Decisiveness is a gift. In fact, it is such a useful gift, and so out of reach for some of us, that for the generally cautious and indecisive, it is practically a super power.
Tim McGee had never in his life been an impulsive person. Now, he could pick a restaurant when he was hungry, no problem. And he didn't usually find himself spending way too much time choosing between two shirts when getting ready for work. However, he was, like many of us, cursed with the need to think through and plan out all important parts of his life, which of course all too often leads to overthinking. His analytical and cautious nature demanded he not move forward towards the resolution of a problem until he'd thought out all paths, all possibilities, and all potential ramifications of big choices.
The agony of choice could not be taken lightly. Especially not now.
For four days after his unexpected reunion with Penny, McGee had drifted through the world on autopilot, expending most all of his conscious energy and time on making the biggest decision of his life. To some this would be all too simple, this choice, but it had worsened his already existent distraction and mental turmoil.
His nightmares got worse. And now they were far more specific. He would look down at himself, see his hands covered in blood, and look up to see Sarah, his sister, shying away from him in horror. He would try to put away his wings and reach out to her, but she would simply run from him. He saw his father, saw the Admiral's disdain, evident in every line on the older man's face, and know exactly what caused that disappointment. These nightmares weren't all that helpful.
McGee had been able to put off the decision about whether to tell his family he was alive because there hadn't been a deadline. He'd been foolish enough to believe that if and when he saw his family, it would be on his own terms. But the appearance of Penny reminded him that he could be revealed to them all too suddenly and randomly. That wasn't how he wanted to do it. And as Ziva had argued, the longer he "stayed dead" before letting them know what happened, the more hurt they would be. So even though he knew his grandmother would never give him an ultimatum or a deadline to decide what to do, he also knew that he needed to make a choice
But something kept stopping him. Any time the logical part of his mind concluded that the answer, then, was to tell his family that he was alive now, it never felt right. There was no relief, no finality, even, that often came with making a difficult decision. So it never became a finalized decision. It just kept compounding and causing more pressure to build up in his chest. It too-well matched the weather that week, during which time another wave of stormy weather had rolled in and the air was hot and thick, pressure building towards an inevitable storm that seemed desperate to break, but didn't for several days. Either way, the gray skies and heavy clouds matched McGee's mental state closely.
That night after Penny had left NCIS and Tim had been left alone to his thoughts, Gibbs had found out what happened and sent his junior agent home without debate, knowing that the younger man wouldn't be able to focus on much else. Once home, McGee had texted Victoria, who had rushed over to his place. Once the work day was done, Tony and Ziva had also arrived, and the little group went over Tim and Penny's conversation, and did their best to offer their support. They all asserted that they would of course stand by him no matter what he chose, and that he should do whatever he felt was best, not what was best for anyone else.
That was four days before now, when Tim was standing on the little balcony that was just off the doors in his apartment's kitchen. He had been careful to choose a home where he was on the top floor of his building, and where he could take off from the little balcony without being spotted by anyone in surrounding buildings. That night, with the air still as thick as it had been all week, so the odds were good that no one would be out to see him anyway.
He'd flown north-west from his apartment, flying towards more rural and woodsy areas to avoid being seen. He usually didn't worry about that at all, no matter where he was flying, as he'd learned how to get around without being seen and shot down even in D.C., but his lack of quality sleep and continuing nightmares had made him jumpier than usual.
Honestly, at this point, he almost wanted someone else -anyone else- to make the decision for him. He just wanted to be done with this.
But that wasn't how his problem was going to be fixed, and he knew that.
The misty wind ran through his feathers but it didn't give him the comfort that flying before a rain always did. Instead he was left with a feeling similar to an unresolved sneeze; there was no satisfaction, no comfort. He still felt tense and tightly wound and even when he picked up his speed and shot higher up into the air, wings flapping as hard as they could. Tim reached an incredibly high altitude —high up even for someone with wings— and then he just….stopped.
Wings closed tight against his back, McGee closed his eyes and arched his spine just a tiny bit. This, along with the inevitability of gravity, brought the agent backwards and he allowed himself to fall for a few seconds before opening his eyes, snapping his wings open and righting himself.
Well, at least he finally figured out how to do a backflip. Maybe this exercise would afford him a deep, good night's sleep for the first time in the past few days.
(It didn't.)
…..
The mood was a tad bit lighter at work, but things weren't progressing much faster. For those few days, Tim looked steadily more tired each morning, and each day he insisted he was fine when his team expressed concern for his wellbeing. The case of Chief Petty Officer Moore's death was at a standstill, as the MCRT had come upon no new evidence and almost no leads. The day after Penny's visit, Ziva had gone to Norfolk and interviewed everyone who knew and worked with their victim, and the rest of the week had been spent following up on alibis and tracing even the most remote of leads. Nothing.
Tim was at his desk, typing, while DiNozzo and Ziva watched the flatscreen. Gibbs was listening while going through records and paperwork belonging to Moore to see if anything in the officer's personal belongings would indicate a motive for his murder.
"Did we get confirmation that the office's janitor was at work when Moore was killed?"
There was a pause.
"McGee."
No answer.
Gibbs looked up from the paperwork. Tim had been staring into space and even Ziva's gentle call to get his attention did not rouse him from his thoughts.
Jethro rose and came to stand in front of his junior agent. "McGee."
The stern voice of his boss could probably wake him from a coma. Either way, it certainly got his attention, and Tim snapped out of his reverie and looked up in surprise.
"I'm sorry, Boss."
He typed on his keyboard to pull up the information his teammates needed, but Gibbs kept his eyes trained on his agent.
"McGee."
The younger man looked afraid for a moment, expecting his boss to send him home. But Jethro simply said. "Go take a walk. Get everyone some coffee."
Gibbs then stepped back and exited the bullpen. On the way out he called back, "and get yourself a double-shot of espresso."
When they were left alone, Tim looked over at his friends. "Sorry, guys."
"Do not apologize, McGee. But Gibbs is right."
"You need caffeine. Badly," DiNozzo agreed.
"A good night sleep would be better," Ziva added, "but for now, yes. Coffee. And tea for me, please."
The junior agent sighed, but a small grin came to his face, and he stood and grabbed his keys. "Tony?"
"You know what I like, Probie."
"Right. And Victoria's coming by to help Ducky with the rest of Moore's autopsy, so if she's here before I get back…"
"We know what to do, McGee."
"Right."
With that, Tim headed toward the elevators.
Not long after, Victoria arrived.
"Hello," she greeted, entering the bullpen, almost cautious. She examined the scene in front of her. "All this time, and I finally know what your work looks like."
"Hey," Tony said, standing up automatically, if a bit quickly. Ziva smirked to herself a bit before she also rose to greet their visitor. Gibbs entered the bullpen as well, and nodded, his lips quirking up a bit when he saw Victoria.
"I see Tim isn't here, but I'm supposed to meet your M.E. to go over the details of the autopsy for your victim…"
"I'll take you," DiNozzo offered, flashing his signature smile. She smiled in a show of thanks and followed his lead to the elevators behind the catwalk. Ziva and Gibbs shared a look and then went back to work.
….
Tony and Victoria each stared up at the dark screen in the elevator, watching the numbers tick down as it brought them towards the morgue.
"Would you have ever imagined, a year ago, that we'd be here?" Victoria asked, glancing over at DiNozzo.
"What?"
"You know, like, how a year ago next week, you all were in Italy when Tim was shot. And you thought we killed him. And then you came after us a few months later?"
Understanding her meaning, Tony chuckled. "You mean, the first time we all met, did I think that we'd all be here a year later, my best friend would be a flightling, and I'd be taking one of the flightlings we thought murdered my best friend down to meet a member of our team so that she could help us solve a case? No, never occurred to me."
She laughed softly. "Honestly, even the jump from the time your team met us to just a couple of weeks later is astounding. First meeting, you stab me. A few weeks later, you're helping save my life."
"In my defense," DiNozzo said, though his tone remained playful. "You did dislocate my shoulder."
"Fair enough. Although you did chase me down an alley with a gun in your hand," she retorted, equally playful."
"The next time, I believe I threatened you and you threatened me," he added.
"And look at us, now," she concluded.
"For the record," Tony responded, "I'm glad we were wrong about you."
Although this was meant to be said playfully, it had too much of a ring of sincerity to it to come off as a joke.
"I'm glad we were wrong about you, too," she said, looking over at him, before quickly adding, "all of you."
They both looked back at the doors to the elevator as they slid back to allow them access to the autopsy lab.
"Ah, Anthony. To what do we owe this pleasure-" Ducky began, looking up from his desk against the wall, stopping short once he saw Victoria. "Oh, I almost forgot we had a guest today."
"Ducky, meet Victoria."
"Doctor Mallard, it is so nice to finally meet you in person," she said warmly, holding out her hand to shake. However, the elderly ME took her hand in both of his and instead of a normal handshake, squeezed it to show his own delight in meeting her.
"Call me Ducky, please," the doctor responded with a smile. "The pleasure is all mine. And it is very nice to finally have a face to match with the voice."
When McGee had returned to America and Ducky had asked to learn more about flightling anatomy, Tim had called Victoria to put her on speaker so the three could talk. She mentally noted that the NCIS medical examiner looked exactly as she'd pictured him.
"I sent my assistant, Mr. Palmer, out to get us some lunch, so I'm afraid we won't have very long to discuss Chief Petty Officer Moore before he returns," Ducky said, walking over to the last of the autopsy tables to pull back the sheet covering CPO Moore, so that his torso and head were exposed. "But I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. We have had him for longer than the average victim, and I would like to return his body to his loved ones soon."
"To be honest, I'm not sure how many of your questions I'll be able to answer," Victoria admitted. "I'm not exactly a doctor."
"That is quite alright," the elderly man said, still cheerful. "You will certainly know more about flightlings than I ever have or will, and between my medical knowledge and your experience, we should be able to get the job done."
Tony, meanwhile, had watched on, not really knowing whether he should stay or go. But Ducky answered this silent question for him when he said, "Anthony, if you don't mind sticking around for a bit, in Mr. Palmer's absence I may need an extra pair of hands."
"I don't mind doing that for you, Doct-" Victoria corrected herself, "... Ducky, if Tony needs to get back to work upstairs."
"I do not doubt it, my dear," the Scotsman said. "But I actually would prefer your hands to be free so that you may point out things that I need you to, and jot down notes. I have a list of questions I would very much like us to take a crack at."
Ducky went over to his desk, took a couple of pairs of latex gloves, and handed each of his newly-appointed assistants a pair. He also took a clipboard with his autopsy notes and the queries he had, and a pen, and walked back towards the table.
"Oh! I'm so sorry," the ME stopped himself. "I always check to make sure that visitors are prepared to see a body before I pull back the sheet…It completely slipped my mind."
"Oh, that's alright," Victoria assured him quickly. "It didn't bother me. I've seen enough dead bodies at this point that something this clinical doesn't bother me at all."
Ducky nodded. "I suspect I've heard only an abridged version of what you all experienced last year, but I know enough that I'm inclined to agree with you. Nevertheless, I admire you for it. Now," he said, brightening once more. "Let's begin."
…...
"To be honest, you never struck me as the Chinese takeout type," Tim remarked that evening, as he handed Victoria a carton of orange chicken. The two sat on his sofa, a movie playing quietly in the background.
"I didn't always live the way I do now, you know. I'm more than Apollo Clark's…heiress," she grimaced, breaking apart her chopsticks before brightening again. "You forget that I was a normal college student once. Before I found out I was a flightling." Looking down at the food in front of her, she inhaled and said, "I will admit it has been….a lot of years since I had anything like this."
McGee chuckled and dug in to his mushu pork.
"You haven't been sleeping, have you?" Victoria suddenly asked. "The circles under your eyes are awful. And you've been jumpy."
"I've had a lot on my mind," he deadpanned. "You know. Staying dead. Telling my family I'm a flightling, a murdered sailor who is also a flightling…"
"Ok yes, I can see how that would weigh on a person. But couldn't you take some melatonin or drink some herbal tea before bed?"
"It doesn't work."
"Well, something stronger, then."
"No," Tim shook his head, though his tone was soft. He kept his eyes on his food, moving his chopsticks around the carton absently. "I've had nightmares this week. Pills don't make them better."
Victoria went quiet, but while her friend kept his eyes on his takeout, she reached over and put hers on his coffee table. She then grabbed the remote and turned off the TV, which earned her McGee's eye contact.
"What kind of nightmares?" she asked.
"Victoria-"
"What kind of nightmares?" she repeated.
Tim sighed. "It's nothing, ok? Just stress from this week going crazy while I'm asleep. It will get better once we solve this case and I decide what to do."
His friend studied him for a moment, and he could tell she was entirely unconvinced. However, she did not pursue the matter further.
"If you say so. So, does that mean you've gotten any closer to deciding?"
"Not really…." after a pause, he looked back over at her. "What do you think I should do?"
She took picked her food back up and this time it was her turn to rifle through it with her chopsticks, avoiding eye contact.
"Well, are you still kind of concerned about being discovered by any other family members?"
"Actually, not really. The team never knew my mom, and she lives in California with her husband. My dad hangs up every time anyone calls him and even mentions me….and if Sarah were to come into the office —which she never would, I'm sure of it—but even if she did, I have a plan to make sure things wouldn't happen the way they did with Penny this week."
"Ah," she nodded.
"So what do you think?" he asked again, quietly.
"I…I don't have an opinion on it, Tim. I can't. I've never met your family. I know you love them, but…I also know something has been holding you back, though I don't think even you know what that is…but then again, like Ziva has been saying, you have to think about what will happen down the road. I know this must be agony for you, and I'm not saying you have to make this choice tonight, or even this year. But if you do want to be a part of their lives again, you should probably do it before it's too late. You should probably do it before Sarah has kids and a family of her own. It will hurt them more if you show up later and they realize that you'd been alive for years before telling them."
Victoria paused, gathering her thoughts, then put her hand on his.
"You don't have to tell them at all if you don't want to. And you don't have to justify your feelings here. But if you are going to tell them you're alive.… Even if you do tell them, you wouldn't necessarily be obligated to tell them what you are…unless you show up thirty years from now, when your younger sister is in her fifties and you look forty."
McGee looked at her and saw the sadness in her eyes. Unlike him, she'd had no family other than the man they had in common, who was now dead. Her life had been full of travel and comfort and a familial love she hadn't known until adulthood- until Apollo found her, and then they had been kind enough to save his life and take him in. So he was all she had left. Yeah, she had all the luxuries and comfort she did when Apollo was alive, and she had been warming up to Ziva and Tony, and Tim knew that even Gbbs liked Victoria in spite of himself. But it would be a long while, if ever, that she would be that close to them. And while she did have friends all over the world from her old life, he was all she had that even resembled a family, especially on this continent. He didn't mind the responsibility of such a title, however. Honestly? She was truly an amazing fake-sibling to have.
He reached out for her and put one hand on her shoulder, which made her smile. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and they went back to eating their dinner.
"Oh, I forgot to really tell Penny more about you. I will when she gets back, though. She's going to want to meet you."
"And I'd love to meet her. From what you and your team have told me, she's quite a character. I was glad to meet Dr. Mallard…Ducky… today, too. Now all I have to meet is Abby."
McGee laughed. "She'd love to finally meet you, too. She keeps bothering me about it. In fact, she'll kill me if she finds out you were at the Navy Yard and I didn't bring you to meet her."
"All the more reason. Wouldn't want you killed on my account."
They stayed that way in comfortable quiet, chatting about nothing in particular, enjoying their meal and their movie. When it was over, Victoria paused on the balcony off of McGee's kitchen. She was about to take off and fly home, which was a lovely flat she'd found only twenty minutes away. Before leaving, the young woman stopped and turned to Tim.
"Are you sure you're going to be ok, tonight?"
"Yes. Of course I will be, why not?"
"Because you're meeting your grandmother tomorrow to talk about where your head is at and I think that you don't actually know where your head is at."
"I'll be fine, Victoria. Really."
She studied him once again, and once again he knew that she didn't buy it.
"Fine. But please at least try to get some rest?"
"Scout's honor."
She gave him a quick hug before climbing up onto the railing and Tim stepped back so she could spread her wings wide. In a springboard-style leap, she launched off the railing, and shot upwards, twisting in a barrel roll before disappearing from view.
McGee smirked. "Show off."
The comfort that spending time with his friend provided faded with the passing hours, however. In its place came the same dread and distraction that had been living in his head for days.
He showered, paced around his apartment, drank tea, and laid in bed for over an hour, attempting to clear his mind and will himself to sleep.
When he lifted his head and looked at his clock, Tim saw that even though he'd been lying there for a while, it was barely past 9 PM, and he was no closer to unconsciousness.
He had to get his mind straight. He had to make a decision.
McGee rolled out of bed and put on a comfortable set of street clothes. He walked over to his kitchen, grabbed his keys, then closed the balcony door behind him. Tim took one deep breath and launched himself out into the night just as thunder cracked across the sky.
