Tim sighs in content and relaxes his head against his soft pillow.

His pillow also sighs and combs her fingers through his hair.

He really shouldn't be comfortable on the floor. The surface is hard and he is really not sure when was the last time the janitor came through with his broom to this corner of the lab.

Gibbs would have a fit if he should find the two of them here with Tim's head lying perpendicular on Abby's stomach and Abby using Bert as a pillow for her own head. He tries to image what Gibbs would do and laughs.

"Were you imagining Gibbs giving this dazed, confounding look at us right now and then pouring Caf-Pow on your head?" Abby asks and his head bounces a little as she talks. "Because I could just totally picture him doing that."

He laughs again. "Yeah, me too."

"He would have just done a head slap like he usually does, but it's hard to reach you down here on the floor."

He lifts his head to look at Abby.

She smirks back.

"Abby, he hasn't done anything. He's not even here."

"That's because I don't have anything for him yet. It's how Gibbs works. He will be sniffing around here as soon as my baby gives me anything on Ali Mahmoud."

He almost makes a comment about Gibbs being characterized as a dog but decides it's not in his best favor; not when Gibbs has an insane ability at showing up at the wrong (or right) time.

He settles back down and Abby resumes petting him like her favorite pet.

There are times when he's amazed at his relationship with Abby. Their romance fizzled and faded like firework sparklers, but their friendship burned on long after. Somewhere along the way, between then and now, Abby became the best friend he never knew was possible.

He's sure that Aunt Ruth would have loved Abby and it aches him knowing that the two could never meet. Strangely, when that ache comes, he suddenly imagines Aunt Ruth looking down at him in the afterlife and giggling. Maybe, if he was to believe that kind of stuff, she had a hand in their meeting.

He sighs again, but this time it is more morose. "I can't believe I listened to Tony. It's the first rule I learned at NCIS and he still ends up messing with me."

"I know I tried to be supportive of the whole 'going to Baghdad' and 'earning your stripes'-"

"Tried?"

"Ok, maybe not so supportive of the 'bombing' and the 'dying', but I still don't see what the big deal is. It's a lot of sand and it's hot… and my computers work better with you here, McGee."

He reaches up and gently rubs her arm. "It's okay, Abby. I'm here, aren't I?"

"No, it's not okay!" He winces when she tugs on his hair and he can't be certain if that was intentional or not. "You still wanted to go."

There are some disadvantages to being friends with Abby. She has the ability to cut him deeper than any serrated knife ever could and she knows everything about him. She knows he hates a disorganized hard drive worst than he hates minty chocolate. She knows the last time he wrote poetry for a girl was in third grade and he didn't believe Susie Perry appreciated the finger snaps.

And she knows his worst nightmare.

He wasn't lying when he said he had something to prove. Not just to the team, but to himself. He wants to prove that he can handle prophesies. He wants to walk into the sand and not be afraid to fall asleep under grey covers. Maybe he can even find something illuminating.

He thinks all this, but he doesn't say it.

Because there is a voice that whispers back to him: Not yet. Not you.

Fate doesn't work that way.

Instead, it's away from the sand and it's with Abby on hard linoleum floors.

And maybe, just maybe, there is illumination here too.

"It's good not to go, Timmy. I'm glad you didn't."

He could only look up at the grey ceiling and, with a slight, sad smile, carefully took the hand in his hair and held it in his own.

"Me too."

It is meant to be a gesture of comfort.

Really, it is.

Except he is also sure, if he didn't hold her hand, Abby will try to put little braids in his hair when he's not looking.