Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction. -- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Chapter Four

Seventeen years later…

"Look at this, Little Mom! This is soooo cool!!" Miles McGee leaned over the back of the easy chair in which Abby sat, his long frame bending, as he thrust a web printout under her nose.

Abby McGee smiled benevolently up at her older son, loving him despite the, bright, burgundy hair. Why he'd ever dyed his lovely dark auburn locks she'd never understand. "Nice tats," she agreed. "I particularly like the dragon with the spear. But no, you can't get one. You have to be 18 in this state to be tattooed."

"So does that mean I can go to another state, Little Mom?" he wheedled, with a grin.

He called her 'Little Mom' because at 16 years of age and a height of 6' 4", he towered over her. "No," said Abby, firmly. "As your father and I have told you, the Navy long ago stopped welcoming sailors with lots of tats. If you still want to go into the Navy, hold off on getting tats until you're out."

"I do want to join the Navy, more than ever!" Miles danced. He always had plenty of energy to burn off. "How about it, Gus? You going to join the Navy with me?"

His brother, 14, looked up from his computer and grinned, running a hand through his sandy hair. "Maybe. I dunno. If I could get a science-based job, sure, why not?"

"You have plenty of time to decide," Abby said lovingly. "Just because your brother has had his life mapped out for a couple of years doesn't mean you have to, too. Oh, there's your father."

"Good! We can eat!" Miles sprang up. "Hi, Dad! Welcome home! Swing me?" he asked, mischievously.

Tim McGee laughed. Miles had his mother's insouciant sense of humor. "Swing you? Miles, you started to be too big to swing when you were five!"

"You don't know that unless you try."

"I know that if I pull the pin off a grenade, it'll likely go off."

"Aw…"

"Miles wants to get a tat, Dad," Gus winked at his brother.

"I think Miles has wanted a tat since he was 2. The answer is still no."

"Aw, c'mon, Dad; just a small one? Didn't I hear Tony say that to impress Mom, you got one on your—"

Abby cleared her throat. "Dinner is served." She might have been a tad unconventional, even wild, before she got married, but she was determined to bring her boys up right. And she and Tim had. The well-mannered boys were a delight: loving, happy, respectful, and were even each other's best friends, despite different interests.

"I was an adult then," said Tim. "You have a lot more school ahead of you, Miles. You're sure you still want to go through with your plan?"

"Oh, yeah, Dad! Nothing's changed. I finish high school June of next year. Then I'm off for MIT, where I'll major in…well, I haven't exactly figured that out yet! Criminal justice with a psych minor, maybe." Miles was bright, but he didn't have the vision when it came to computers that his father and brother did. "Then I'm doing four years in the Navy as a commissioned officer. I know, I know, I don't have to, but I want to. I think it'll give me a better perspective when I get into my real job, as a special agent at NCIS."

"I wish I knew what I want to do," Gus sighed. "Something science! But I don't know what. I love everything science. Why do I have to specialize??"

"Because you can't learn everything," said Abby. "Gus, if you want to be a forensic scientist like me, you'll certainly want chemistry, and some classes in other sciences, too."

"You have to get tats like Mom," Miles teased.

"Nope," said Gus. "So not me."

"Then don't get them, August," said Tim. "Pass the mashed potatoes, please."

- - - - -

Abby came into the bedroom while Tim was taking off his sports coat and tie after dinner. Although they didn't complain in his hearing, he knew that his growing sons were usually ravenous by the time he got home from work, which was often not until after 7, so he insisted that they not wait dinner on him while he dressed down.

Abby put her arms around Tim's waist from behind, and rested her head on his back, enjoying his scent. "You got a letter from your editor."

"Good old Tobey! Not still trying to get me to write another Cop Father, I hope?" Tim had abandoned that series after the car bombing, even refusing a movie option. Cop Father, and its author, Magnus Trotsky, had retired into the sunset.

But it was Abby, less than a year after they married, who asked Tim if he missed writing. He'd admitted he did but insisted that he would never again write about his family. He'd looked at her large, swelling belly, and then at her eyes.

"You told me, years ago, that you wanted to write about crime, about more of your experiences as an agent," she had persisted. "Why not do that?"

"Because I couldn't sell the book. Deep Six was rejected by 13 publishers."

"And one said it was because the characters lacked depth. Try rewriting them, one at a time, and see what happens. Come on, Tim! You've had two books published! Surely you know more now about writing than you did back then!"

He did, though he was afraid that original characters were still not his strong suit. "Abby," he had said, cautiously, "I think I could do better if I tried writing as the early writers did. On a manual typewriter. Do you think it would be alright if I bought one?"

"Sure, Tim," she said. "We're not hurting for money, even with the baby coming." It was true; Abby drew a good salary, and Tim was at a significantly higher pay scale than when he'd married Erin.

And so Tim finally got his typewriter and wrote. He proudly, again, showed his teammates the galleys when they came out. It only took about six months for them to forgive him for thinly disguising them in his book.

Abby opened the letter; Tim never minded her doing that. They were a team. "No, no Cop Father. He wants you to go on a book tour for your sixth novel, Mr. Thom E. Gemcity."

"The answer's the same as before. 'No'. Thom E. Gemcity makes few public appearances. He's secretly a family man." Tim smiled and kissed his wife, his center of joy. His only surprise, after 17 years of marriage, was that she loved him so much. Could anyone be happier than I am? He continued to smile as Abby handed him another letter that had come that day.

- - - - -

In the living room, the boys were on two computers when Tim and Abby returned. "Mom, Dad, settle an argument," said Miles. "Gus doesn't believe that my name means 'soldier'."

"It does, Gus," said Tim, ruffling the younger boy's hair. "It's Latin, although some sources say it's Germanic, meaning 'peaceful'. We've told you boys this before."

"But it sounds like an Army name," Miles complained, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Why not a Navy name?"

"Because you father wouldn't let me name you 'Jack Tar'," said Abby, and both boys hooted. They never grew tired of the joke.

" 'Miles' is a good name," Tim insisted. "What are you doing there, Gus?"

"Morphing," said Gus. "It's been six months since I last did it. I wanted to see what they'd look like now."

They clustered around Gus' computer and gazed at the pictures of the young men. "You don't mind, do you, Dad?" Miles asked softly, kindly. "It helps us feel closer to them. Our brothers."

The pictures projected what Scott and Neil might look like now, had they lived. The science behind the software was now very good, so there was little doubt that this was how they would have turned out. 

Brown-haired Scott, 21 here, was smiling winningly, his blue eyes bright. Gus had put him in a Navy uniform, although he, too, would have been encouraged to finish college first. Neil, 19, had a mischievous grin and wore glasses over laughing green eyes. His hair was dark and a bit unruly.

"You don't have to keep doing this," Tim said. "They're dead. Long dead."

"They're still our brothers," said Gus. "I wish we'd known them."

"I wish you had, too," said Abby. "They were great kids."

"You got through it, Dad," said Miles. "when Erin, Scott and Neil died. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. But you found the courage to go on. You married Mom. You produced us. And you went on to become Director of NCIS. That's courage. You're my hero, Dad."

"Ah, when did you two get to be so wise?" Abby said, hugging both her sons. "Both so very wise, and yet unable to pick up your dirty socks."

Tim was beaming. He loved his family. Clearing his throat, he said, "Miles, a letter came today from MIT. How would you like to start there this fall? You'd be only 16, still…"

Miles nearly broke Tim's ribs with his hug. "I'd like! I'd like!"

- END -