Chapter Five
Tim was grateful for one thing at that moment.
That Tony had at least waited until the rest of the team, even Gibbs, probably eager for that hot date with some wood and some bourbon, had departed for the night to confront him.
Tim waited a few minutes, and then finally glanced up from his case report.
"What do you want, Tony?" He asked in a flat voice. Tony tilted his head to the side and slid a hand casually down his tie.
"What, can't a man visit his partner at work?" Tony's light tone contrasted vividly with his serious demeanor. There was a small smile on his face that seemed more a formality than to convey any sort of happiness.
"When the man's you, no." Tim pressed print on his report and straightened in his chair. "Plus, the Godfather marathon you've been talking about for days started an hour ago, and you're still here."
Tony pressed his lips together and leaned rigidly against Tim's desk. Tim could see he wasn't going to just drop it like the last few times. Shoot. "Something's wrong in the neighborhood, McGee, and it isn't just that I'm missing a cinematic masterpiece right now."
Tim took a breath, keeping his face straight and completely clear. Options, options, options. Mental filing drawers were thrown open. He could always force Tony to forget, defer the thoughts, reach inside and pluck the thoughts away. It'd be so damn easy…no. Tim shoved those thoughts as far away as possible. No. Never. Not on them. The snipping sound of his report printing cut annoyingly into his thoughts.
"McGee. C'mon,"
Tim's eyes flickered back to Tony. Time's up. Tony folded his arms against his chest, and eyed Tim in a stern, oddly mature manner. It'd been a long time since Tim had seen Tony this serious. He swallowed.
"Don't try to lie to me, Tim. I invented the art of lying." Tony tipped his chin up.
"Really, Tony?"
"I perfected the art of lying." Tony amended. "Either way, I'm pretty damn good at it. Don't try and pull the wool over your master's eyes, grasshopper."
Tim paused and stole a breath. Words then. So human. You really have gone native haven't you? Old you would have gently, but forcefully, maneuvered him out of your way. Tim was unsure how this made him feel.
"I wasn't going to. But I can't tell you, Tony." He met Tony's eyes, silently urging him (Purely human. No immortal powers in use there) to listen very carefully and believe him. "Not right now." Maybe not ever, if the cards played out in the way Tim hoped they would. "I have to handle this myself." Tony opened his mouth. "Please." Tony mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth against teeth. Tim sensed a hesitant and rather bittersweet victory on the horizon. Tony stood there, silent for a moment.
"Yeah, alright. But," Tony cut in sharply after a small pause. "If you get in over your head, tell me." Tony stood, headed over to his own desk, swung his bag onto his back and placed a hand on his lamp. He turned to face Tim and smiled widely. "I've spent too long molding you into shape to have to start over with some new green-as-grass Probie." He extinguished the light. Tim closed his eyes and rubbed his face. Footsteps thumped out of the bullpen and a whistled, slightly out of tune, version of the theme from the Godfather grew quieter and quieter until it was cut off completely as elevator doors whispered shut.
o-o
The darkness of the morgue embraced the figure like a beloved, wayward father, returning from a long, unexplained absence, bending inward toward the figure. The darkness seemed to dare not touch the figure's cloak, unless it would be pulled into the nothingness, dragged, clawing, pleading, into a blackness that was beyond anything it could ever be.
The figure stood among the empty shells in their metal boxes, and the worshipping darkness, and was home, in a way. Or as close to home as a creature such as this one could ever get.
A house of Death.
If one ever asked Death if he remembered any of his victims, he would say no. He didn't have victims, and he never would if he could help it. If one ever asked if he remembered any of his charges, he would say yes. Yes, he did, every single last one. There were so many. There still are, at that very moment.
No one ever asked though.
The door to Autopsy swished open.
"-And next time, Mr. Palmer, do what you have been told to do, [i]when[/i] you are told to do it."
"I'm really, really sorry, Doctor. I can stick around and do it right now if-"
"No, go ahead and depart for the evening, Mr. Palmer, I will handle it this time. I understand the lovely Breena is waiting for you?"
"…yes."
"Go."
"Night, Doctor."
"Good night, Mr. Palmer."
The figure didn't move as Ducky entered autopsy, looking mildly irritated but mostly amused. He went to his desk and shifted through a few papers, shaking his head slightly. He stiffened, as if feeling the odd gaze focused on him, turned and saw the figure. He froze for a second and then a wan smile appeared on his face.
"Is it that time already?" Ducky asked softly.
No. Not yet, Dr. Mallard.
"Ducky, please."
There was a sudden distinct sense that if one could view the figure's features, there'd be a tired smile there.
You do realize who I am, don't you Ducky?
Ducky peered intently over the rims of his glasses. There was a hint of old familiarity in his eyes. The figure felt an odd sliver of fear that he might be recognized not for what stood there.
"Of course I do." Ducky's eyes glinted for a moment. "I converse with you daily, though you've never reciprocated before in this direct a manner. What brings you here?"
A pause.
How do you see me?The question came out as a whisper, words creeping, weak and somber, into an uncertain place filled with no answers. They trickled from the figure and slithered into a pile on the ground.
Am I a plague? Am I a monstrosity? The horror, the horror?
"No, you are a balance. Without death, would life hold any of its value? My dear boy," Ducky sighed. The figure held a phantom smile. Only Ducky would call an immortal being, 'My dear boy'. "Without an end, would a beginning be worth it?" Ducky carefully placed his hat back onto his head, a shake visible in his hand. He nodded to the figure and strolled out through the doors which slid open to say farewell. He paused in the doorway, and then looked back, smiling in a kind of dark cheerfulness. "And I'd be very well out of employment if you were absent."
The doors slid closed behind him, leaving behind an empty room, inhabited only by the dead and their gatekeeper.