Chapter 3 – Tim's Day

Timothy McGee stood outside of Ducky's front door.

He thought a moment, gathering his courage and his resolve, then reached up and rang the doorbell.

"Who goes there?" a shrill voice called from inside.

"Mrs. Mallard, it's Timothy McGee. I work with your son at NCIS. I'm here to uh… to spend the day with you, in case you need anything."

Tim stood back suddenly as the door swung open abruptly. Vanessa Mallard stood, with all of her dignity and polished proper Englishwoman's refinement firmly intact, glaring at him with a suspicious eye.

"McGee. You are Irish. An Irish drunkard, I'm sure!" she accused. Tim blinked a few times, not sure how to respond, and not sure if it mattered to tell her that he only drank alcohol occasionally.

"Ma'am, I assure you, I'm not drunk. In fact, I haven't had a drink in weeks. I'm as sober as the day I was born." He felt confident telling her this, if she were watching his face for signs of deception. He hadn't, in all honesty, had a drink since Tony's birthday party, several weeks prior.

"Indeed," she huffed, and finally, after what seemed an eternity, she stepped aside, to allow him passage inside.

Tim sighed to himself. If he didn't respect Palmer before, knowing he'd done his time here yesterday had just earned Jimmy a whole new pile of respect from him now. On the other hand, this whole thing was Palmer's idea in the first place. But no… that wasn't fair, either. Jimmy only had Ducky in mind when he suggested this to the team. Jimmy was, in fact, the very first one to step up to the plate, and take one for the team.

"Where is Jimmy?" she demanded, suddenly. "My grandson was here yesterday. Why is he not here today?"

This took Tim by surprise, and he stopped a moment, a strange expression of confusion on his face. "Your grandson, Mrs. Mallard?"

"Yes, my grandson. Jimmy. I thought you said that you work with him and my son at… where is it you work, Mr. … what did you say your name was again?"

Tim cleared his throat, and bowed slightly, as he thought a gentleman should. "You may call me Timothy, Ma'am. And yes, I do work with your… uh… grandson, at NCIS. That's the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Don't patronize me, young man. I know what NCIS stands for. My dear son Donald has worked there for years."

"Of course, Ma'am. I didn't mean to imply that you didn't know what it stands for." He stepped out of his shoes, and took Mrs. Mallard gently by the arm, to lead her to her chair.

"Would you like some tea, Ma'am?" he asked sweetly, as he led her away from the door. The elderly woman looked up at him and smiled. "Why yes, Timothy. A-ha!" she said triumphantly, pointing an arthritic finger in the air and her face lighting up. "See, I DO remember your name. It's a lovely name, too. Ah, yes. Tea. That would be lovely, Timothy." He led her carefully to the chair, sitting her down and draping her blanket across her lap. "Will we be having crumpets as well?" she asked, hopefully. Tim paused a moment. "I'll have to check the cupboards. I think Jimmy said there were some scones left from yesterday, that he baked fresh, if you'd like that?"

Mrs. Mallard smiled contentedly. "Yes, that would be wonderful, dear Timothy. But I should warn you, I have hidden the keys to the liquor cabinet, so don't get any fancy ideas about snitching a pint or two of Donald's ale."

"I wouldn't think of it, Ma'am," he promised, as he thought to himself that it was going to be a very, very long day, indeed.

……………………………………………………………………………

By the time Ducky returned from work, Mrs. Mallard was fast asleep in her chair, tucked in carefully, a crumb filled saucer sitting next to her empty teacup. Tim looked up from his laptop as the older man walked in, and he whispered to him, "Dinner is almost on the table. I roasted a duck."

"Very funny, Timothy," Ducky retorted. "A mallard duck, I presume?" He raised an eyebrow at the laughing expression of Jethro's junior agent. "I don't know what it is, besides tasty, Ducky. It should be ready to carve in a few minutes, I just took it out of the oven."

"Well, it does smell wonderful," he said, resting a hand on his middle as his stomach grumbled. "You would think that working amongst the dead all day would temper one's appetite considerably. I suppose one gets used to it, though."

"Donald, is that you?" a tired, sleep-slurred voice asked.

"Yes, Mother. I'm home now. Did you have a good day with Timothy?

"He's not a drunk, after all, Donald. For shame, boy. You said he was Irish."