Chapter Four
I've Seen Things

It's 9:13 Tuesday morning when Tim's cell phone rings, the message very brief. Leaving the bullpen, he takes the elevator up a level and down the corridor to the 4th floor Chaplain's office.

When he opens the door she stands up from her desk across the rectangular room. There's little here but her desk and chair at the thin far wall with a crucifix over them, a couch to his right and some filing cabinets to his left. She keeps furnishings sparse to show to visitors her focus is on them. However, he's often wondered where she got that crucifix, for Christ's hands are not nailed to the wood but reach out to the observer.

"I just wanted to thank you again for last night, and for this evening." She's back in her professional attire of black pants, light blue back button shirt and wraparound white collar; no more sweats until tonight, not that she doesn't look great to him in anything she wears.

"You're welcome. I'll be there for seven, Gibbs willing."

"God willing," she corrects firmly. "I forgot to mention yesterday," she glances at the checkbook on her desk, then back to him, "we allocated $400 for these two nights, if–"

He waves it off. "Donate it to wherever it's needed. As I said, this has all been very enlightening. I even have an answer to my question I asked you downstairs yesterday."

"Oh?"

"Yes, about if even Priests get taken over knees for some much needed correction."

"Why Timmy, whatever do you mean?" She adjusts her glasses, unable to look as innocent as she would sound.

"You said yesterday, to me, to them, that 'there'd been a cancellation', so you did tell the literal truth. But Joan Zizmor didn't cancel her appointment. You did."

She shakes her head. "Never try to fool an Investigator."

"We're trained to pick up not just on what's said but how - though I have to admit it didn't hit me until last night. I blame that workout suit you wore." She grins; they both know that was only part of what had overloaded his mind last evening. "The only thing I don't understand is: Why?"

x

She takes a deep breath, clearly considering her words. He's sure she's done it several times already. "Timmy, I've seen things. I know you needed this course as badly as those women do. Agent DiNozzo may see women as sexual conquests, as romantic prey, but you see them with an apprehension that borders on timidity. I don't mean you're afraid of women, but you don't know how to deal with them.

"I blame this current Sexual Harassment atmosphere," she continues, annoyance creeping into her tone. "The lawsuits that turn common decency into something enforced and legislated, these damned courses that you and I and everyone else has to take and pass every single year between then and forever - did you know George and I have to take the same three courses each and every year or Saint Mary's loses its Insurance? But that's neither here nor there; the fact is you needed last night. You were so concerned about crossing some boundary that you couldn't even touch them. You blushed – would you like to know how many times you blushed?"

"No."

"It was a lot."

"I believe you."

x

She steps closer, her hands on his arms. "You needed to learn how to be comfortable being close to women, to interacting with them. Not like with me, or Abby or Ziva or Michelle, just … women."

"I suppose you're right."

"Mad at me?" He turns, goes back to the door and locks it. "Timmy?"

He comes back to her and she's not sure what to do. "No, I'm not mad. Manipulated, but not mad. I understand your motives, and helping is important."

Hand on her chest, she heaves a relieved sigh. "I was afraid you'd be mad."

"Oh, I'm not mad. I just think we should rehearse for tonight."

He grabs her shoulders, steps past and she cries out as he trips her and eases her down onto the couch. He pushes her legs up and then sits on the edge of the couch so his hips trap hers. She tries to sit up but he grasps her shoulders, trapping her.

"Timmy!" He grabs her wrists, presses until her hands are trapped on either side of her head.

But despite her vulnerable position, he looming over her, she's not afraid. "So," she says, "you've decided to take me over your knees after all?" She's not entirely certain how she'll feel about the reality - he's never hit her - but she thinks that maybe, with him, she might - someday - allow herself to find out.

"Perhaps." He leans forward and releases her wrists, their arms go about one another and their lips meet. After many seconds he pulls back an inch. "Maybe ... if you're a bad girl... we'll work up to that."

Fin.