Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'll be back with another...eventually.
This is the epilogue.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The great Abby Scuito is almost never wrong, but thankfully, this one time she is. Ghosts don't get stuck between the land of the living and the dead like Gigi Hendel told her. They come and go until their business is done and once it is, they have a single and final chance to say goodbye. I returned to the land of the voices, only to be sent here. Say goodbye and mean it, they told me.
For what I know will be the last time, I end up in the center of the bullpen. I try to soak up what will be my last moment here, my last moments of myself before I become part of whatever comes next.
My heart wedges itself into my throat as I soak up everything. The soft morning light filters through the windows, but it doesn't reach the bullpen. The desks are still dark, illuminated only by the overhead lights and a desk lamp Tim left on last night. The space is empty save for me and I'm not sure if I even count. The walls are a pale, faded orange that I never noticed before. How was always I so wrapped in work that I never noticed the walls are a barf-shade of orange?
My desk is still covered in Post-Its, that ever-growing rainbow stretching from one side clear to the other. It looks like a fuzzy hedge from a mythical Labyrinth where the Queen of Hearts may stand screaming, Off with her head. Before long, Tony will run out of space on my desk and take to covering the plasma and Tim.
Moving closer to Tim and Tony's workspace, little has changed since the last time I was here. Tony's still looks like a hurricane blew through with half-dead pens—most of them are mine…were mine, anyway—and ripped pieces of paper and plastic straws littering the space. There's a Mighty Mouse stapler half-buried under the refuse. No matter how hard I tried I never could understand how he found anything in that junkpile or how he could be so damned effective. The junkyard fills me with a ridiculous anxiety to scoop it all in the trashcan and I'm not even staying.
Tim's workspace is more like Gibbs' space: just the basics with little frivolity. The only difference is Tim has a small pictures push-pined to the edge of his bulletin board. A photo of his younger sister, some friends, and two from a vacation—sun, sky and sea—he must've taken.
There is one so hidden from view that I must crouch to see it. At the sight of it, it feels like my heart fell off a cliff. Just a picture of the from a rare night out: the whole team celebrating some win with Abby and Ducky. We're all laughing at something one of us—probably Tony—said. Even Gibbs' head is thrown back in laughter with crinkles beside his eyes I've never seen before. A common moment of unity, but a rare one of happiness and joviality. I don't even remember this moment. I wish I could.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slip back to the middle of the bullpen. As soon as I get there, the elevator doors open to reveal Tim. He strides to the bullpen with purpose, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a full coffee tray in his hands. The left side of his face is still bruised from our encounter on the USS Telluride, but it is going green-yellow around his eye. So a few days passed since the last time I was here.
As he pauses by his desk to drop off his backpack, Tim gently slides the coffee tray to the desk to avoid spilling the four cups. He puts one on his desk before dropping one each on Gibbs' and Tony's desk. The last one has a string and a tea label fluttering out the side. I don't have to check to know it's Darjeeling. He makes it halfway to my desk before he turns back to grab a bag that was tucked into the middle of the tray. He places them both ceremoniously in front of my chair, careful to not put the tea on a Post-It.
He stares at my chair as though I'm sitting there. He doesn't know I'm really just behind his shoulder. To indulge him, I plop into my seat and look at him as though we could have a conversation. His face is a mask of every emotion I've felt since I died: hope and fear and worry and most of all, sadness.
"Hey Kate." He clears his throat. Looks away. Looks back. "Tony said you like bearclaws and I had no idea what they are. So I asked at the coffee place and they gave me that." He gestures to the bag. "I hope it actually is a bearclaw because I figured we kinda owe you after everything." He rubs at the healing black eye before sliding his hand into his pockets. "There's a lot I wished I said while you were here…"
I offer a heartbroken smile. "I'm still here, McGee. So spit it out."
He sighs. "G-d, I looked up to you so much. You were everything I wish I could become."
"You're already on your way," I say. "Just keep going. I should've said something while I could. And don't tell Tony, but he feels that way too."
"I can't believe you're gone and I just…" He hunches his shoulders, collapsing into himself. "I thought we had more time, you know?"
I'm nodding now. "I know what you mean, McGee."
His eyes glisten a bit as he drops his gaze to his shoes. "Thanks for everything."
My eyes itch, but nothing comes. Nothing ever does anymore. "You too, Tim. And you're welcome."
At that moment, someone claps a hand against Tim's back, hard. Flinching, Tim straightens quickly and a serious expression masks his emotions. He runs his index fingers just underneath his eyes in case any tears escaped. Tony DiNozzo checks over him, curious and questioning but with a certain kindness in his eyes. The bags under his eyes are still there, but they are slowly disappearing. He looks healthier than the last time I saw him.
"Are you okay, Probie?" Tony sounds like he truly means it.
Tim barely nods.
Thankfully, Tony just squeezes Tim's shoulder and pulls him into an awkward one-armed hug. Then, they take a full step away from each other as though it never happened. The men don't look at each other.
"I miss her too," Tony says.
Tim tilts his head. "Do you feel like she's still here?"
"Like last week on the destroyer?" When Tim nods, the corners of Tony's lips twitch downward. "I wish, but I'm sure she has better things to do than haunt us. She has an afterlife, right?"
The lame joke makes me crack up in spite of myself. Tim half-smiles before he rolls his eyes and heads to his desk. That leaves Tony at my desk, holding out his hands at Tim's retreating form.
"What?" he calls. "That was a great one."
"I bet you stayed up all night thinking that up," Tim retorts.
Tony drops his voice and says low enough only I can hear: "It only took an hour, thank you."
I lean forward on my desk. "That one did you take all night, DiNozzo. Though I will admit it was a good joke. I apparently don't have afterlife or a regular one, because I'm still haunting you." I waggle my hands around with creepy fingers and draw out a scary sounding, "Woooooo. Tooooonnnyyyy DiiiiNoooozzzzoooo," for effect.
With a furtive glance over his shoulder to confirm Tim is already deep into his computer—he is—Tony regards my workspace with a somber expression. For the first time since we met, I finally am seeing the real Tony. His raw emotions—agony—are written across his broken face.
"I miss you, Kate." His voice is so raw, I feel it. "Nothing has been right since you left. I feel like I can't get my head above water. I'm supposed to just keep going like nothing happened. Like you didn't die. Right in front of me." He sighs heavily. "How am I supposed to keep going?"
"I wish I knew, Tony. Just be sure it wasn't my choice to leave."
His eyes meet mine and for a fleeting moment, I swear we stare directly into each other's eyes. It feels like something in one of those movies he always talks about. Two people realizing they could be something more if they were just in a different time and place.
"Kate, tell me I can do this…"
I slip out of my chair, but he doesn't move. He must not be able to see me. I draw closer until I'm standing toe-to-toe with him. His eyes are fixed on the chair behind me. I place my hand against his cheek and soak up his spirit for the last time. I focus every bit of energy I have into my fingertips and feel the jolt of electricity in our touch. His breath comes as a relieved sigh as he places his hand over mine.
"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Tony," I say. "You can do this and even if I'm not here, I'll still be with you. Always and forever."
"Thanks, Kate," he murmurs.
"And thanks yourself for being you, Tony." I study the way his eyes are closed, the relaxed and quiet conquering his face. "I'm only telling you now because I'm dead. If I were still alive, I'd kick your ass."
His lips pull into a small smile. "I know, Katie. I know."
My eyes itch again with phantom tears. What I wouldn't give to be able to cry just once more time. The emotion keeps building inside me like a nuclear bomb about to explode.
I bark a strangled laugh. "I hate when you call me that."
"Why do you think I call you that, Kate?" His eyes are dark now, a rising sheen I've never seen before in them. "I think we could've had something. You and me." He grips the spot where my hand is a little tighter. His knuckles go white against his own hand. "I'd like to think there could've been an us."
I half-smile at the sentiment. Loving him probably would've made me want to murder him, rip my hair out strand by strand, flee to Mexico or all of the above. Yet, the thought of it is nice. The thought of what we could've been, what we might've been if only we had the chance.
"I wish we had a chance to try tried."
His eyes flick to mine. "Me too. Goodbye, Kate. I'll see when I see you."
"Goodbye, Tony." My lips curl upward. "It better not be soon. You were a great friend."
He opens his mouth to speak, but fate seems to have other ideas for us. Gibbs swoops into the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He places his coffee next to the one Tim brought long enough grab his credits. Tim and Tony crane their necks like prairie dogs as they wait for the order.
Without glancing up, he announces: "Got a dead sailor in Rock Creek Park. Grab your gear. DiNozzo, you're driving."
On reflex, I scramble to grab my weapon and creds. I always liked being the first down to the garage because I could call shotgun. My hand passes through my desk before I remember my place isn't here anymore. I can only watch the world move on without me.
I feel an odd sense of peace as my team goes through the motions. Gibbs makes a show of hunting through his desk even though his creds are in his pocket and his weapon holstered to his hip. Tim pauses for a moment until Tony grabs his things. Tony leads the way out of the bullpen. They head to the elevator with backpacks hanging their shoulders. Tony hazards a curious glance back, but a jerk of Gibbs' jaw spurs him onward. Tony snaps his gaze forward before placing his hand on Tim's shoulder and starting a conversation with him.
Once the elevator doors close, Gibbs grabs the coffee cup Tim brought from his desk. Then, he moves towards mine. He stares at my chair with a certain reverence. It takes a moment to notice the black sash still over his badge.
He releases a breath. "You were right, Kate."
At the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs admitting a—any—weakness, I can't help but grin. Even if I were alive, I would never tell Tim nor Tony. Gibbs' weakness is something to never be discussed. Some things are best saved only for me. Vindication is one of my favorite feelings….was.
"I know," I reply. "Revenge isn't as important as keeping the team safe."
Gibbs clips a nod. "Good work, Kate. Stand down."
And with that, he allows himself a moment to inhale deeply. He watches over my desk as though it could bring me back to life. Light dances at the corners of his eyes and I don't realize they are tears until they're long gone. If you told me Gibbs was capable of human emotion, I never would've believed without seeing with my own eyes. There's another nod and just like that, it's gone.
All I have to offer is a sad smile and I half-wave.
He allows himself another long beat to stare at my desk and then, he walks in the direction of the elevator. On his way, he passes Ducky heading into the bullpen. They pass each other with a head bob and "Jethro" and "Duck" lobbed in the other's direction.
For some reason, Ducky heads straight to my desk too. His eyes blaze at the sight of the tea and he rushes toward it with his hands outstretched. He scoops up the tea and takes a long sip. He releases a satisfied sigh.
He smiles brightly. "Ah, Kaitlin my dear, you shouldn't have."
I match his grin. "I didn't. You should thank McGee."
At the sight of the pastry bag, his expression turns ecstatic. He opens the bag, his eyes widening at the contents. When he pulls it out, I know my mouth would water if I had the chance.
"My, my. What do we have here?" he whispers. "You most certainly outdid yourself this time."
"It's a bearclaw," I say. "And they are amazing."
His face spreads into a bright smile. "Do you know why they are called danishes? The story is quite a spectacular one. They are so called because…"
His gentle words grow into a distant hum as everything begins to blur around the edges. The story is a lullaby, comforting and calming as it carries me from this world into the next.