Gibbs handed Fornell a large paper cup of coffee, taking a swig from his own brew. The FBI agent thanked him, warming up his hands on the drink.
A lot had changed in 7 weeks, 3 days, and 15 hours: the air was crisp, and most people were preparing themselves for a white Christmas. There were market stalls selling mulled wine everywhere around DC, and the streets were richly decorated with lights and other ornaments.
People were phoning up their families and friends, thanking them for being in their lives and arranging to meet up over the holidays. Shops were even more packed than usual, and on nearly every corner stood a man in a red suit collecting money for one charity or another.
'T is the season to be jolly, or so the songs said. Gibbs had simply become more frustrated with every passing day. Crime, although mostly petty, often increased around the holidays. He could usually cope with the added pressure, but this year was different. After all, it had been 7 weeks, 3 days, and 15 hours since his Very Special Agent had gone missing, and they hadn't gotten any closer to finding him.
''Well?'' Gibbs asked impatiently when Fornell seemed perfectly content simply drinking his coffee. ''I doubt you called me out here to exchange Christmas cards.''
''Why, did you get me one?'' Fornell teased half-heartedly. Seeing Gibbs' less than impressed glare, the FBI agent cleared his throat. ''I don't know how to put this.''
Gibbs' eyes darkened. He knew what Fornell was about to tell him, he even understood why, but it still felt too soon.
Vance had put his team back on rotation after a month, arguing that he could not afford to lose an entire team to an investigation that was 'going nowhere'. Although it had been true that they had no leads to follow up on, Gibbs had used a few very creative insults that day that would have undoubtedly amused his SFA.
''It's not been two months yet.'' Gibbs growled, knowing that once again his anger was misplaced. ''Didn't know the FBI gave up on federal agents that quickly.''
''Never said I was giving up.'' Fornell retorted, to Gibbs' surprise. ''But until we get any new leads, I'm afraid I need to start working on different cases as well.''
Gibbs reluctantly nodded in agreement. He could not expect Fornell and his team to keep focusing solely on his missing agent, but it still rubbed him the wrong way. It was as if the rest of the world was ready to move on, to continue life without annoying movie references or silly pranks. Gibbs wasn't quite ready to take that step yet.
'''I'm sorry, Gibbs.'' Fornell said morosely.
'Thanks.'' He wasn't sure what he was thanking Fornell for, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Throwing his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin, Gibbs uttered a half-hearted ''Merry Christmas'' before he walked away.
Gibbs couldn't bring himself to focus on the sanding that night. He'd been building a range of small wooden toys: a tradition he'd begun ever since he'd found out Tony delivered toys to the kids at Bethesda each Christmas.
Instead he turned to the files sprawled over his workspace and pinned to the walls. He had gone over the information countless times and knew most of it by heart.
''Woah.'' Gibbs instinctively reached for his weapon, causing his visitor to hold up his hands and whimper. ''It's me!''
"Jesus, Palmer, do you want to get shot?!'' Gibbs lowered his gun and picked up the nearest liquor bottle, taking a swig.
''No! Of course not! It's just that the front door was open just like Ducky told me and I thought you heard me knock but I guess I-'' Realising that he was rambling, the young man stood nervously on the stairs, pushing his glasses further up his nose.
''I uhh- Like I said, Ducky told me your door is always open…'' He seemed somewhat embarrassed, pursing his lips and taking a deep breath before he continued. ''Since Tony's not around, I guess I just sort of needed somewhere to go. I can leave again if now's not a good time?''
Gibbs sighed wearily. He never meant to scare Palmer away. He'd become a close friend to Tony; of course he would be missing him. He gestured for Jimmy to come on down, and the young man gratefully obliged.
Gibbs poured them both a mug of scotch while Jimmy walked closer, viewing the files on the walls. He paused for a moment in front of the images of Gibbs' and McGee's clothes, a hint of sorrow flashing through his eyes.
Palmer accepted the mug from Gibbs and to the agent's surprise; he downed half the drink in one go.
''Ducky's got a fair collection of his own.'' Palmer explained with a shrug. Gibbs couldn't help the faint smile that pulled at his lips.
''Agent Gibbs?'' Palmer turned to him more seriously, settling in a wooden chair not too far away from Gibbs.
''Hmm?''
''Do you think Tony's still alive?''
For a moment, Gibbs was shocked. Plenty of people had asked him the same question, though none of them had had the courage to phrase it that bluntly.
''I do.'' Gibbs decided to reciprocate the openness with which Jimmy spoke. The young man was known to not really have a verbal filter and often rambled on unnecessarily, but Gibbs finally understood why both DiNozzo and Ducky were so fond of him: With Palmer's rambling came a sense of honesty and candidness.
The two sat in companionable silence for a while before a low growl of Jimmy's stomach interrupted the quiet. The young man blushed, idly playing with the mug in his hands.
Realising that he had not eaten for a good ten hours himself, Gibbs told Palmer to make himself comfortable while he disappeared up the stairs and into the kitchen.
Rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, Gibbs made a mental note to buy some groceries after work the next day. He grabbed a frying pan and whisked the last three eggs together with a bit of milk and some cheese. He flipped the omelette over and placed two slices of bread into the toaster.
A few minutes later, Gibbs walked back into the basement and passed Palmer a plate. The young man had been reading some of the files when Gibbs came down the stairs, but had quickly put the papers to the side when the agent had offered him food.
''So what happened?'' Jimmy asked in between mouthfuls, downing the egg and toast with a swig of scotch.
''What do you mean?'' Gibbs responded confused, arching a brow.
''S'rry,'' Palmer quickly swallowed his next bite. ''I don't really get to see the statements unless they're relevant for our autopsy. I just, well, it says in your statement there that Tony said something was wrong. What did you get wrong?''
Gibbs' eyes went wide. He had thought about Tony's words before: somehow, he had concluded that Tony had been panicking about his own blood loss; that the 'wrong' was that he was about to pass out. It hadn't occurred to him that Tony could have been saying that they had made a mistake.
The senior agent slammed his plate on the table and snatched up his own witness statement, along with Ziva's and McGee's. Reading them again carefully, his blood ran cold as he went over their conversation. DiNozzo had been panicking, but not because he was about to pass out: he'd been trying to warn them.
''There was someone else!''