When he arrives home, Tim is in such a daze that he barely recognizes his apartment. Sunlight drifts through the blinds, leaving shadows across the hardwood floor. Green and blue patches kaleidoscope on the floor and it takes a full minute to find the culprit: a suncatcher that his sister gave him last year for his birthday. He never knew it could create such a beautiful show because he is never here to witness it.
He stands by the entrance, hand on the doorknob and coat still on. Somehow, he feels like a trespasser inside his own home as though his apartment lives an entire life without him.
And maybe in a way, it does. With the hours he works, he rarely is home during the day. Heck, he is rarely home at all. Even on the weekends, he spends them either working or waiting by his phone for the team to catch a case.
How much living am I doing?
Shrugging off his jacket, he hangs it on the solitary peg by the door. He shucks off his shoes, stows them on their rack. As he slips into his apartment, he is suddenly restless. He should be excited at the prospect of untold hours to spend time on his hobbies. Hobbies, he never enjoys anymore.
This should be a good thing.
What hobbies? I never have time for anything…
He paces the length of his living room several times. Fifteen steps one way and fifteen back. Then, he puts his hands on his hips and surveys the space. Steel bookshelves are filled floor to ceiling with books he has never read. Resting on his old desk, his gaming rig is powered down.
Really, he should've bought a couch when he first moved in. Then, he might have somewhere to sit other than a beat-up gaming chair he fished out a dumpster at MIT.
Sighing, he checks his cell phone. No calls, of course. He won't hear from work for a few weeks. Anyone else, well, he was always too busy and after a while, they stopped calling.
It's ironic, in a way. When he is working around the clock, he would kill for some free time. Just a few hours to do what he wished and not what Gibbs or Tony told him to do. And now…now, he has two weeks where literally no one—other than his sister—in the world will bother him and he just doesn't know what to do with himself.
Where do I even start?
He sighs again, long and low before leaning back into his gaming chair. He scrubs his hands across his face as though it could wake him from this strange, strange dream. Then, for the first time in as long as he can remember, he turns on his computer and loads a game.
He doesn't recognize the boot-up sequence.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
During his suspension, Tim falls into a strange rhythm. He sleeps when he is tired and wakes when he isn't. Day or night, he can't tell the difference anymore. He is completely off schedule, but it doesn't matter. He'll figure it out later. The Circadian rhythm will right itself after enough all-nighters spent working and coffee to limp through the day. Then again, maybe that's not righting his rhythms. That might just be what it feels like to get by.
He bides his time with computer games and toying around his novel. The suspension, he decides, could give MacGregor an interesting plot twist, but he doesn't want it to come from Tibbs beating the crap out of him and Agent Tommy. Though, he considers having them fight in the name of character growth. He contemplates his own time during suspension and wonders which direction he's growing in.
If, he's even growing at all.
His nose heals slowly. Thankfully, it wasn't broken, only bruised the doctor told him. His eyes blacken a few days later. The swelling goes down slowly. The bruising fades until it's only tender to touch. He can finally breathe through his nose again. He stops looking like a raccoon.
He helps his sister, Sarah, move into her dorm. They were supposed to go sightseeing, but she decides to hang out with her friends instead. She doesn't want to bother him while he's working, she says. He knows she's embarrassed by the way he looks. She asks about his bruised nose and double black eyes. He tells her that a suspect punched him during an arrest gone bad. He doesn't tell her about the suspension.
The only other time he leaves his apartment is for food when the fridge grows empty. He can't make breakfast—or is it dinner? maybe, lunch?—with ketchup packets, a bottle of soy sauce, two oranges and a jar of mayo six months past expiration. He has milk, but he can't face another bowl of dinosaur cereal.
Somehow on his drive to the supermarket, he gets turned around and ends up in front of Tony's apartment building. He sits, car idling, as he stares at the ornately carved door of the Art Deco-styled building. The sidewalk is alive with people milling past.
He doesn't know what he is doing here, sitting in his car like a stalker. There are a thousand things he could—should —say to Tony right now, but he can't say them without sounding stupid. He stays there, hands at two and ten, heart in his throat and an entire conversation trapped on his tongue. He doesn't move until the doorman comes out and glares him down. Tim drives off in the opposite direction.
He still doesn't head to the supermarket. This time, he finds himself parked in Gibbs' driveway. Sure, he didn't get lost this time. While that's easy to do in DC, he knows the way to the supermarket doesn't involve crossing state lines. Something—subconsciously or otherwise—brought him here. In a way, he doubts he ever really stopped being on autopilot since Shepard took his badge and weapon.
He might as well be a burglar casing the place. He stays there for a long time, debating about whether he should head inside or make a run for it. The curtains on the front window dip slightly, telling him he's been caught. It's an invitation to come inside. An order, really. Tim doesn't know what to say to his boss either. Sure, his nose is mostly healed now. It only hurts when he inhales. Only sometimes, but still…
If he doesn't go inside, Gibbs will just hunt him down him later.
With a dejected sigh, he climbs out of the car into the frigid night air. His breath comes in large white puffs that climb skyward before dissipating into nothingness. He doesn't know when darkness fell. Hell, he doesn't even know what time it is. When he left his apartment, it was just after lunchtime.
I think it was lunchtime.
Keeping to Gibbs' traditions, the front door is unlocked when Tim stumbles up to the porch. The air inside is musty and stale, bordering on claustrophobic as though the entire house is holding its breath. An ancient and threadbare oriental rug runner leads Tim into the living room. The couch is made up like a bed with a pillow and a faded, floral duvet. The house is oddly empty, and it sets Tim's nerves on high alert. If he had his weapon, he'd likely unholster it now. Could the curtains move on their own?
He is about to leave when he hears, "The basement, McGee!"
Caught in the act of a near escape, Tim flinches violently. He moves through a kitchen that is even emptier than his fridge. The countertops are bare except for an ancient coffeemaker—it's probably older than him—with a glass carafe stained black as tar. The stench of old, burnt coffee lingers in the air.
The basement steps creak as he heads down them. There is an ever-present boat taking up most of the basement. The first time he visited, he found it completely bizarre. He spent weeks staying up at night, wondering what possessed Gibbs to build a boat in his basement. He built mathematical models to figure out how Gibbs gets them to the water, but he never really figured out exactly how they escape. Magic seems preferable to thinking Gibbs just builds a boat, only to take it apart and build it again outside. That thought is far better than considering Gibbs building the same boat over and over again. Something to take them build and rip apart for scrap just to keep himself busy.
When Tim takes the last few steps, the wood gives a little as though it doesn't want to hold his weight. He hopes he doesn't fall straight to the floor. His heart lodges in his throat as he considers while he had so much to say to Tony, he can't think of a single thing to say to Gibbs.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to. Gibb gives him a once-over, half-nods and hands Tim safety glasses and a piece of sandpaper. He moves across the basement to find a mason jar full of old nails on a heavily used, wood workbench. After dumping the contents, he pours three fingers worth of bourbon into it. Gibbs passes it to Tim without much fanfare. Holding it with two fingers, Tim keeps it at arm's length because he doesn't feel like catching tetanus while he's on suspension.
"Thanks," he says.
Gibbs merely tilts his head. When Gibbs isn't looking, Tim stashes his bourbon under the boat hull.
Then Gibbs turns back to sanding the spot that he must've been working on all day based on the amount of sawdust at his feet and all over his threadbare NIS sweatshirt. A mason jar half-full of bourbon rests by his left foot.
Figuring he might as well join in, Tim slides on the safety glasses and shucks off his coat. He picks a spot on the opposite side of the boat so he won't have to look at Gibbs. He runs the sandpaper over the hull of the boat. With the grain, just like Gibbs taught him. Bit by bit, the sawdust rains down around his sneakers and all over the floor. He shouldn't mind the mess, but he does.
His nerves already in hyperdrive, but this threatens to shove him right over the edge. He keeps going, keeps working at it as though it might finally set his mind at ease. The spot is smoother, but there is more saw dust.
So much saw dust. Too much saw dust.
They work in a companionable silence for a long time. The only sound reaching Tim's ears are the rough scratch of sandpaper against wood and a television quietly talking to itself somewhere nearby. Eventually, Tim takes a few slugs of his bourbon until it's nearly gone. Here, his restlessness slowly abandons him, leaving a feeling of peace and relaxation in its wake. Thought it might be the alcohol taking the edge off his life. He considers asking Gibbs if they should order dinner, but Tim still believes his boss only sustains himself on coffee and bourbon and sawdust.
Gibbs breaks the silence first. "How's the nose, McGee?"
"Better," Tim offers. For the first time since it happened, it didn't wake him up throbbing and finally, his voice sounds normal.
"Never meant for that to happen, Tim." Gibbs' voice comes as barely a whisper.
While it isn't quite an apology, Tim knows it's the closest thing to one that he'll get. He sighs, uncertain how he even got here. A place in his life where being hurt couldn't even warrant the words, I'm sorry.
He sighs again. "I know, Gibbs."
"None of it should've."
Knowing Gibbs is referring to the entire fight, Tim clears his through. "Yeah, you're right."
"Didja hear Shepard wants to fire me and Tony?" he asks suddenly.
The words mark Tim freeze, hand hovering over the boat hulls. His heart free falls straight into his stomach. Tim scarcely breathes because his chest is so tight. He peers around the side of the boat, not surprised to find Gibbs calmly sipping bourbon from the mason jar. Gibbs always was the person to do what he wanted, consequences be damned.
Tim reads back. "What? How did you find out about that?"
Gibbs' silence to the question speaks volumes. It speaks to likely an off-the-record conversation that Gibbs had with Shepard. Based on the way they act around each other, everyone knows they have History—with a capital H—together and maybe, probably, definitely did have some kind of relationship sometime before they both ended up at NCIS. Tim never really considered it because he never wanted to even think about his boss and his boss's boss knocking boots twenty years ago. Because, yuck.
Gibbs raises an eyebrow, a smirk drawn across his face. "Apparently, you're not supposed to fight in a federal agency. It's against protocol."
Tim's lips pinch. "What even happened, Boss?"
"Might not be your boss anymore." Gibbs exhales loudly. "Maybe I shoulda stayed retired."
Tim wants to tell Gibbs that he agrees, but he doesn't. Something things are best left unspoken.
Pressing his lips together, Tim hems and haws. He doesn't know how he is supposed to feel right now. He doesn't know what he even wants anymore. Gibbs staying retired or Gibbs coming back. He didn't realize how much he liked Gibbs until the older man was gone. And he didn't understand how much he appreciated working for Tony until Gibbs returned.
Especially after all this.
Tim speaks up: "Tony did a good job filling in while you were gone."
At that, Gibbs shakes his head. "There was no filling in."
Tim blinks. "I don't understand…"
"I was gone. Retired." Gibbs swigs his bourbon, grimacing. "Done."
"Then why did you come back?"
"I had my reasons." Gibbs takes another swig. "I thought the team might need me."
And there's that sinking feeling again. Gibbs came back because even he thought Tony couldn't handle being team leader. Tim rubs his hand at his forehead.
G-d, I didn't even realize…
Gibbs clears his throat, eyes finding Tim's in the dim light. Gibbs always had the ability to stare straight through Tim's carefully crafted veneers. Did he manage to cut through Tony's too?
Tim looks away. "Tony did the best he could. Though, Ziva and I didn't really help the situation."
Gibbs jerks his chin. "So I heard."
Squirming under Gibbs' stare, Tim is desperate to change the subject.
The silence stretches for a long moment while they both work at the boat hull before Gibbs speaks up again. "I told Shepard it'd be asinine to fire Tony. Rule five."
"What about you?" Tim asks.
Gibbs half-shrugs. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah, it does," Tim says. "Do you think she'll listen?"
Another shrug and then, Gibbs returns to his bourbon.
"Gibbs, I…" Tim's voice fails him. Instead, he says: "What happens now?"
"Shepard and I called a truce," Gibbs replies flatly.
To hear the word roll off Gibbs' tongue like water, it sounds almost foreign. It's a simple thing, really. A truce. To find a common ground where two people make sacrifices to get what they want or need. It's the olive branch Tim has never seen Gibbs extend in the years they worked together.
"A truce?" Tim repeats.
Does Gibbs even know the meaning of the word?