Summary: One month after Tim rejoins Gibbs' team, he and Tony continue to work on things.

Author's Notes: Fourth and final piece in my "Truth" series. The song for this piece is "The Scientist" performed by Coldplay (To read the story with the lyrics embedded, please find me over on AO3). The title of this fic comes from a lyric in the song. This is written for the NFA "McNozzo: An Adventure in SMS" Challenge.

The bullpen was uncharacteristically silent, for a Monday afternoon. Gibbs' team had just wrapped up a case, and all were working on case reports. Usually, Gibbs would have expected banter from his boys. Today, both of them silently worked, ignoring the fact that the other was in the room.

Gibbs knew something was going on between Tony and Tim, and he hadn't bothered to lecture them on Rule 12. They were adults, and he'd treat them as such and let them work out whatever they needed to on their own, as long as their work wasn't affected.

A buzzing sound brought Gibbs' head up, and he saw McGee pick up his cell phone. At the same time, he saw Tony set his down on the desk.

I wonder what those two are up to.

Tim picked up his phone as it buzzed with a text message. He knew Gibbs had probably heard his phone go off, and the last thing he wanted was to be scolded for cell phone use at work, but he had to check it.

213-555-9845: Dinner later? My treat. A new Italian place just opened up near my apartment.

The number was Tony's. Tim hadn't programmed it back into his phone yet, though he knew he should, at least for work. They'd been trying to work on their relationship since Tim had come out with the Truth about why he'd left Tony so many months ago. They'd had dinner a few times, gone out for a beer after work here and there, and had been amicable on the job, but there was still a long road ahead.

Tim quickly texted him back.

213-555-4102: Sure. What's the address? I'll meet you there.

213-555-9845: It's 240 N 51st street. How about seven?

213-555-4102: Sounds good, if we're out of here by then. See you there.

"Are you two done texting each other?" Gibbs said, startling Tim enough to drop his phone on his desk with a clatter. I'm sure I can find some cold cases that need to get inputted into the computer if you two are that bored with your case reports."

"Sorry, Boss," Tim said, turning back to his computer.

~7:30 p.m. - outside of Via Abruzzi's Italian Restaurant~

Tim stood outside the main entrance of the Restaurant. Tony was supposed to meet him out front, and they would go in together. He was a half-hour late. Shivering, Tim took out his phone and texted him.

213-555-4102: Where the hell are you? I've been freezing my ass off outside of Via Abruzzi's for a half hour!

He got a response back right away.

213-555-9845: Flat tire. I'm still back at the Yard.

213-555-4102: Why didn't you call me sooner? It's five degrees out, Tony!

213-555-9845: I was more concerned about how my tire got flat at the moment.

213-555-4102: Why did I bother to agree to this at all? This was such a bad idea. I'm going home.

213-555-9845: You're an asshole. And I'm all right, thank you for asking.

213-555-4102: Good night, Tony. See you tomorrow morning.

Tim put his phone into his coat pocket and headed for the parking lot. He should have known this wouldn't be worth his time.

Tony threw his phone onto the passenger seat of his car. Every time he tried to do something nice with Tim, this was how he was repaid. He'd tried for a month to work things out with Tim, to give him a second chance, but it obviously wasn't working out.

~ Next Morning... 0700 hours~

Tim walked past his partner's desk without a second glance, and put his bag down. He knew Tony was probably glaring at him, and he wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

His phone buzzed as he sat down and turned on his computer.

213-555-9845: You look like you slept well last night. Not too worried about my well being, were you?


213-555-4102: You said you were at the Yard. There's no safer place in D.C. to be stranded than here. And I'm still pissed that you didn't text me earlier that you weren't coming.

213-555-9845: Catch a cold or something, McWhiner?

213-555-4102: Why can't you see that you were the one in the wrong last night?

213-555-9845: Because I wasn't wrong.

"When you two are done having your text argument, we have a dead sailor in Anacostia," Gibbs growled from his desk as he got up and went for his backpack.

Tim glared at Tony as he stood and picked up his own pack. They'd continue this conversation later. Face to face.

It took them all day to drive to Anacostia and process the crime scene. The ride back to the Yard was silent. The three of them were crammed into the front of the truck.

Tim and Tony were practically smushed together, with Gibbs' driving. It had been a long time since Tony had any physical contact with Tim. To feel him, even in their present situation, brought some level of comfort to him.

Tony started to think over the previous night's events, and it occurred to him that he was the one that was being an ass, not Tim.

Gibbs pulled the truck into the evidence garage killed the engine.

"McGee, unpack all of this evidence and bring it to Abby. DiNozzo, with me."

Both of them silently got out of the truck and parted ways.

Tony got into the elevator with Gibbs and they rode silently up to the bullpen. As soon as he stepped from the elevator, Gibbs turned to him.

"Background on our dead Sailor. I want your findings in 15 minutes. And no texting."

"On it, Boss."

Tony went to his desk and did as he was told. He really wanted to text Tim, but Gibbs was keeping an eye on him the entire time.

It was the longest fifteen minutes of his life.

Tim climbed up into the back of the truck and started to unpack the evidence totes. He was glad to finally be alone, after having been shoved in between Tony and Gibbs for the ride back from Anacostia. The ride had been painfully silent. He wished Tony would have made some rudimentary comment that made them all smile, like he always did.

This whole fight is fucking stupid, Tim thought as he hopped down from the truck with a bin full of blood samples. He set it on an evidence cart and climbed back in.

Tim wished he could erase the past six months from his life, and just go back to the way things used to be.

If only he were that lucky.

Tim's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he whipped it out and looked at it.

213-555-9845: I'm sorry.


213-555-4102: Me too.

213-555-9845: Come over tonight after work.

213-555-4102: Okay.

213-555-9845: This is Gibbs. Stop texting or I'll lock you in that evidence garage overnight.

Tim quickly pocketed his phone and got back to work.

~ That evening, about 8:00 p.m. ~

Tony plopped down on the couch, beer in hand. Gibbs had let them go around seven that evening, which gave Tony enough time to get home in time for the Magnum, P.I. marathon that was starting at eight that night. He flipped the channel to TNT and kicked back, just as his buzzer sounded.

Assuming it was the pizza guy, Tony got up and pushed the call button.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Tony."

Tony nearly dropped his beer when he heard Tim's voice. He'd almost forgotten about inviting Tim over. Tony nervously pushed the button to let Tim in, and unlatched the chain on his door. There was a knock a minute later, and Tony opened the door.

Tim took two steps into the apartment, put his hands on Tony's face, and kissed him. It was a searing, passionate kiss, and it took Tony by surprise. When they finally parted, Tony took a step back, chest heaving.

"Hi," he finally said, a small smile forming.

"Hi."

Their lips converged again with heated passion. Tim kicked the apartment door closed behind him as Tony pushed his jacket off. They made their way to the couch, their lips still attached, and made out like teenagers.

I'm going back to the start...

END