The Wednesday following their suspension, Tim is the first one to arrive. To him, the empty bullpen is a strange sight. Knowing it will be his last time here fills him with a wayward sadness. The empty cardboard box clutched to his chest feels oddly heavy, already brimming with a sense of finality. It was one thing to talk about packing up his life and moving to Washington—state, not DC—with Tony in his apartment well past midnight after a couple bottles of wine. The actual act of clearing out his desk, packing up his apartment, and moving clear across the country is another thing entirely.
His grip on the box tightens until he feels the corrugated cardboard digging into his palms. If he isn't careful, he'll end up with the mother of all papercuts. He remains rooted to the spot at the entrance to the bullpen, unable to move forward or back. His backpack, filled with his laptop and other work-related computer items, might as well weight a ton. Shepard told him they needed to be surrendered—not dropped off, surrendered—before he left for the NWFO. He spent his time on Gibbs' team curating his collection and he can only hope the equipment NWFO is half as good as his current toys.
It's time. I know it's time. I just…
"Hello McGee," a quiet voice murmurs.
Tim nearly leaps out of his skin. He wheels around, box held at chest height like a weapon. Ziva David stands by his arm, a curious expression painted on her face.
"Oh hi, Ziva." He chortles tightly.
"You will not do much with that." She gestures at the box, likely discussing about its properties as a weapon. Tim knows she could kill everyone in the building with little this.
He flushes, first his ears before it engulfs his face. He moves the box into a better position and turns to face her. After all the time they were on the team, he suddenly realizes he never had a chance to really get to know her. What would it have been like?
"I did not know when you would be back," she says flatly.
"I'm not really back," he replies. "More like grabbing my stuff before being reassigned."
She nods thoughtfully. "I heard about what had happened. Did Tony really strike Gibbs?"
Tim lets the silence hang as he considers the incident. Right now, it feels far off like a bad dream that he had a few weeks ago but hasn't been able to shake yet. He almost feels as though everything will go back to normal in just a few minutes. He half-expects Gibbs to show up and tell them to grab their gear for a dead Marine before head-slapping Tony. And yet, that's what started it all.
Tim sucks in a breath. "Yeah, it was strange. Gibbs headslapped Tony. Then, they had a huge fight and…"
"You are both being transferred, yes?"
Tim half-smiles. "Something like that."
Deeming his statement not worth of a reply, Ziva saunters toward her desk. Her footfalls are quiet and precise, as though she is trying to avoid taking up space or leave a mark. She begins pawing through her desk to create a tiny pile of items. From the look of things, it's mostly pens. There are other bits that Tim thinks might've belonged to him in the past. They are generic, NCIS issue things, but Ziva is collecting them for him to sort through. Pieces of nothing that made up the something of his life here.
When Ziva looks at Tim questioningly, he spurs to life. It's one thing to stand there like a statue while you reminisce about your old life. It's another thing to do it while someone stares you down. He hustles to his desk and falls into his chair with a practiced ease.
"Do you need any assistance?" Ziva asks suddenly.
Tim swivels in his desk chair, box on his lap. "With…?"
"Collecting your things," she says.
And that's it. The last few years they've been on the same team rolled into a professional, lifeless question. Does he need help cleaning out his desk? Can she help him pack up everything that ever meant anything to him into a box so he can carry it away?
Smiling sadly, he shakes his head.
"I think I've got it," he says.
"If you change your mind, I am here." She points at the growing pile of desk debris. "These, I have borrowed from you and Tony. Take what you would like, and I will keep the rest."
As she keeps adding to the pile, he notices one of his favorite pens that disappeared a while ago. It's nothing special—a plain, black Bic pen—but it was one of the few that doesn't smear all over his hand whenever he used it. He always thought Tony "borrowed" it. He'll grab it before he leaves.
He isn't ready to pack up his life just yet.
Ziva drops Tony's Mighty Mouse stapler onto the top of the pile.
Tim takes to removing items from his drawers and lining them up on his desk. As he goes, he realizes how few personal items he has here. His desk is—was, was—spartan, at best and lifeless, at worst. There's the pen cup his grandmother gave him when he started at NCIS, a bumper sticker from a band he loves, and a few postcards from his sister's travels. He might have to steal his NCIS-issue stapler and desk lamp just to have something to take to the NWFO.
By comparison, Tony's desk resembles a cross between a flea market, a bachelor pad, and the city dump. Bits of paper and pieces of trash and candy wrappers and back issues of MSM magazine and hunks of plastic—flotsam that only means something to Tony—will take him weeks to sift through before he knows what he has. And even then, Tim doubts he'll ever use any of it again.
Tim glances at Ziva to confirm she isn't watching. She must've finished cleaning out her desk because she now stares at her computer with a bored expression. Tim shoves the NCIS stapler into his box before burying it under a pair of dog-eared paperbacks from the back of his desk.
Suddenly, Tony strides into the bullpen, unhurried and nonplussed. His empty backpack is slung over one shoulder. He jerks his chin at Tim, who mimics the gesture. They discussed their plan last night over pizza: grab their things, file their reports with as little fanfare as possible, and then, get the hell out of dodge. Tim can read between the lines enough to know Tony doesn't want to talk to Gibbs before they sneak out. Tim doesn't know if he wants to talk to Gibbs because he isn't sure what to say.
Tony nods again. "McGee. Zee-vah."
On his way past Ziva's desk, he grabs his Mighty Mouse stapler and stuffs it into his backpack. Ziva looks at him as though him and Tim leaving is just another thing to get through the day. She climbs to her feet, following him to his desk. Tim pauses sorting through his few belongings to watch.
She lingers beside Tony, hands clasped behind her back. Her body is coiled and twisted, mere inches from his arm. Close enough to probably feel her body heat, but not close enough for them to touch. Tony glances at her over his shoulder.
"You are leaving," she says simply.
Tony half-nods. "It's about time I got my own team."
Her brow furrows as she turns to Tim, who suddenly finds the ceiling extremely interesting. There's a couple of panels missing from the drop ceiling to expose the piping and wiring overhead. How did he never notice that? How long have they been missing?
"You will be on your own, yes?" Ziva asks.
"McGee's coming too." Tony raises his eyebrows before narrowing his eyes. "But you already knew that."
She nods. "I did. Congratulations, Tony. I believe you have earned it. You will do well."
Tony looks taken aback. "I – uh, yeah. Thanks."
With a clipped nod, she returns to her desk. If she has an ulterior motive—which Tony once confessed to Tim that he thinks she often does—Ziva doesn't make it known. She returns to her desk without a word.
Tony shoots Tim a wide-eyed stare. The younger man returns a shrug.
Seemingly uncertain, Tony returns to clearing off his desk. He uses one arm to sweep all the flotsam on the desk into his blackhole of a backpack. He opens his desk and starts tossing chip bags and candy bars and gum packages and magazines into his backpack. He adds a pair of shoulder holsters to the mix. Tim wonders if Tony has a grocery store and a gun store in there. Tony doesn't work long, not more than ten minutes. He can barely zip his backpack closed when he is done.
He stands, two fingers against his forehead to give Tim a mock-salute when panic blasts across his face. Tim hazards a glance over the cubicle wall to see Gibbs loping down the stairs. He walks with a purpose to his step like a man on a mission. Tim's eyes dart to Ziva, but she is long gone.
Ah, I knew it. Tony was right.
Again.
For a split second, Tony looks like he might just bolt. Instead, he drops his backpack to the floor and waits with his head held high. Gibbs stalks over and Tony draws himself to his full height. Tim never knew Tony was taller than Gibbs.
Tony and Gibbs stare at each other for a long moment. Tim returns to burying his pilfered stapler with empty case files and some printer paper. Hopefully, no one will notice it. Since no one's looking, he adds his desk lamp and a slew of pens for good measure.
Gibbs speaks first. "I got your final report, DiNozzo."
"Good." After a quick nod and long beat, Tony starts to leave. He makes it as far as the bullpen entrance before he reconsiders. "Is this how we're going to leave things, Gibbs?"
Gibbs lets the silence linger for what feels like a long time. Tim tries interring his stapler and desk lamp with printer paper. Anything to avoid watching the car crash about to happen in front of him. Even though he wants to yell at them to say something because you shouldn't just leave a relationship like theirs, like this, he keeps his mouth shut.
Finally, Gibbs says: "I'd rather not."
Tony swallows hard. "Me neither."
Turning back, Tony and Gibbs resume their staring contest. The yawning chasm of silence between them is enough to make Tim's skin crawl. He wonders if they left and ditched him in the bullpen, alone. His curiosity gets the better of him and he glances up, eyes roving between the two of them. Gibbs and Tony wear expressions of sadness and confusion like neither of them know quite where it all went wrong. Tim clears his throat. As soon as their eyes land on him, his cheeks burn. He ignores the Gibbs' stare currently boring a hole into the side of his head.
Tony is the one to deliver the olive branch. "What happened to us?"
"I don't know," Gibbs answers honestly.
"I don't know either." Tony lets the silence hang between the before he asks: "Did you ever trust me with the team, Gibbs?"
The team leader is too astonished to speak. The only indication that he heard Tony is the tightening of his jaw and the corners of his mouth deepening into a frown.
"When you left me the team, I thought I was wrong about you doubting me. Then, you came back, and it was like, I was right. I didn't want to be, but I was. You never thought I could do this, did you? But Gibbs…" Tony runs his hand through his hair as he shakes his head "…I can do this. You just never trusted me enough to give me the chance."
"That wasn't it, Tony and you know that."
Tony's eyes flash. "Do I? Because you sure as hell never told me."
Gibbs' frown threatens to swallow his face. "You're right. I never did tell you, but that doesn't mean I didn't believe it. You are one of the most competent agents I've ever worked with. Hell, you probably are the best."
"Then why didn't you trust me?" Tony sounds so hurt now.
Gibbs glances at Tim, who is trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He sits in his desk chair, box clutched to his chest and gaze locked on his blank computer monitor. If he could scale the cubicle wall and escape, he would. He can't leave without walking straight into their discussion. He inhales sharply through his nose as a reminder of how well that worked out last time.
"I thought you knew!" This is the most emotional Tim has ever heard Gibbs. "I trusted you, Tony. More than you'll ever know. Maybe in a way, I didn't trust myself. My training, my guidance. Was everything I taught you going to be enough? Would it keep you and the team safe?"
Tony releases a broken sigh.
Gibbs clears his throat. "Were the people I chose for my team going to follow you?"
At that remark, Tim winces because it was true. He knows—believes—the pension brought Gibbs back, but this was also part of his return. Gibbs could make his life work on a partial pension, but not knowing how the team was doing. That, Gibbs couldn't live with. Tim acted like an ass while Gibbs was gone and he knows it. To hear Gibbs admit that is another thing entirely. Gibbs came back because he didn't trust how much he taught Tony and he didn't trust Tim and Ziva to follow Tony's lead. Heat creeps through Tim's entire body as though the bullpen is on fire.
Damn, that hurts to know Gibbs didn't trust me.
Tony shakes his head, sad and defeated. "I'll never get the chance to find out."
"Now, you will," Gibbs offers. "On your own terms with your own team."
"I wish it could've been different," Tony says suddenly. "I wish it could've been here."
Gibbs nods. "Me too, Tony."
And with that last bit of vulnerability, Tony pivots and changes the subject. "I hear you're retiring in a few months, Gibbs. What are you going to do with yourself?"
Gibbs makes a show of considering. "Mexico and I'm never coming back."
Tony's smile is wistful. "Fish and drink cervezas?"
"It's beer, Tony." Gibbs half-smiles too. "And learning to stop meddling." He waits for a few seconds before quietly adding: "What we had was good."
"No, Boss. What we had was great."
Tony's voice comes, choked up. When Tim looks up, he notices Gibbs is a little misty eyed too. Tim can't help feeling a bit emotional himself. He has a front row seat to the end of an era.
"Stay in touch, Tony." Gibbs' voice makes it sound like a question.
Meeting his former boss' gaze, Tony nods. "I sent you an e-mail."
"Don't really use e-mail."
"I know."
Gibbs' head bobs in understanding. "Then it's a good time to start."
Tony holds out his hand to shake, but Gibbs grabs it and pulls him into a tight hug. From where Tim stands, he can only see Gibbs' face and the other man's expression pulls into a silent desperation. As though if he stays still long enough, he can stretch the moment into forever. Tony is the first to move, pulling back and Gibbs hangs on for a split second longer. When they part, Tony's shoulders are hunched, and Gibbs looks away. Tony gives him a quick nod before heading towards the elevator.
Tim readies to follow, but Gibbs heads over to him next. His expression is drawn and tired like he hasn't slept since he returned from Mexico. He crowds the space by Tim's desk, boxing him in. Gibbs studies the younger man for a long moment. Tim knows they're both thinking the same thing, just how different his leaving was compared to Tony's. For the senior agent, it was by force: unemployed or take a position in a different field office. But Tim, he chose to leave. The expression on his face tells Tim that Gibbs doesn't think he's ready—and maybe he isn't, but it's still time. Tim needs to spread his wings and follow Tony, with or without Gibbs' blessing. A certain resignation rises in Gibbs' eyes.
Tim abandons the pretense of a handshake because Gibbs hugs him too. It's awkward and strange, but oddly comforting. It might feel like that occasional Christmas where his own father would hug him…if Tim could even remember what it felt like. Gibbs pats Tim's back with a quiet thwack.
Gibbs is first to pull away.
Gibbs starts, "McGee…" Then with a shake of head, he changes his mind: "Tim, I wish I could've given you more."
Tim tilts his head. "What are you talking about Gibbs? You taught me so much."
When Gibbs' face cranes toward Tony's desk, Tim can't see his expression. "You both deserved more than what I gave you."
And while Tim doesn't quite understand what Gibbs is getting at. Probably something to do with him and Tony, he just nods because it feels like right thing to do.
"You'll be okay." It's more question than statement.
"I'll fine." Tim half-smiles. "We'll be great."
Gibbs nods as though he tries to convince himself. "So Washington state, huh?"
"Yeah." Tim doesn't know what to say. "The NWFO is on an island in the Puget Sound. I had no idea we even had a field office there. Did you know there's boats?"
Gibbs smirks. "Yeah, I heard there's a lot. Maybe I'll come visit when the time's right."
Tim takes that not as a promise, but of an absolute. Gibbs might be a man of few words, but he means every single one he says. Tim only hopes there will be time when everything is right again. A time where they all—him and Gibbs and Tony—all get along just like they did.
Before everything went to hell...