Canonball

It had been a frustrating day for Timothy McGee. He'd taken yet another round of teasing and ignoring and anger and annoyance from Tony and Ziva over his book. Even Ducky had tossed in a "tsk tsk" or two when he'd gotten to the part about the "kindly old doctor" and how that doctor went off on fantastical stories about past lives and past adventures that had nothing to do with the grisly crimes that the lead detective was trying to solve. Oddly enough, Ducky wasn't upset about the occasionally unflattering characterization of the doctor as being somewhat addled and absent-minded; he was offended by the word "old." Ducky didn't see himself as old, and did not particularly appreciate McGee using that as an adjective.

Of course, the more Tim tried to explain to everyone that his book was a work of FICTION, the more they picked at him. By the end of the day, even Tim had to admit that he should have gone a little farther out of character with everyone. Just changing their names and bumping up some of their more obvious characteristics didn't do the trick.

His publisher had loved it, and so did the readers, so he knew he was doing something right. The thing that had started nagging at him, though, was … did they like his writing, or was he simply relating cases that he'd been part of and THAT was what the publisher and readers liked. Maybe he wasn't a novelist after all. Maybe all he was good at was writing down things that had already happened.

Tim sighed as his car pulled up to Abby's apartment. He really needed to talk to someone, and Abby was the only person who wasn't mad at him about the whole Deep Six thing. Well … Gibbs didn't seem upset, but Tim didn't really want to push him and find out. Besides, he didn't think Gibbs would be open to the idea of having Tim show up in his basement to whine about his writing career. And Tim hated bourbon.

Tim knocked on the door, hoping that Abby was still up. She answered on the second knock, perky and smiling, dressed in a black tank top and a pair of red pajama bottoms decorated with black Scottie dogs. Her slippers had small skulls on them, and she was stuffing the last part of a Twinkie in her mouth.

"MfGhees," she said, her mouth full of spongecake. "Whuf ere shue fruing ere?"

"I don't know, Abby," Tim said, sounding as pitiful as he could. "I just needed to talk to someone who didn't think I was a horrible person."

Abby swallowed the last of her Twinkie and regarded McGee with a parental smile. "Timmy," she said, going into the kitchen to put some hot chocolate on the stove, "no one thinks you're a horrible person. A little uncreative, maybe, but not horrible."

McGee stood in the doorway. "Um … Abby?" he said. "Can I come in?"

"Oh!" she said. "Of course, Timmy! I'm sorry."

McGee slouched into the room and dropped a small duffel bag on the floor by the couch.

"What's that?" Abby said, furrowing her brow and cocking her head to the side as she pointed to the bag.

"Change of clothes," McGee said as took off his jacket and flopped on the couch with a sigh.

"Are you … um … planning to stay over?" Abby asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Well, yeah," McGee said. Then he looked up at her anxiously. "I can, can't I? I need you Abbs." He was almost whining.

"Gosh, McGee," Abby began, sitting primly on the ottoman by the couch. "I usually require a few dates, maybe dinner … at least a Caff-Pow. I'm not going to jump into bed just because you had a bad day. I mean, I might do that for Tony, but that's totally different." She regarded him innocently.

McGee looked confused. "Abby …" he said, sitting up and looking at her. "We've already done all of that. We already had the dates and the exchanged gifts and the dinners and … we've already been together."

"'Been together', Timmy?" Abby said, looking as though she didn't understand.

"Slept together!" McGee said. He was obviously agitated. "We've slept together!"

"Timothy McGee!" Abby said, as she jumped up off the ottoman and stepped back to the door. "How dare you imply that we have had sex." She looked as though she was going to slap him.

"But we DID!" McGee exclaimed with frustration. "It's CANON."

Abby sighed patiently. "No one ever saw anything, Timmy," she said. "It was all implied."

"Tony teased us about it," McGee said, in an almost pleading tone. "Remember that comment about sleeping in the coffin? And Gibbs has said things."

"But never anything specific," Abby said as she went to the closet to get some extra pillows and blankets. "It was all just smoke and mirrors; jokes about what they thought might have happened. They were teasing."

"But … but … but …" McGee stuttered.

"Think back, McGee," Abby said, depositing the pillows and blankets on the couch and going back into the kitchen to check on the hot chocolate. "Has anyone ever seen us together? Has anyone ever seen us on a date? I don't think anyone even saw you the day that you were ogling my tattoos. All we've done is hug." She poured chocolate into two mugs, plopped in a few marshmallows, and came back to the couch, handing one to McGee. He took it and sat with the mug in his hands, looking bewildered.

Abby continued. "I've been in my underwear in your apartment, but that's certainly not the same thing as having sex. And we've never shown up to work together or left work together."

McGee opened his mouth to speak, but Abby cut him off.

"You've told Tony we had dates or maybe mentioned to Kate that we had plans, but no one ever saw us."

McGee's head was spinning. He didn't understand. Maybe he was in the middle of a story, and couldn't tell reality from fiction. Maybe he was having a weird flashback. Maybe he was dreaming. He spilled a little bit of hot chocolate on himself, just to see if it would burn. It did.

"McGee!" Abby said, jumping up to get a cool towel for the place on his hand that had been hit by the chocolate. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out if I'm having a dream," McGee said, as he leaned back on the couch and allowed Abby to put the cool towel first on his hand, then on his forehead.

"Nope, Timmy," Abby said, leaving the washcloth on his forehead and giving him a quick kiss on the temple. "You're here. You're just confused."

"But, I remember …"

"Do you, McGee? Do you remember things actually happening, or do you just remember the memory?"

With that, McGee closed his eyes and willed himself to be back in his apartment, with his things and without Abby.

"You're a writer, Tim," Abby continued. "You know about things like misdirection and implication and innuendo. That's all this is. That's all we are."

And suddenly, McGee knew she was right. He wasn't remembering them being together, he was remembering the memory. And then, suddenly, a thousand ideas began to fill his head. A thousand plots for stories. He had to leave … to go home … to write them down.

"Thank you, Abby," McGee said, as he quickly handed her his hot chocolate and tossed the damp towel on the coffee table. He grabbed his duffel, put on his jacket, kissed Abby on the cheek and headed out the door.

Abby looked around her now empty apartment and smiled.

"That was way too easy," she said to the small skeleton doll on her bookshelf. "Way too easy."