Appearing to Abby as a cat came as a surprise to him. He'd always thought that if he was going to be an animal he'd be a dog: loyal, excited, and puppy like in his adoration of her. Instead he was a ginger tabby cat. It took only a few minutes of sitting at her balcony sliding glass door for her to spot him and throw it open. She was dressed in boxer shorts and a tank top, skull themed as most of her clothes were wont to be.
"Hey there little guy," she cooed, just an edge of grief in her eyes and tone for Tim to notice.
He hated seeing Abby sad. If she hurt, he hurt. Padding forward he nudged his head against her hand and let out a plaintive meow. He meant to say 'don't be sad, I'm not worth it'. Instead Abby sniffed, reaching out to scratch him between the ears.
"Bet you're hungry, huh mister," her voice hitched, but she was already turning away.
Tim waited patiently at the threshold, watching as she stepped through her front room and headed for her kitchen. A few minutes later she was returning, a small bowl of cubed tuna in hand.
She set it down and looked expectantly at him. Tim sniffed it and his stomach turned at the thought of eating the raw fish. Sushi had never been his thing. It did prove though, once again, that Abby loved animals at a whole other level.
Tim looked up at Abby and saw her face. Well, he was dead. He nibbled at a corner of the piece of fish. Abby let out a long 'awww' and Tim looked up to see her beaming at him. It had definitely been worth it.
"Do you wanna hang out for a while, little guy?" asked Abby.
Tim looked at his friend before his eyes wandered the room. Having grown used to the goth decor a long time ago, Tim knew what was normal for Abby. Despite her eccentric tastes, Abby usually kept her apartment clean and organized. The place was now cluttered, a few pieces of clothing draped over the couch, dishes on the coffee table. It seemed that Abigail Sciuto was falling apart.
Tim stepped up to her and rubbed his head against her leg. He peered up and saw that she was smiling, this time with a little bit less grief. She scratched his ears, a strangely pleasant sensation as a cat, and then sat down. Tim hopped up onto the couch and planted himself on her lap. This seemed to also please Abby as her smile lifted once again.
They sat for a few minutes, Tim glad to know that he was helping at least one of his friends.
He looked up and saw that Abby was looking at him curiously.
"You have such green eyes, they-" she stopped short, a strange expression crossing her face, "they make me think of my best friend. You don't know him but he was pretty awesome."
She blinked rapidly and then lifted her head. Tim waited until she was ready.
"He-he was a really, really, really good guy. He wasn't supposed to die. His name was Timothy."
She paused in her scratching and Tim let out a reflexive 'meow'. She looked down at him, chuckling.
"Alright, alright, I'm scratching, I'm scratching."
Tim felt his chest vibrate and realized that he was purring.
"You know, you kind of make me think of him. In fact, I just had a brilliant idea! I'm going to name you Tim!"
Abby settled back and grabbed her remote.
"I'll show you his favorite show, I bet he'd like that!"
Tim would have smiled if he could have, glad to see that his friend had gotten back a little of herself.
Jethro Leroy Gibbs stared down at the file in his hand, the creamy yellow folder opened up to reveal the photo of a smiling, and ever so earnest looking, Agent Timothy McGee. He'd had to call his agent's parents. He hadn't been able to get through, Admiral McGee in Okinawa and his now ex-wife, Timothy's biological mother, Gloria Weinhart having relocated to Canada with no known address or phone number.
Jethro took in the impressive credentials and his jaw tightened a little. He'd initially picked Tim for his skills, but he'd kept him around for his stalwart character; maybe a little naif, sometimes painfully boyish, but someone who hadn't deserved to die.
It had been a week now. Ari had been caught two days ago, a bullet put through his head courtesy of Ziva David. Jenny, the new director, had practically ordered him to take another week off to pretend to comb some cold cases and to just mourn. That and Tim's funeral needed to be arranged and the people supposed to be doing it -his parents- weren't making it easy.
Jethro grabbed his desk phone and punched in the numbers and the connecting line. He was put through to the Admiral's secretary.
"This is Admiral McGee's secretary speaking, he's not available right now."
"This is Special Agent Gibbs, I'm sure you remember me because I was the one who called before, I happened to mention the fact that the Admiral's son died. That he was killed in the line of duty protecting his country from terrorists."
There was an awkward pause.
"Oh, yes."
There was silence.
"And you don't think that's important?" snarled Jethro.
He'd tried to call several times before this, none of his efforts successful. He was always told to call back when the Admiral would have time.
"Well, the thing is, Admiral McGee is quite busy and he's asked me to push all personal calls and matters until the end of the month, maybe even later."
"That's not for a month, it's June second."
"There's a conference he's involved in that's really important and-"
"His son, is dead."
There was awful silence again. Jethro felt like punching something.
"I'm sorry sir."
And the horrible thing about it was that she really did sound sorry. Jethro slammed the receiver back down and sat back in his chair. He looked at the photo of his agent, his dead agent. What the hell was wrong with McGee's parents? There had to be someone, someone who cared. He knew about McGee's sister, but she was in England through a study abroad program and wouldn't be here until next week. Besides, she was nineteen, a sophomore in college, and just by those facts not equipped to handle planning a funeral. She shouldn't even have to.
That left one family member left, a Penelope Langston who had been in jail on a small charge having to do with picketing. She was probably out by now, and according to the file she was Tim's paternal grandmother.
Jethro dialled her number. She answered. She was in Arkansas but promised to be in D.C. within five hours. Jethro hung up. He looked to the file again and felt his gut tumble with anger and a strange sense that something in the universe was wrong. Tim smiled up from the paper and Jethro couldn't take it, carefully shutting the file.
Penelope Langston was an interesting woman, if she'd been a red-head and they'd met in a bar Jethro probably would have attempted to romance her, or at least get her name. They weren't in a bar though, they were at the NCIS building and Jethro was having to quietly explain to her why she would never see her grandson again.
She didn't cry, but her eyes were heavy with grief.
"Did he suffer?" she asked.
Jethro felt the question hit him like a train. He had held Tim, felt his agent's body wrack with tremors, had looked at the wound and known that there wasn't any hope. A terrified and pained gaze had barely held his and Tim had used his last words to apologize.
"Not for long."
She cast her eyes away and leaned forward, elbows on her knees and her slender fingers clasped together. Those were McGee's fingers, both sets probably used with the same grace thought definitely not for the same things.
"He was such a good boy," she said quietly, staring off.
"Used to help me with everything. Shoulda seen him with his sister too, when his parents had their problems, he was the one picking things up for that girl. He had a big heart."
Jethro felt like there was nothing he could say, not to make what had happened any better, and he doubted Mrs. Langston would care for trite condolences, no matter how sincere.
She sat up, looking for something. She grabbed her purse and rummaged in it for a few moments. She came up with a wallet and then a photo. She held it out for Jethro.
"I want you to see that. You look like a good man, and I want you to know that Timothy held you in high respect. He was always afraid of just being one thing, so I want you to know him how I did."
Jethro took the photo and held it up. It was of a young boy, five or six, obviously McGee. He was dressed in a polo shirt, hair combed back and a shy, tentative smile on his face, one which had lasted until adulthood.
"He deserves that," she said.
Jethro stared at the picture for a good minute before he handed it back. Penelope Langston stood, gathered her things and began to escort herself from the building. Jethro followed, staying right behind her.
She entered the elevator and he met her gaze.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She tilted her head.
"I'm sorry too."
There was a ding and the doors slid shut.
