Symbiosis
11
Playing spin the bottle with karma earns few kisses.
If there exists ten levels of frigid, the car has sunk into the uncharted twelfth dimension. Not only can exhalations be seen, but the breath leaving McGee's mouth crystallizes and fairly drops into his lap. Which is so numb as to ensure a drastic reduction in his procreative abilities. Untested though they are. The low-mileage sedan has an impressively functional heating system, one that had to be abandoned in favor of silence as if the motor is more likely to give them away than their frozen corpses.
Not that he's complaining.
While he had stowed himself warmly aware in the lab for the last two days, a surveillance operation had been underway. Stake outs are only interesting when conducted in a posh hotel with unlimited Pay-Per-View. DiNozzo and Gibbs took the first night and the expectant parents endured twenty degree temperatures last night. Tim shuttered to think what methods were employed by the partners to keep themselves from becoming ice cubes.
Tonight, McGee had been pressed into service, a reminder that his long ago ambition to seek elevation to field work had been vanity unrewarded. This is Tony's third midnight séance with the stucco façade of a standard office building and when Tim convinces his eyes to open and venture sideways, he finds the impact that too little coffee and too much frostbite has wrought upon the senior agent.
Of course, the silence is nice.
At least for the first three hours. It's ten degrees outside and minus eight hundred inside the vehicle according to McGee's internal thermometer. Talking, an invitation for the chill to play house with his throat, might help maintain some sort of wakefulness since the concrete and steel is in no way engaging.
"So," he begins as icicles form on his upper molars. "A baby, huh?"
Last week's overheard revelation, the sole method by which Tim obtains information of late, left him with a bruise on the back of his head and three chapters worth of sweet dialogue in his notebook. But Agent Tommy's actual reaction remains a bit of a mystery. It's a non-topic at work, mostly because Gibbs doesn't know yet. Or does, if his previous psychic tendencies are any indicator.
"Yeah." The syllable is forced past a bucket of gravel in Tony's throat, the sound reminiscent of a four pack a day smoker.
"Know what it is yet?"
Blowing futilely into his cupped hands, Tony glances up at the building's roof, a place he's been keeping a persistent eye on for the last hour. As if he expects something there. McGee's thinking gargoyles.
"No, but I don't appreciate you calling my kid 'it,' McBrrr."
There's a freight train in the car and it originates from DiNozzo's lungs. Turning notes the pallor of a three night stint in the surveillance tundra and wonders if calling Gibbs for a reprieve would get him head slapped. Any port in a storm, his father would say and McGee is willing to save an ill man if it leads to his own warm bed. Five minutes later the coughing starts, which is accompanied by a glare that declares that if McGee mentions the soggy, rumbling sound to a soul, he'll only experience warmth again when he's standing next to the furnace in hell.
And so, true to form, McGee latches onto the ramble train. "Must be exciting, knowing a DiNozzo-David experiment is cooking in the oven. Well, I mean… buns actually bake in the oven, not cook. And I'm certainly not implying that Ziva's only good as a baking apparatus. I don't think of her that way. Or, well, any way…" Like a rusted door, his mouth is stuck in the open position. "I just mean, you know, I'd be excited. And maybe scared. A bit. So it's okay if you're a little…"
"Petrified," Tony supplies, casting yet another glance at the rooftop and shaking his head, either at the lack of perps or McGee's prying. He's been operating with confidence all week and McGee is struck once more at the man's acting chops.
"You'll be a great dad," McGee assures, believing it despite the contrary evidence. He's seen DiNozzo with kids and there's a significant deficiency in his ability to relate to tater tots.
"I was raised by housekeepers and headmasters. What the hell do I know about being a father?"
The observation is both rhetorical and too personal for McGee to formulate an appropriate response. But, because he likes to think that time invested in forced company makes a friendship stronger, he tries.
"You'll be awesome. After all, you take good are of Ziva."
The coughing fit that disbelief produces shakes the car. When he catches his frozen breath, Tony shivers from the cold and some intangible thing McGee suspects is memory.
"Then explain Africa."
Okay, that one's easy. "Explain how you forfeited your career and went after a woman presumed dead on nothing more than faith and, dare I say, love? No problem." If they were girls, McGee might have taken Tony's hand. "We've all seen that when someone is yours, you'll make mountains kneel to do right by them. And the kid's yours. So mountains had better get used to genuflecting."
The defense pacifies the man, evidenced by his timid nod. Which is followed by a powerful sneeze.
"Time to abandon our post?"
"S'just a cold. I'm fine."
"No," McGee says. "You're sick and Ziva's protective streak, enhanced by pregnancy hormones, will see me maimed by ice cream coated pickles."
After a reflective minute, doubtlessly envisioning McGee's predicted death, Tony sighs, sending a cloud of frost toward the windshield.
"A girl, I think."
Fetus gender thus assigned, Tony looks once more to the roof. Leaning forward to scrutinize, his hand moves to the door handle and the hackles on McGee's neck tingle. Scanning the shingle line, no amount of squinting produces anything out of the ordinary.
"Gun barrel," Tony informs. "East wall."
Gibbs is radioed, back-up is ordered and Tony's fingers curl around the handle, waiting for movement. The barrel of the rifle sweeps the side parking lot, missing the sedan in the alley. Lacking the fortune of being behind the target, their position to the right makes exiting the vehicle tricky and McGee doesn't entirely trust DiNozzo's faltering control of his cold. A sniffle or sneeze will put a swift end to the long stakeout and Ziva doesn't need pregnancy hormone to fuel the rage. At least it won't be his fault. Staring hard to find the outline of the sniper and ponder the intended victim, McGee is momentarily oblivious to the fact that he's alone.
Tony turned on the stealth.
Following with enough inward curses to boil water, Tim slides into the role of back up, taking position behind the advancing DiNozzo. The climb to the roof via the rusted fire escape is quick and quiet. In the distance, the gentle roll of black vehicles can be detected, either the mark or the cavalry. The duo inch forward, their breath barely visible despite the numbing temperature. Neither is willing to breathe hard enough to be noticed prematurely.
The man in leather isn't expecting them. The rifle discharges when a cold muzzle is placed behind his ear, the jumpy trigger finger signaling his amateur status. The approaching posse turns out to be rival gang members, neatly falling into the tightening circle of NCIS agents. McGee has to force his fingers to bend around the man's arm in order to steer the would-be sniper into the waiting arms of grumpy feds, men and women who'd spent the night in warm homes and therefore have no reason to grouse. Tony gratefully sinks into the backseat of Gibbs' car, Ziva climbing in after him. Tim nearly twists his ankle in the rush to claim the front passenger seat. It's warm here. The pair huddle in the back, Ziva's hands rubbing Tony's briskly and whatever she just whispered must have been one hell of a promise because he's smiling for the first time. Undoubtedly a vow to warm him later, hopefully in private.
In the wee hours of morning, the dark apartment's thermostat is jacked up before he bothers with the lights. Tim's typewriter sits neglected, the ideas pounding in his brain unable to be translated into typed words. His fingers are on strike. Unfortunately, his imagination is not.
In dreams, a dark haired toddler with green eyes calls him McUncle.