Symbiosis
14
Some days, even inanimate objects will fight back on principle.
Among the horde of things that have carried them to this moment, the least consequential seems to be the vehicle. Many times they've ridden into battle wrapped in the relative safety of standard black steeds, all revving engines, shining chrome and climate control. Yes, the government-issue sedan that fools no criminal on God's sphere has brought them swiftly into this dangerous place and promptly died. There's nothing like gunfire to aid one's attempt to jumpstart a car.
When time allows for the placement of blame, McGee will assign the majority to every automobile manufacturer who'd accepted government bailout money only to produce a car that bails in an emergency. The rate at which the tiny metal projectiles cut past his ear increases and conversely, McGee's fingers decrease their usefulness. Tony and Ziva are somewhere inside the building, which had lately been a factory but must have started life as a witch coven. At his side, Gibbs fires off rounds in no special hurry, muttering something about saving ammunition. Saving lives would be welcome too, but apparently the killer college kids haven't made that part of their pledge.
The car doesn't like him.
Or maybe it's rebelling against the lack of atmosphere it had been treated to on the drive here. It might have heard from its brethren, gossiping in the NCIS parking lot, that debates, taunting and head-slapping tend to occupy the many extended miles between the Yard and wherever the bad guys have stashed the bodies –a word which, according to Abby, they shouldn't say anymore. There had been none of that this morning and the professional silence has eaten significant chunks out of McGee's comfort level. From his boyhood until now, he continues to be the car sick type and enduring a distraction-free ride had done nothing for the heavy breakfast still fighting its way back to open air.
The downside of working under the hood during a firefight is the necessary exposure of his… practical assets.
When he tells the story later, Agent McGee will hail the wonder of justice that is Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The narrative will contain a riveting account of the crouched boss, in casual defiance of the bullets sailing past, opting to 'stretch his legs' and proceeding to take out an especially vile perp while kicking the car's grill in such a manner that any engine would translate it as 'move or I'll haul a car crusher to you!' Of course, McGee will glaze over his won endeavors, which had neither started the car nor inconvenienced any gunmen whatsoever. A wise storyteller knows when to keep his own unflattering role vague in the face of a far better tale.
Because, based on the LJG maneuver, the vehicle fires with a fresh determination to remain bullet-ridden but essentially intact. The lessening of popping sounds indicates a thinning of the sinister herd from within the factory and in the span of a lavatory break, Ziva peeks her head out of a broken third story window to give the boss an all-clear gesture. Tony emerges from the rusted cellar door, brushing cobwebs from his sleeve and, pivoting, makes visual confirmation of his partner. She's loitering at the window, seeming to appraise the abundant and darkening clouds, finding them unsatisfactory. The Hubble Telescope could pick up the frown crossing her ageless features and her expression is certainly not hidden from DiNozzo, who wisely drops his gaze and heads for the smoking vehicle.
That a curious glance is all Tony affords the pocked finish signals Armageddon.
Snark is, in the frustrating experience of a recurrent target, a thing to despise when dispensed in large quantities. The standard vat from which mockery is routinely ladled has now been drained and left to dry-rot in an alley marked 'inappropriate.' Even Gibbs, a man purposely oblivious to the concept of tact, has allowed precious little to escape his pressed lips that couldn't be labeled necessary for the function of the team. But teasing, in its varied degrees, has a place in this life, which McGee wouldn't have believed a month ago when his keys were so strongly magnetized that he'd ripped a cuticle trying to pry them from the elevator door.
Sustaining delicacy is trickier than navigating a high school corridor with a 'kick me' sign plastered to one's back. There are a finite number of emotional outlets for people who engage in the enforcement of law and the absence of sarcasm feels like the loss of an inalienable right. And for thinking that thought, McGee realizes that his selfishness has reached a plateau known only to wet toddlers and dry drunks. But no one has put him in his place for a week and he's forgotten where to stand.
Mothers recognize Gibbs' crankiness as a precursor to a diaper change.
They ride alone in the unfortunate Ford, the crime van racing back to the office with samples for Abby while a squad car speeds ahead, transporting the captured punks to the office for interrogating. McGee's not sure if opening his mouth will earn him a spot next to the dea-… non-living fellows in the coroner's truck behind them. Still, silence is one of those things, along with bookshelves, that geeks are universally compelled to fill.
"Tough day, huh?" As opening hits go, this drops a foot from the plate.
When a grown man snorts, it often signifies amusement. But today it suggests that a satanic hog lives inside Gibbs' nasal passages. But the one-sided conversation is an ancient art that McGee mastered during puberty.
"Nothing but paperwork between us and a beer, right? I mean, all that carnage makes this a pretty open and shut case."
After all, it's unlikely that the two corpses, currently being lectured by Ducky, are in a position to appeal their sentence.
"You think, McGee?" Finally, something familiar. The tone says shut up but the resulting quiet says fill me.
Hands squeezing the steering wheel, McGee lets the ramble take over.
"I thought I'd invite Tony and Ziva out tonight. Nothing formal or fancy, of course. You know, unwind and get things back to normal."
Having an intimidating man use hard eyes to gouge holes in the skull makes it difficult to concentrate on the road, hence the pothole, the rumble strip and the corrective swerve. Five painful minutes into the visual excavation, McGee dares to shift his eyes in the direction of his passenger. What he finds there inspires a rededication to focused driving.
"Think a few drinks might fix things, McGee?" Gibbs' voice slips into a comfortable taunt. "That's giving alcohol miraculous powers. Maybe you could spill a keg in Iraq and end the war."
Conventional wisdom dictates that the best way to reply to sarcasm is to not reply. But McGee's mouth prefers to operate with a foot wedged inside.
"I'm just saying…"
"When people say 'I'm just saying,' what they usually mean is 'I know you don't agree but that won't stop me from ramming my theory down your throat.' I hear what you're saying but I'm just saying that you'll leave them alone."
That the plan of an after-work drink could cause a dressing down has McGee steaming in silence for the rest of the drive. He spends four miles swallowing hard past the indignant lump in his throat and two miles considering his counter-argument for not, in fact, leaving them alone. The final mile has him asking rhetorical questions under his breath. What's wrong with commiseration? What about support? And how much of Gibbs' irritation is based on the team's knowledge of recent events before he did? But something tells Tim that Gibbs had never been in the dark.
He brakes a little too fast when securing his parking spot, jolting the occupants forward uncomfortably. An apology comes rushing to his lips but McGee bites down hard. There'll be no more signs of weakness today, thank you.
The police cruiser and the evidence van arrived well before them and now both sit at the back entrance as the last of the boxes are removed. The faint patter of new rain pelting the roof keeps time with their footsteps as McGee and Gibbs approach the abandoned vehicles. Just in time.
It might be said that the Israeli dynamo has flipped, but McGee would make a pack with the devil before mentioning it to the little woman stomping through the halls as though each thunderous step slays some personal dragon. Apparently, the perp who'd survived the Dodge City reenactment had spoken unfavorably of his new babysitters because what is waking across his face will be a stunning shiner by morning. Tony hands the slumped man over to the waiting staff, looks in her loudly retreating direction and rather than follow, he disappears into the nearest stairwell. Moments later, a reluctant Ducky starts a perilous path after the miniature storm while Gibbs grips the handle to the stairway door. Having no predetermined role in this drama, McGee opts to trail after the silver-haired man.
To the roof they climb, McGee stepping lightly. He knows that Gibbs recognizes he's obtained a living shadow, but there's no reason to call additional attention to his presence. If anything, Gibbs might be glad for the back up. The outside door is thrown open against a strengthening wind and Gibbs strides to the retaining wall where, should he lean any further, Tony might be shortly departing. The rain has stopped already. Elbows rest on the oversized bricks and the scene below, a busy enclave in the throes of a five pm exodus, is considered as intently as a boy staring at a trapped firefly. As though something might happen if he waits long enough.
Gibbs will see that it does.
"Grumpy as all-fired hell, isn't she?" The permanently abrupt man observes.
"Bad few weeks."
It's all the explanation Tony feels compelled to voice but Gibbs doesn't handle interrogations for nothing. Joining his senior at the railing, leaving McGee to guard the only safe escape route, the older man gazes down at the slicked view, likely logging the position and destination of every vehicle and pedestrian. It's a long way down but any author would mention how inviting it must look to the brokenhearted.
"Can't blame her for the temper. I'd actually be glad to see some out of you."
The typically energetic man seems to have worried himself into a boulder that's incapable of temper. Or apparently speech, which Gibbs is failing to drag from a stone tongue.
"You've always been able to talk to me, Tony. And I'm standing right here."
They've all seen the emotions chipping away at the warm center of Tony's eyes, the near lapses of poise when it appears that Tony's a slim blink away from breaking down. But this long and complicated case has seen him locking it all away like a decision reached and forged into a vow. It's only made the quiet gulf between him and Ziva widen. She's a barreling train and Tony's a lone figure daring it to mow him down, as if too tired to yell at the oncoming disaster and perhaps hoping it will take him out.
Gibbs treads the tense water as long as his figurative legs can withstand but McGee sees the head shake and knows the unloading is coming.
"I'm betting you haven't touched her since…" the sentence trails as Gibbs lifts his eyes to the one to whom he's assigning gentle blame for the ninja's hair-trigger mood. "What're you afraid of, Tony?"
There's a stabilizing breath, a flex of the jaw but not a word is issued.
"You think," Gibbs continues, "it'll happen again? That's no way to li-"
"Why not? You do it." The bitter tone could erode paint.
Taking the accusation in stride, Gibbs nods like they're agreeing on weather patterns.
"Yup. Lost two people at once and damned if it doesn't hurt every minute." Difference is you still have Ziva. But right now son, she doesn't have you."
Despite Tony's attempt to shut it down, the impact of his replacement father's comment rises from him like steam, altering his stance, dropping his shoulders and unhinging the locked jaw. Gibbs raises a hand, perhaps intending to pat the grieving man's shoulder. But he thinks better of it and instead the hovering hand scratches at a chin two days past the call of the razor.
"Don't make her go through this alone. And don't do this to yourself." Turning to exit, Gibbs pauses before his elongated shadow reaches McGee. "A few weeks ago you told me that you didn't feel deserving of this many blessings. You were wrong. But even the most worthy can't stop the course of nature. If you ever make your own list of rules, don't forget to add that one."
In the manner of an ice age, Tony's nod is slow in arriving. His eyes remain on the street below, for which McGee is relieved. He doesn't know how to label what he's likely to find there.
Two hours and no beers later, a cricket-infested night wraps around the emotionally safe confines of McGee's apartment. Having wandered aimlessly for several minutes, his hand lays itself on the sole item he'd received from his late grandmother, a woman who preferred the dispensing of wisdom over gifts. He doubts he even knows how to use it; the gift or the wisdom. Thus the Holy Bible sits unopened, unread and unhelpful.
But this doesn't stop Tim from sending an informal petition skyward.