'll fold, and he won't give a rat's ass where you're from. And as for the parents of the kids you'd be teachin', if anyone gives you any grief, you just let me know, and I'll sort 'em out. It is part of my job, after all." He winked at Tim, and handed him a badge.
Tim frowned and looked down at the badge. It was a brass star, about three inches in diameter, with the words "Town of Roop's Point Sheriff" stamped on the front. He stared at Gibbs as he numbly handed the badge back, wondering at this man who was unassumingly helping him get his life back together.
"W-Why are y-y-you h-helping m-me?" Tim whispered.
"You need it," Gibbs replied simply. "You're a human being, McGee, and it ain't fair that you've been treated so badly by so many people. I wanna start makin' it right."
"Why? I-It's n-not y-your c-concern," Tim murmured, confused.
"My son found you on my property, brought you to my house," Gibbs growled. "It is my concern. And damn it, McGee, you're worth it! Get that into your head, son. You're a human being, and worth other people's concern. Now, I'll get Vance and Davis over after the holidays, and once Ducky clears you to travel and work, you'll start whippin' all our kids into shape. Until you've got enough saved up for your own place, you'll stay here, room and board in exchange for some of that bookkeeping magic you do, and some help on the ranch once the weather starts clearing up. You ride? Shoot?"
Tim shook his head numbly, still trying to process what had just happened. A job and a place to live, all in one day… it didn't seem real. How long would it take for the other shoe to drop? Was Gibbs's promise of protection if the townsfolk protested against his position credible, or was it simply a platitude, meant to be nice but not really substantive?
"You'll learn," Gibbs said, shrugging. "In the meantime, you can get started on my financial records. I ain't real good with figures and such, need someone with those kind of smarts to straighten my records out. You up to it?"
Before Tim could answer, he was interrupted by a furious pounding on the door.
"Gibbs? Gibbs, I know you're in there, open up! It's cold enough to freeze the tail feathers off a penguin out here!" A female voice called out. Tim watched warily as Gibbs growled to himself and levered out of his chair. He stomped over to the door and yanked it open, admitting a cold blast of winter air and the strangest looking woman Tim had ever seen.
She was dressed head to toe in black and blood red, her ebony hair parted down the middle and tied tightly into two high ponytails with red and black ribbons. Her naturally pale face was made up like a play actor's, with brightly rouged cheeks, dark crimson lips, and darkly shadowed eyes. She was inordinately tall for a woman, and her skirts were scandalously short for a lady her age- nearly up to her knees, revealing her outrageously high heeled boots and oddly striped red and black stockings.
However, despite her shocking appearance, the woman bounced into the house with a broad grin, removing and hanging up her thick, midnight black winter cloak herself. Tim struggled to his feet as she came over to the seating area around the large stone fireplace.
"Oh, hello!" The woman said brightly, thrusting a slender, elegant hand at him for him to shake. "I don't think we've met before. I'm Abby Scuito, Apothecary and Midwife. What's your name? Where're you from? I'm from 'Nawlins, myself- born and raised in the bayou!"
Miss Scuito continued to chatter, while Tim could only stand and stare, locking his knees to keep himself from falling over like a felled tree. This woman… he'd never seen someone so outgoing, so boisterous, so… sunny. Despite her rather funeral appropriate attire, she was so bright and warm and friendly that it nearly took his breath away.
"Abby!" Gibbs barked, trying and failing to hide a fond smile. "Sit down, and let the man speak! McGee, sit down before you fall down, would ya?"
Tim nodded and looked at Miss Scuito again, waiting for her to have a seat. A gentleman never took his seat before a lady in his presence was situated, and Tim, despite his upbringing (or lack of it) was nothing if not a gentleman. Miss Scuito seemed to realize this, as she shot him a bright smile and elegantly lowered herself down into one of the soft padded chairs. Smiling back, half in relief and half simply because her smile was so infectious, he carefully lowered himself back into the chair, biting back an audible sigh of relief as his weakened, shaking muscles relaxed.
"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, are you all right?" Miss Scuito asked worriedly, leaning forward in her seat and looking him up and down in concern. Tim found himself smiling again, and nodded.
"D-Don't w-worry, I-I'm f-fine, m-miss," he mumbled, coloring slightly as he stuttered. "M-My n-name is Timothy McGee. I-I a-am a-a s-schoolteacher, f-from B-Boston."
"Oh really? I've heard Boston is so beautiful in the autumn," Miss Scuito sighed happily. "Of course, 'Nawlins is gorgeous any time of the year- have you ever been there, Mr. McGee? The Crescent City, right at the mouth of the Mississippi River! I do miss the River sometimes, but Roop's Point is my home now, and I would never leave! Say, Mr. McGee, what brings you to our little town? Visiting, or just passing through?"
Tim felt his face color even more, and murmured, "L-Looking f-for w-work, m-miss."
"Really? Wow, I'd thought schoolteachers were in high demand, especially back east," Miss Scuito said, frowning in confusion.
"N-Not w-when th-they're I-Irish, m-miss," Tim mumbled.
Miss Scuito gaped at him like a fish for a full minute, until her lips pressed together into a thin line, and her lovely green eyes narrowed angrily, making Tim wonder if she was one of those people who was offended by his mere presence upon learning of his heritage.
"Why, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life!" She declared with a furious toss of her ponytails. "Why on earth should one's ethnicity determine their fitness for work? Especially in this country, where practically every single solitary person can trace their family line back to some European, Asian, or African land within just a few short generations? Why, my very own grandmother was the daughter of a French colonist back when 'Nawlins belonged to France! Gibbs, didn't your great great grandparents help settle Pennsylvania with William Penn? Not even five years ago, Mayor Vance was some fat cat cotton king's slave, and now look at him! One of the best mayors Roop's Point has ever seen! I swear, Gibbs, sometimes humanity just makes me want to grab it round the neck and shake some sense into it! Not hiring Irish indeed! Complete idiocy!"
Tim stared at Miss Scuito, completely nonplussed. He'd never heard a woman lecture so passionately on a subject most would consider "men's talk". He glanced over at Gibbs to see what the older man made of it, and found the sheriff sitting placidly in his chair, whittling away at his small piece of wood and nodding almost absently as he listened. Tim wondered if behavior such as that just displayed by Miss Scuito was normal for women in this town.
"So, Mr. McGee, has Gibbs told you about our opening in the town's schoolhouse for a new schoolteacher?" Miss Scuito asked, smiling broadly.
Tim gulped. "H-He h-had j-just f-finished, m-miss, w-when y-you a-arrived," he said.
"Well? Are you considering it?"
"Ease off, Abbs," Gibbs rumbled, pinning her with a severe look. "Kid's still recovering, he don't need you beating at him like he's a dead horse."
Tim couldn't help it, his face scrunched in disgust at the visual image, and a sound to match escaped him. He blinked in surprise and felt his face heat up as both Miss Scuito fought to hide her giggles and Gibbs openly smirked.
"T-To a-answer y-your q-question, M-Miss S-Scuito," Tim said slowly, "I… I-I b-believe th-that I-I w-will m-meet w-with M-Mayor V-Vance and M-Mr. D-Davis a-about t-taking o-over a-as R-Roop's P-Point's s-schoolt-teacher, i-if t-they w-will h-have m-me."
Miss Scuito squealed in delight and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and it took everything Tim had not to throw her off in an ungentlemanly shove and race for the guest room. He hadn't been hugged in such a way since he was a little boy, since… no, he wouldn't think about that. He began wishing desperately that Miss Scuito would release him so that he could escape to his room and his books.
Perhaps seeing Tim's distress, Gibbs cleared his throat pointedly. "Abbs, let the man breathe, will ya?"
Miss Scuito grinned, gave Tim one last squeeze, and then released him, daintily sitting back down in her chair.
"You'll love teaching here, Mr. McGee, our children are wonderful and so well behaved and smart," she said, grinning broadly and bouncing slightly as she spoke. "You'll have Jared and Lily Vance, Mayor Vance's children, and Amanda Lee, the younger sister of our town lawyer, Michelle. Little Zach Tanner's just starting kindergarten, and Angela Kelp, oh Lordy, such a smart girl, she's in the tenth grade now, can you believe it, Gibbs? Highest ranking student in the school, and just twelve years old! You'll also have Kody Meyers, he's the oldest in the school, sixteen years old, but a real sweetheart when he's not drunk. Then there's Carson Taylor, he and Tony are two peas in a pod, and Noah Taffett, he and Jared Vance are best friends. And last but not least is little Sandy Watson… oh dear." For the first time since Tim had met her, Miss Scuito looked rather reluctant and eyed Tim nervously.
"I-Is s-something th-the m-matter, M-Miss S-Scuito?" Tim asked, concerned.
"Um, Mr. McGee, do you have any training in the education of blind people?" Miss Scuito asked tentatively. "Sandy Watson was born blind, and she's never been able to go to school because no other teachers could help her."
Tim grinned broadly, garnering looks of surprise from both Miss Scuito and Gibbs. "A-As it so h-happens, miss, I h-have learned to r-read and write u-using a tactile a-alphabet called Braille, n-named after the F-Frenchman who'd invented it," he began, his stutter slowly melting away as he entered his element. "H-He himself was blind, and i-invented this alphabet in order t-to allow other blind p-people to read and write w-without using their eyes. I-I have training in the e-education of adults and children a-alike in this alphabet, so i-if the child in question a-and her parents would c-consent to meet with me privately, e-either at the town schoolhouse or their o-own residence, I would be happy t-to introduce them to the system."
"A tactile alphabet?" Miss Scuito gasped, fascinated. "Read without using one's eyes? How does it work?"
"English, McGee," Gibbs growled, although he looked rather curious as well.
"A-An alphabet written in a system of d-dots punched into the underside of the p-paper, and read by running o-one's fingertips over the raised dots o-on the other side," Tim explained. "The dots are a-arranged in a single grid of six, with a specific c-combination of dots representing each letter of the a-alphabet, as well as numbers zero through nine, and even p-punctuation and musical notes. I-It's somewhat difficult to learn a-at first, due to the fact that o-one is relying on touch rather than sight to r-read it, but if one takes the time and e-effort to learn, it is a very simple system. Miss Watson would have an easier time of it than her p-parents, but that is simply because her sense of touch is much more d-developed due to her lack of sight, and children in general tend to l-learn new languages faster than adults anyway."
"And you're trained to teach people to read and write in this alphabet?" Gibbs asked, silvery eyebrows nearing his hairline.
"I-I a-am, s-er, Gibbs," Tim replied, nodding.
"Gibbs, you can't let this one get away!" Miss Scuito demanded imperiously. "Sandy's been dying to go to school, and now that her bastard father's been put away, she can! And she'll be able to start reading and writing!"
Gibbs said nothing for a few minutes, and then turned to Miss Scuito. "Abbs, I need you to go back into town and tell Vance that I want him and Davis here two hours after dawn on Monday. Give his reply to Tony to bring back here when his shift is over, got it?"
"Aye aye, Gibbs! I'll go right away!" Miss Scuito declared, jumping to her feet and running to the door, grabbing her cloak and wrapping it around herself. "Vance and Davis at SKG at ten o'clock Monday, got it! It was nice to meet you, Mr. McGee!"
"N-Nice m-meeting y-you, t-too, M-Miss S-Scuito," Tim called quietly, as Miss Scuito yanked open the door and raced out, slamming it behind her.
He slumped down in his chair, suddenly exhausted. Miss Scuito was delightful, but she seemed to suck all of the energy out of him when she left.
"Go hit the rack, McGee," Gibbs ordered. "You need anything from town?"
"I-I d-don't, s-er, Gibbs," Tim sighed, yawning. "'Scuse me."
Gibbs snorted, smirking. "McGee, it's Boss now- you belong to me."
Tim stood slowly, mulling these words over. He should've been terrified, suddenly having some man he barely knew claim ownership over him, but for some reason, he only felt relieved. He had a job (actually, if he really thought about it, he had three), he had a roof over his head, and people who seemed to like him and want him around, despite being the bane of good Americans' existence.
Things were looking up.
"Aye Boss," he answered quietly.
Author's Note: In this chapter, and subsequent chapters, I own Roop's Point, SKG Ranch (cyber cupcakes to anyone who figures out what the initials mean!), Diane the Milk-cow, and Mr. Robert Davis.
The next chapter of Line in the Sand will be posted on Wednesday, April 4, at 11 PM.