oOoOoOo

Highway 250

McGee watched the landscape slide by as West Virginia melted into Virginia. He tipped his head back and tried to stay awake as the sun did her best to lull him to sleep. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind he preferred because it wasn't pain or medication induced. It was from being up late and working early.

And there was maybe a bit of uncomfortable fatigue from the adrenaline rush and feelings of panic that accompanied it when the plan went to hell there at the end…. Okay and maybe a touch of weariness caused by throwing up after it was done.

But all in all, it was still better than laying in a hospital bed with tubes jammed into him in most uncomfortable spots.

He had been nervous taking on this operation. He had regretted his suggestion that he might be able to pose as Tom Miller the very second the word tumbled over his lips. He knew he wasn't ready to be in the field again. If Gibbs had been in the loop (and within 100 miles) he would have vetoed the suggestion and sent him to stand in the elevator as punishment for a long while before getting lectured. At a few points, McGee had wished that was precisely what had happened.

But it all turned out for the best, relatively speaking. Since conversing with Gibbs, McGee had been in touch with Fornell and briefed him on the exchange plan to turn over the evidence. Fornell initially wanted to meet up with McGee and Miranda to have the evidence handed to him directly, but a reminder that McGee worked for Gibbs and not the taskforce was all the coaxing the FBI agent needed. McGee suspected Fornell was hightailing it back to DC to be at the NCIS building when McGee walked through the front door.

Walking through that door was something he had yearned to do for months. Now that moment was nearly upon him, and he felt… nervous.

"Something wrong?" Miranda asked as she peered over her large, round sunglasses from the driver's seat. "You seem tense."

"No, just anxious to turn this over," McGee partially fibbed as he tapped the laptop resting on his knees.

He did feel that way, but he knew his real hesitation was what she likely noticed. Rather than give her more to scrutinize, he rifled through the glove compartment and pulled out a discarded pair of sunglasses, a second set that was available if the ones he was wearing earlier had malfunctioned. With the transmitter in the trunk no longer working, they were essentially just shades made of plastic and wire. Still, they kept the blistering morning sun from burning out his corneas as they drove into the rising rays. They also hid his eyes from view.

They were his weakness in any covert endeavor, he knew. It was Abby who first clued him into that. They played poker a few times while waiting for her systems to spit out answers. McGee was used to playing with fellow programmers—a type of card shark that was more about running algorithms in your head for hand probabilities. Abby, a card counter no doubt, also read people. McGee's eyes, she claimed, gave away everything. They were his weakness for they truly were the clichéd windows to his soul, which was why he insisted the camera be placed in sunglasses and not in a shirt pin or imbedded in the bill of a baseball hat. In order to be Tom Miller, he needed the glasses to hide Timothy McGee.

Now, in the car with Miranda, he felt that need again.

"So, you were telling me you haven't seen any of your compatriots in many weeks," Miranda prodded. "You must be excited to get back to them."

"They don't know I'm coming in as far as I know," McGee shrugged. "Only Gibbs and Director Vance know I'm here."

She snorted her disbelief.

"You've been gone for two months, out of commission for nearly three, yet you didn't tell anyone you were coming home?" she questioned. "Is this a clinical depression thing, or do you simply have no friends?"

She asked the question with a definite blunt rudeness, but McGee took no offense. He sensed that someone like her had few (and perhaps at times zero) friends. Miranda did not seem to be someone who would judge others for the same. However, her options were not the only answers nor were they the truth of the story.

"I just wasn't sure I was coming back so soon since all this was spur of the moment," McGee explained. "Everyone has been busy picking up the slack left by me not being there so I haven't heard from anyone much. That's all."

"Oh," she sighed pityingly. "That's all? Ouch. Sounds like there is some definite water under that bridge. They ignored you. That must hurt. They do have busy jobs, though, and Gibbs no doubt is a bit of a slave driver. You seem to know that, so your sadness must be for something more."

"I'm not sad," he shook his head to no avail.

"Did you break up with someone at the office before all this happened?" Miranda asked. "It wasn't that Agent DiNozzo was it?"

McGee jumped in his seat and twisted roughly to face her with his indignation.

"What?" he yelped as he shook his head vigorously. "Why would you…? Tony and I are not… I am not… No. Nothing like that."

"So it is someone," she nodded and grinned knowingly. "Don't worry. I didn't honestly think you were having a dangerous liaison with Agent DiNozzo; although, he comes on a bit strong like he is hiding something rather naughty, and you are obviously a rather prim gentleman."

McGee blinked and scoffed.

"P-prim?" he stammered. "You… you think I'm prim?"

"Well, you are," Miranda said confidently. "You don't give me a homosexual vibe. You do, however, seem like the type who dates Kindergarten teachers and librarians—those stable and wholesome creatures who will someday run the PTA and make your daughter dresses to match her doll's clothing."

He shook his head and grit his teeth. He had never dated anyone who taught school or ran a library. He had no idea what she was talking about regarding doll clothing, but he was certain this was some form of character assassination.

"You obviously don't know as much about me as you think," he said as he turned his head away to watch the side of the road again.

"So it wasn't a recent break up, but it is a lingering broken heart," she surmised and grinned in victory as McGee turned his head swiftly to stare at her in shock. "I'm very good at this, Agent McGee. I was, in layman's terms, a con artist. The best of us read people as clearly as the text in any book. Face it, you may as well lay your heart bare to me now, or I will pick it clean in my own way by the time we get back to Washington DC. Trust me, letting you confess to me at your own pace will make you feel less violated by the time we arrive."

McGee gnashed his teeth and said nothing for a few minutes. He wished he had not pushed back on Fornell's offer to meet with them. Then he could have hitched a ride home with the FBI. However, as the silence in the car lingered, her grin deepened. He could only imagine what sorts of questions and accusations she was going to assail him with next if he did not start talking of his own volition.

So, he relented slowly, explaining his hesitation for returning to the office. There were many reasons. The people there were busy, and he was kind of dead weight in the usefulness category at the moment. They had seen him at his most vulnerable, and he wasn't sure what they thought of him any longer—if they thought he was still up to the task of being on their team; he certainly didn't want their pity. There was a feeling of shame for not being able to help more in the investigation that landed him in the hospital. He also felt a bit rejected as no one had really tried to reach out and talk to him once he left Baltimore.

Toward the end, he briefly but grudgingly admitted there was the issue about Abby not really making any effort at all to see him when he was still in the DC area. That admission gave away more than he intended and sent Miranda on a series of questions that McGee answered as none of them were secrets. Everyone who knew him and Abby was aware of their history.

"So this woman, who you seem to still care about a great deal, is among the strongest sources of your reluctance to return to the life you knew," Miranda summarized with a thoughtful expression. "I can understand that. Relationships stemming from the heart rather than mere geography and circumstance can be very difficult and delicate sometimes."

"Some are more like glass," McGee said.

"Transparent and fragile?" Miranda remarked dryly.

"Yeah," McGee agreed. "When they break, it's best to throw them away rather than risk cutting yourself trying to put them back together. I didn't realize that until recently. I'm better reading computer code than I am reading people, but I got it figured out now."

The reformed thief smiled flatly as she looked upon him with a wisdom only gained through great pains and regret. She shook her head sadly.

"For too much of my life, I was more in love with money—having lots of it specifically—than with any person," she said. "I always felt I could love someone if the time was right, but I nearly missed my chance at that happiness because I was looking for perfection. I was a fool—a romantic fool, and I know one when I see one. You, Agent McGee, are worse off than I ever was. My problem was that I read a quote by Oscar Wilde that gave me my philosophy for not settling down for the longest time. He wrote: Never love anyone who treats you like you are ordinary. I thought for many years that Charles, my ex-husband, never lived up to that. I wanted something perfect, something worthy of novel, from our relationship, but people are not perfect. They are not characters in a book who say and do the right thing at the precisely right moment. They are odd and obstinate; they are also flawed—oh so very flawed. I ruined my relationship with Charles because of my foolish expectation for perfection, but then I met someone who was everything I ever dreamed of for my heart: my granddaughter. I had to wait two generations to find the person who I finally believed loved me enough and who I loved enough to leave all of my old ways behind. I will say this for you: You are much luckier than I ever was. From what you have told me, you've already met someone who you do not think is ordinary and who you love in the way you wish you were loved back."

McGee shrugged listlessly.

"Well, you're right; Abby's not ordinary," he agreed. "She's extraordinary in nearly every way I can think of. She is brilliant and caring; she's amazing and incredible; however, she doesn't feel the same way about me. I don't excite her or interest her in that way. I'm just too… me."

He made the statement without a hint of sourness or bitterness. He stated it in a factual manner, no differently than he would report on findings at a crime scene. Still, Miranda heard the pain and the resignation in his voice.

"I'm not in a position to give you informed advice as I do not know her, but I don't think a small tiff months ago over a few ill-timed questions shouldn't concern you, much less radio silence while you were recovering," Miranda said.

"It's not just that," McGee shook his head.

"You described for me what amounts to a tango around each other that you two have done for years, yet your friendship remains intact," Miranda pushed forward. "Well, I think that points you to the actual truth of the matter. A fight over you innocently asking about her absent boyfriend shouldn't sound a death knell for any future with her; what should concern you would be if she stopped fighting with you. That would mean she no longer felt you were worth of the effort. Look, it is obvious to me that you love his woman."

McGee scoffed as he stared at the long stretch of pavement as they merged onto I-81 northbound.

"How I feel about her has never been the problem—at least for me," he replied. "How I feel about her is a problem for her. She's said that she thinks of me like a brother."

"And you said?"

"I was dating someone then," he offered. "I said I thought of Abby like a sister."

"So you lied," Miranda nodded.

"I didn't lie," McGee said. "I was with Delilah. I wasn't think of Abby in anyway other than as a friend so I agreed that I felt the same way when she said she thought of me like a sibling."

"Then there is hope," Miranda grinned.

"Hope?" McGee scowled. "I don't know what kind of family you were raised in, but when someone thinks of you as a brother it doesn't mean…."

"No woman who says that means it," Miranda corrected him with a knowing chuckle. "If they don't care, they say I think of you as just a friend. They never say as a brother. Was she sexually abused as a child?"

"What?" McGee gaped. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Have you had sex with her?" she asked quickly. The flush on his cheeks was all the answer she needed. "Thought so. Well, unless she is some deviant who was molested as a child, no one can say they think of a former sexual partner as someone they think of as a sibling. It is simply not possible. She anointed you as a brother, I suspect, because she harbors unresolved feelings for you and throwing out a familial term was an easy way to not confront the issue. So, whatever got in the way between you was a problem, but you don't know if it still is one. You can only speak with certainty about the past. You cannot know her mind today. What is that old saying? You never know until you ask."

McGee shook his head and tried to think of some way to change the discussion. Pounding his head on the dashboard and jumping from the moving car seemed like his two most viable options but neither was appetizing.

"Why are you telling me any of this?" he groaned.

"You entertain me," she smiled. "Look, all I am saying is that as a professional investigator, you should know the danger in jumping to conclusions without seeking all the facts. I've lived a bit more in my life than you, so learn from my experience. Normally, I wouldn't betray the sisterhood of my fellow women across the world; however, you strike me as one of those rare natural gentlemen—frankly, you're someone I would have previously preyed upon and manipulated for my own needs and pleasure. But I am reformed now and feel the need to make amends for some of the wrongs I perpetrated. Here goes. This is a little secret we women do not like men to know: The ugly truth is that sometimes, when a woman runs away but never lets herself get too far, it's because deep down she wants to be chased and caught."

McGee scoffed and looked at her with bewildered and disbelieving eyes.

"I don't believe that," he shook his head. "The part where you admit to being devious and manipulative didn't help, in case you were curious."

"I wasn't," Miranda said confidently. "I was telling you the truth. Knowing that, I also feel confident in suggesting that perhaps now is not the time to give up on this woman."

McGee huffed his displeasure with the topic and decide instead to stare at the horizon with a dejected expression.

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same result," he replied. "I've had a lot of time recently to think about my life and my future. What I figured out is that there's a difference between giving up and realizing you've had enough. I'm not a quitter, but I do know how it feels when I'm through with something."

oOoOoOo

Navy Yard—Main Gate

The sun was nearing peak for the afternoon as Miranda pulled her car alongside the curb some 20 feet before the guard post at the front of the base. The last 30 minutes of the drive had been quiet. To pass some of the time after she basically dissected McGee's love life in a manner that reminded him greatly of his grandmother, he had turned to the pirated laptop for something to do. What he found was not encouraging. By the time they arrived at the base, he is spirits were sinking lower still.

He climbed out of the car, not bothering to tell her the vehicle needed to be returned to DHS as it belonged (in some capacity) to them. He hadn't signed for it so he really didn't care where it ended up. That thought surprised him and convinced him that he was probably even more tired than he yet realized. He walked toward the guard post as Miranda slid back into traffic. As McGee approached his destination, he saw Gibbs waiting with the armed Marine sentries.

"Boss," McGee greeted him.

Gibbs stepped off the base and held up his hand to halt his progress.

"Hand it over," Gibbs said simply.

"I thought I was going to…," McGee said, doing as he was instructed all the same.

"Not today," Gibbs replied then signaled to someone behind him. "Go home."

"I don't have a car or a wallet," McGee said. "How am I going to…?"

His voice trailed off as a car slid to a halt beside the curb. McGee spied his sister sitting behind the wheel waving at him.

"Got you ride," Gibbs nodded at Sarah's vehicle.

"Are you trying to kill me?" McGee muttered then blinked as he looked back at his boss. "You called Sarah? Boss, she doesn't know about today, does she?"

"Yeah, McGee, because I figured since you put the video of a secret operation online that it was okay for me to read a civilian without security clearance into a classified program," Gibbs replied then lightly head slapped his agent. "I told her you needed a ride home and that she wasn't to ask any questions."

"And you believed her when she agreed?" McGee asked doubtfully.

"No, but I'm going to believe you when you tell me that you'll make sure she doesn't get any answers to her questions from you," Gibbs said then pointed to the car. "Home. Now. Ducky is calling you in an hour. You answer the phone. If you don't, he's sending an ambulance, and you're spending the night in the hospital under observation. Are we clear?"

McGee nodded as he felt his will to argue bleed away.

"I'll do as you say, but I'm fine," he offered half-heartedly. "As for the laptop, some serious encryption piggybacked on my leeching efforts. It's a unique code. It might take a while to unravel it without damaging the other files I picked up. I'm hoping I just need to create a…"

Gibbs sighed forcefully as he gripped McGee's elbow roughly and guided him to the car.

"In," he ordered. "Think about the computer tomorrow. You don't get here before 9. You leave by 1. Those orders come from the Director's Office. You break them and you're facing suspension."

McGee's shoulders drooped further as he pulled open the passenger side door upon hearing the restriction. Another, more relevant thought came to him.

"Boss?" he inquired. "My credentials?"

Gibbs reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the plastic cards with the agent's photo and entry authorization. McGee blinked looked to his supervisor for more.

"What about my badge?" he asked.

"You're not a field agent right now," Gibbs told him. "Creds get you on the base and into the buildings. The badge will be returned when you need it for field work."

"Is that cryptic way of saying I might not get it back?" he wondered as every insecurity he ever held about his place at the agency flooded back in a torrent. "If you're mad about what happened today, I understand. It wasn't the brightest idea."

"Damn right it wasn't," Gibbs in a low voice. "But it wasn't your call. Now, I'm not telling you this again. Get in the car and go home. You look like hell, McGee. You want to convince me you're ready to go back into the field, then show me you've got good judgement and can follow orders."

McGee nodded and turned back to the car. As he did, he paused one final time and looked at Gibbs. The man was already prepared to re-enter the security perimeter. With a wince at the wrath he might incur (but knowing it was necessary), McGee called to him one last time.

"Boss?" he said carefully. Gibbs turned with a menacing glare. "I don't have my apartment keys. It's with my wallet and… My landlord is on vacation so there's no one around to…"

Gibbs strode back to him at clipped pace still clutching the laptop in his hand. He offered McGee a suffering look as he took a settling breath.

"Your sister doesn't have a set?" he asked sternly.

"No," McGee scoffed and his head. "I gave her a set years ago, and she lost them so I had to get the locks changed. I don't make the same mistake twice."

Gibbs nodded, accepting that logic. His agent might be a bit protective where his sister was concerned, but at least he wasn't blind to her flaws. With the lock predicament in mind, Gibbs delved into his pocket while wondering briefly if this lesson was worthy of spawning a new rule. He pulled out his set of lock picks and handed them to his agent.

"Will these help?" Gibbs asked.

McGee grinned and nodded thankfully as he palmed the tools. Gibbs dropped his scowl and pat the back of McGee's head in reassurance.

"Get some rest, Tim," he said as he walked away.

Sarah watched the exchange without comment. She waited until her brother had on his seatbelt before she cautiously pulled into traffic. This was her new car after all.

"Will you show me how to pick a lock?" she asked with a hopeful grin.

"No," he said flatly.

"Why is it okay for you to know but not me?" she asked.

"I have legal reasons and permission when I do it," he replied. "You probably wouldn't. Whose car is this?"

"I stole it—I boost cars so your worries about me picking locks should seem minor now," she replied and received the expected heavy sigh and unamused glare she knew so well. She smiled widely at it. "You're so predictable. It's mine, Tim. I bought it on Friday."

He raised an eyebrow at that announcement as his mouth pulled taut into a thin line.

"How can you afford it?" McGee questioned. "You make nearly nothing with your part-time university job. You have student loans and rent to pay plus…"

"Tim," Sarah said loudly, cutting off the lecture as her anger flared. She then chanced a quick glance at him and felt a prickle of grateful tears behind her eyes. "It's good to see you've returned to your version of normal, although, you look a more little beat than you did when you got off the plane the other day."

"I just had a busy morning," he said simply. "No more questions about it. Gibbs orders."

He tipped his head back and tried to relax. Her car made that difficult. It was a Mini Cooper and while he had no opinions about the car itself, it did remind him of Ziva's old vehicle and the way she used to drive it: careening around corners on two wheels, using traffic lights as dares and sidewalks as parking spaces. Despite the anxiety riding with the former Mossad operative gave him, the memories made him grin unconsciously.

"Something funny?" Sarah asked.

"Just remembered I need to call Ziva sometime soon," he yawned.

"If you're tired, just fall asleep," she suggested. "With this traffic, it'll take at least 40 minutes to get to your apartment. I'll wake you when we get there. And, after that, I need to talk to you."

The shaky sound in her voice did not go unnoticed by him. It usually meant there was a confession waiting in the wings, or she was in need of something important from him. Given his life recently and her near constant contact with him since he left for Dallas, he doubted she was seeking absolution. Therefore, he suspected her serious and scared tone was the same discussion he held with his mother the night before he got on the plane back to DC.

"Sarah, if this is about my job, I'm not debating it anymore," he said as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "I know you've never been sold on my career or understood why I want to do this. I get that recent events confirmed for you all the things that you and Mom feared. I'm telling you precisely what I told her. I understand and appreciate for your concern for me. I know that the last few months have not been easy, but being an NCIS agent is what I want to do. What happened to me a few months ago was not normal and is highly unlikely to ever happen again. I love you, but you need to respect my choices because it is my life and what I do is a good thing. Okay?"

She huffed her acknowledgement of his little speech even though she did not agree with it. However, this time, Mr. Know It All was wrong.

"That's nice," she said simply. "Except I know a lost cause when I see one, Tim. I wasn't going to tell you that you should value your life more and get a better job—even though that's exactly what you should do. Do you see how obnoxious and annoying that is? It's what you do to me all the time—like a few minutes ago when you got all judgmental about my new car."

"Sorry," he sighed. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Sarah chewed her lip for a moment then cleared her throat as she tried to find her courage.

"I was saying I need to talk to you seriously about… a few things and I need to ask your forgiveness," she said warily.

That caught him off guard and roused him from his dosing posture. He looked at her with weary yet worried eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked instantly. "What happened?"

Sarah smiled sadly at his instantaneous reaction. She had expected that as well. She offered him a peaceful expression but didn't bother to hide the guilt in her eyes.

"I've been kind of a bitch to a few people," she admitted.

He scoffed without surprise and rolled his eyes, earning himself a swift backhanded to his arm from her.

"Don't roll your eyes like I'm mean all the time," she scolded. "I act that way selectively to those who deserve it… usually."

"However?" he prodded expectantly.

"However," she snarled then sighed, "this time, one of the people I did it to was you, in a way. And you didn't deserve it. I'll explain it all when we get to your place. I just wanted you to know before I tell you any of it that I'm really sorry and that I'm extremely glad you're okay again."

McGee nodded then shrugged before settling back to his dozing state. He took a deep breath as he settled into the seat and closed his eyes.

"We both know that I'll forgive you for whatever you did, but just so we're clear: If you're going to start apologizing to me for every instance in which you are rude or act like miserably to anyone, I don't have enough hours in my day for that," he remarked as his mouth curled into smirk.

Sarah growled as she gripped the wheel tighter. She spied his smug amusement as she grit her teeth.

"For the record, I am biting my tongue not to say something mean to you right now—no matter how much you might deserve it," she said in snidely but fought the smile that attempted to blossom on her face at the same time.

"I'm impressed," McGee yawned. "Maybe you're finally becoming a mature adult."

"Says the guy with the collection of boxed Star Wars fig…," her voiced trailed off as she saw his head loll to the side as evidence he had fallen asleep.

oOoOoOo

Inspector General's Office

Tony sat in the stiff and uncomfortable chair outside the closed door of Richard Parson's Office. The setting was as unyielding and unappealing as the man he was there to visit. If anyone had told Tony that two years earlier this weasel of a man might hold the keys to the greatest puzzle he ever faced, he would have laughed them out of the Navy Yard.

However, here he was, seated outside the man's office, hoping to ask a favor.

He felt dirty doing it—and not the good kind of dirty, like women wrestling in mud or in Jell-O. That thought made him alternately intrigued and hungry. He looked at his watch to see he had been in the lobby for nearly four hours. It bothered him a bit that his cellphone remained quiet. Someone, somewhere must miss him. He checked it several times to verify that it was functioning and that he had a sufficiently strong signal. Perplexed but not yet worried, he waited.

"Mr. DiNozzo?" a woman wearing a pantsuit with her hair in a tight bun approached him. "Mr. Parsons will see you now."

"Great," Tony said and groaned as he stood upright. His back and knees ached from his protracted waiting period. "And it's Special Agent DiNozzo. Not that you need to mention that. He knows who I am, which is why he probably told you to call me Mr. DiNozzo."

He walked on stiff legs through the door at the back of the lobby into a stark white office. The walls were sparsely adorned with diplomas on one side and a book case of shiny-spined law books on the other. At the back, near the windows, was a large desk with a skinny, pasty man seated behind it.

Parsons had sprouted gray at his temples since DiNozzo last saw him—that small incident in which he and McGee had to fight to get their jobs back after taking the fall to protect Gibbs for… well, for being Gibbs (or being right but not very patient too often—depended on who was telling the story, he supposed). The special counsel looked up from his mostly clean desk and smiled. Tony cringed and reminded himself this man was an ally, or could be, this time around.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" Parsons asked.

Tony had a lot of time in the waiting room to think about what to say. He could try cajoling or convincing. He could be cagey or he could be contrite. In the end, there was only one logical approach: Be bold.

"I want your help screwing someone to the wall who got away with murder—literally," Tony said with a firm nod.

To his credit Parsons did not blink. He inhaled slowly, twisted his lips then gestured to the chair in front his desk for Tony to have a seat.

"I'm listening," he said simply.

oOoOoOo

A/N: Stay tuned for more…