Mending Fences
Here's the first chapter of my next Tony!SEAL story. This is #18 if I haven't miss counted.
Tim takes a long lunch to mend fences with his father. Someone takes a pot shot at the admiral so it's now up to the Pod to figure out who.
Mending Fences
Betaed by Jake and Jordre
McGee looked up from his computer as Gibbs approached his desk. “Boss, Father asked me to have lunch with him. I’d like to go, if I can get off.”
Gibbs sat down at his desk and looked at his monitor. “All your paperwork done?”
“Yeah, just finished the last, and we’re off rotation for the rest of the day.”
“Okay, go. If we catch a case, I’ll text you the address and you get there when you can.”
Tim smiled happily. “Thanks, Boss. I’m hoping he’ll ... ease up on me some.”
Gibbs frowned. He hated the fact that Tim’s Admiral dad dismissed his job as “some sort of geek thing.” He was hoping that Tim and Admiral McGee could reconcile but he wasn’t going to put too much confidence in it until further notice. “Good luck with that.” His sarcasm was plain in his voice.
Tim grabbed his ruck ―you really couldn’t call it a go-bag― and trotted off.
AJ watched him go until he opened the stairway door. “Hope that works for him. He’s really sad that his father doesn’t recognize all his hard work.”
Remy shrugged. “He’ come ‘roun’. Heard good t’ings ‘bout the Admiral ... an’ bad. Hope more good dan bad in dis.”
Dean and Cos showed up just then and distracted the rest of the group with questions about the investigation.
.
Tim settled at the table that his father had reserved. He was a bit early, so he wasn’t worried about getting stood up, yet. He took a menu to look at while he waited.
It wasn’t long before the Admiral showed up dressed in service dress blues; the Navy version of a business suit. “Sorry I’m late. Jason McDonahue is a huge bag of hot air. I finally told him I was meeting you. He wasn’t that impressed. Jerk.”
Tim shrugged. “Some people are more impressed with their own importance than others are impressed by it. I deal with that all the time. I swear, Master Chief Petty Officers are just about the worst.”
“And who would you say are the absolute worst?” John really was interested in his son’s answer.
“I’m not sure. LTJG’s are bad. They’re just far enough up the food chain that they’re really touchy about shit.” He glanced at the menu again. “What’s good here?”
“Steak ... Surf ’n Turf ... the salads aren’t bad, but ...” he eyed his son. “You look like you need a bit more meat on your bones, you okay?” He thought a second then asked, “And shouldn’t you be wearing blues?” referring to the Navy NWU or Naval Working Uniform.
Tim grinned, it felt good to realize that his Father really was concerned, he could tell by the look in his eyes. “Yeah. I just let my weight get away from me a bit. Jet’s pissed. AJ’s practically force-feeding me.” He realized his father needed a bit more information. “I’m not cutting back on the exercise, so I need more calories.” He shrugged. “Vance has decided that we can wear either Blacks or Coyote A-TAC’s but not blues or current MARPAT. That way we’re not confused with enlisted.”
“I see. You should have the ... share a Porterhouse with me?” At Tim’s ‘Sure. Sounds good,’ he continued, “Baked potato with sour cream and butter. Steamed mixed veg with just salt and pepper? And how can you burn up enough calories to look starved?”
Tim shrugged. “Sounds good. Just-rare steak?” John nodded. “I run 15 to 20 miles a week, depending on the weather. Swim another 10 to 15. Lift weights three times a week, working on strength rather than bulk. And do an hour of Tai Chi and an hour of yoga at least three days a week. That’s on top of the shooting to keep up my quals and all the running around on investigations and what not.”
John looked impressed. “You’re out in the field?”
“Yeah. I am not a desk jockey, no matter what you think.” Tim frowned at the menu to keep from getting snappish.
“Yes. um ... I had a man look into things. And I read his report carefully. There wasn’t any mention of you being in the field. Only glowing descriptions of your computer skills.” John frowned at the Host who scurried forward. “We’d like to order. Send our waiter over, please”
The waiter showed up, apologizing for making them wait but admitting he hadn’t expected them to make up their minds so quickly.
“That’s fine, son. We’re just men of action.”
Tim waited while his father ordered for them. He was pleasantly surprised that he remembered that shrimp cocktail was one of his favorites.
“So, you’re a field agent? I know ... I’m ashamed that I don’t know this. I was always so invested in you following family tradition that I never thought ... and that sea sickness, it’s really some sort of inner ear thing?”
“Yeah. Tradition is good, but not when it’s not good for the person. Tradition can show you a way to go and help open doors ... or it can be a straight jacket. In my case it’s the latter. And it is an inner ear condition. I forget what it’s called, but Ducky diagnosed me. It’ll never go away. Crackers and apples with ginger beer help; I just tough it out as best I can. I actually got sent ashore one time. I got dehydrated and passed out. Scared AJ and Jet into fits. I couldn’t even keep sugar water down.”
John McGee looked impressed. “It takes days for that to happen. I’d have thought you’d head for shore sooner.”
“I couldn’t. Matter of National Security that ... I don’t think your clearance is high enough. Sorry.”
“I’m cleared for Top Secret.” John looked indignant.
“I’m cleared for Top Secret too. But, as you know, there’s Top Secret, then there’s Top Secret.” You could hear the underline in his voice. Tim leaned back to let the waiter put his shrimp cocktail in front of him. “Thank you.”
John did the same then returned to their conversation saying, “I know. There’s a list floating around out there.” He chuckled softly. “It’s not official, but it works. There’s Top Secret, Extra Top Secret, Super Top Secret, and Burn Before Reading, Shoot Yourself In the Head After.”
Tim snorted. “I’ve heard AJ say that. I’m in the Super Top Secret bunch.”
John blinked then said, “I’m only Top Secret. Damn.” He bit a shrimp in half, chewed then asked, “I hear you’re considered one of the best hackers. I’m not even sure what that is.”
Tim poked at his cocktail for a moment, selected a shrimp then nibbled on it while he decided what he should ―or could― say. “Okay, basically, a hacker is someone who can break into a computer, server farm, or some other computer-based something ... without passwords, going around, through, or breaking firewalls and ... you don’t care about details.” Admiral McGee shook his head. “It’s either highly illegal, or very desirable. Or both. And that’s why my clearance is so high. I hack computers for NCIS. Mostly computers owned by either dead people, or criminals, which contain classified data.”
“I see.” He ate another shrimp. “I heard some scuttlebutt about a ... person who hacked ... an alphabet. One of those so top secret things. Interesting, in and of itself, but ...” he trailed off.
Tim nodded. “I heard the same thing. Seems that ... that alphabet… was blocking an investigation by ... another alphabet. Treason is treason, whether it’s committed by ... an operative or a civilian. No matter who pissed in whose ...” he waved a shrimp, “whatever.”
“I see. So ...” John had his answer. Tim hadn’t committed himself to anything and John wasn’t about to make him. Hacking the CIA was sure to piss them off, no matter who you were or why you did it. He had a quiet snicker to himself then turned the conversation to other, more comfortable subjects.
As he searched for a new subject his eyes fell on Tim’s ruck. “You carry a full ruck?”
“Yeah. You never know what you’ll need. Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.” Tim finished his last shrimp.
John eyed the ruck. “How much does that weigh?”
“Mmm. About forty-five ― fifty pounds. Not what I’d carry into a combat zone ... for that I’d add ammo, more food, water, and clothing ... but I actually use most of the stuff in there now on every crime scene. Plus a med kit, extra laptop, and some survival stuff. Mostly ... well, three MRE’s, water, water purification tabs, trail mix ... that sort of thing. And I’ve needed every bit of it at one time or another.”
John frowned, “I just ... you have no idea what a shooting war is like, so I don’t understand this ...” he waved a hand.
Tim didn’t let him get any farther. “Well, I’ve never been in combat overseas, but I’ve been shot at, shot, stabbed, blown up, and beaten. So ... no. You don’t get to go there.”
John’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Oh, and I forgot. Plane crash. Survival in the wilderness and ...” he grinned. “Stakeouts with AJ. Man’s a lunatic.”
John sighed. “Seems I’m really off base. Ah!”
The steak arrived just then, with two plates and the sides on their own little plates. Tim eyed the salad and said, “Take that back. The lettuce is brown, the tomatoes are dried out and ... never mind a critique, just get it out of my sight.” He wasn’t rude about it but he was very firm.
John eyed his salad and agreed. “He’s right. Just take it off the bill. I don’t think you’ll be able to do any better a second time around.”
The waiter flushed heavily, snatched the plates up and scurried off. After some consultation with the manager, he returned to offer free desserts. Tim agreed, asking for apple pie with ice cream. John declined, patting his belt, “No thanks. Got to watch the ol’ waistline.”
While the waiter had been talking with the manager, John had taken it upon himself to cut the steak in half, put one half on a plate for Tim and take the other for himself. Tim was pleased to see that his father had cut the eye in half and given each of them a part. Some people would cut the eye off then cut off a smaller piece of the opposite side. John had cut the tenderloin off, cut it in half then cut the New York Strip in half as well.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.” He refrained from mentioning the steamed veg, which looked tired.
They each cut into their steak, took a bite and chewed. Tim nodded happily. “Mmmm. Really good.”
John agreed. “They might not do veggies or salads well, but their steaks are the best.”
Tim disagreed. “You haven’t tasted Gibbs’ cowboy steaks. They’re ... melt in your mouth. He has a huge cast iron skillet. Heats it up red hot, throws in the steaks then puts butter on top of them. When he turns them over he pours beer on them then shuts the grill. Three minutes a side then another five. Perfect.”
“Sounds like a real winner.”
They continued to eat in near silence, only remarking on the food from time to time. This didn’t bother either of them as they were both trained not to talk with their mouths full and not to let good food go cold over gossip.
Tim suddenly realized something. “Where’s your entourage? I thought you had ... staff.”
“I do. But I sent them to a different restaurant down the street. We don’t need them. Besides, my staff isn’t big enough to properly be an entourage. I’ve got an assistant, a secretary and a couple of body guards.”
Tim thought about that one. “Why an assistant and a secretary?”
“My Assistant keeps all my appointments straight, keeps my contacts up to date and makes sure I don’t double book. My Secretary keeps up with all my communications, paper letters, reports, email ... that sort of thing. Makes sure I read what I should, get summaries of other things and that I’m not bothered by people who want me to do their jobs for them because they’re too limp-wristed to do the job themselves.”
“I see. Should you have sent them so far away?” Tim worried about that a bit.
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll call before we get ready to leave and have my car brought around,” John nodded once.
“Okay.” Tim wasn’t sure he liked the arrangement, but figured his father ought to know what he was doing by now.
They finished their meal, dessert included. Tim unashamedly pigged down John’s apple pie a la mode as well as his own. “Thank you. That was very good.” Tim picked up his ruck and slung it over one shoulder.
John eyed that for a moment then said, “You ought to put that over both shoulders properly, you’ll throw out your back.”
“I know. AJ’s always on me about it, but it’s a nuisance to put it on just to take it off again. Call your people, okay?” But he stuck his arm into the other strap and jiggled the ruck into position.
John made the call then said, “Five minutes.”
Tim followed him out the door to stand under the canopy to wait for his car. “I’ll stay with you until your car arrives.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, I came in my SUV.” Tim had finally bought himself an SUV; his Boxter was just too twitchy for the local winters. “Thanks.”
He moved out to the curb to look for the car. He was shocked to hear the ‘wheet’ of a bullet and feel the punch of one hitting his ruck. “Fuck! Everyone down! Now!” Everyone within ear shot hit the sidewalk or ran into a building… or just stood where they were and screamed.
Tim grabbed his father, who had ducked and was hunched down to make as small a target as possible. He covered him, feeling another punch as a second bullet hit his back.
John’s driver saw what was happening and actually drove the SUV onto the sidewalk, providing additional cover as he drove into the supports of the canopy making it collapse, shutting off the area completely.
Tim groaned but managed to cover his father and hustle him back into the restaurant. The two bodyguards hustled in right behind them, followed by the rest of the staff.
When they got inside they were greeted by a crowd of looky-Lou’s and several people who insisted on leaving by that particular door. Tim took one look and blew up. “You! Get the fuck back inside. You! Lock the damn door.” He pointed first to the milling group of diners, then the maître d’ who hurried to lock the door. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch! I can’t believe it. Not again! AJ’s gonna go spastic!”
Then he dialed 911. “This is Timothy McGee, NCIS Badge 2140. I’ve got shots fired at this location. Do not respond ... I repeat, do not respond. Shots were aimed at Admiral John McGee. That makes this an NCIS case. If we need crowd control, we’ll call the non-emergency number.” He listened for a moment then said, “Two shots, both hit my ruck.” He then hung up, dialed NCIS and went through the whole thing again, this time he requested his team to come work the scene.
He realized that someone was pulling at his ruck, so he let them have it. He turned to find someone he didn’t know holding it. “What?”
“I’m one of Admiral McGee’s personal assistants, Captain Martin. I’ve got some EMT training. Where are you wounded?” The Captain looked concerned so Tim twitched his shoulders.
“I don’t think I am. I feel like someone took a fuckin’ bat to my damn back but ... I don’t ...” he jumped as the man poked his back. “Ow.”
“Well, let me see you.”
Tim started to lift his shirt. A voice from the main room called, “Let me through, please. I’m a physician.”
Tim recognized Brad Pitt’s voice and said, “Let him through.” He turned to Captain Martin. “It’s okay. That’s Dr Pitt. No offense to your skills but, if I don’t let him see me and AJ finds out, he’ll take me on the mats.”
The captain chuckled. “I’ve heard about Badger. And no offense taken.” He backed away to begin the task of rearranging the Admiral’s schedule.
Dr Pitt took a good look at Tim, checked his lung sounds and palpated his abdomen. “You’re okay. I’d like you to take it easy, but I know that’s not gonna happen until this is over. Just take it as easy as you can. Analgesics of choice as needed. Head for the ER if things go sideways. Now ... I need to get out of here. I didn’t see anything, don’t know anything, and I’m due in surgery in two hours.”
Tim pointed, “Go out the back door. Thanks.” He yanked his shirt back down just in time for Gibbs to charge in and take over, much to his relief.
AJ’s wild-eyed look faded, “Damn it, Tim, this is the second time you’ve gotten shot. I told you ... not. You been checked out?”
Tim nodded to AJ. “Hey. Yeah. Pitt gave me a once-over. Glad you’re here. Keep me from shootin’ the stupid.”
AJ shook his head. “You can’t shoot ‘em. It’ll just get you whispered about and pointed at. And think of the paper work. By the way, you’re fillin’ out the shot report.” He grinned and shook his head “So, what the Foxtrot Hotel?”
“Someone sniped my Father. Only I got in the way. So ... we need to find out whose damn whiskey he pissed in this time.”
Remy ambled over with a small screw of pills. “Candy. Take it.” He eyed Tim, shook his head and said, “Tol’ ya .. don’an get shot again. Bitch.”
Tim just popped the thing into his mouth and chewed. “Thanks. Jerk.”
Gibbs showed up looking pissed. “Damnit, Tim.” He glanced around, saw the Admiral, stomped over and dragged him into a side room and got him seated. “Okay. What the hell?”
John McGee rubbed his face with both hands. “I have no clue. I haven’t pissed anyone off lately. You’ll do better to talk to my assistant and secretary. I need to see Timothy.”
Gibbs glowered at John for a moment, assessing him; he realized that the man had no idea. “Go. Send in your men, check on Tim and make sure he doesn’t over-do.”
Admiral McGee left to find his son. Said son was found in the main dining room, sitting at a central table. The entire room was controlled chaos as several tables were being used to interview the few people who actually admitted to seeing anything. Tim was doing something with a computer and making faces.
John sat down across from him. “Tim?” Tim looked up, grimacing as the motion made his blooming bruises twinge. “You okay? Really?”
Tim nodded. “I’m going to hurt like hell in a couple of hours, but my ruck absorbed most of the inertia. Ruined my damn laptop and my tablet, but AJ brought my backups with him. They took my whole ruck into evidence.” Tim returned to his computer for a moment then said, “Did you see anything at all?”
“No. I was texting when I heard the thud. I’m afraid I had no idea what I was hearing.” John actually fidgeted for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
Tim glanced up, realized that his father really needed reassurance. “I’m sure. First Dr Pitt, then an EMT looked me over ―whoever called them is a jackass― then Jimmy did. I’m fine. Just gonna be sore, just like last time. Only that was a .25 cal; this was more like a .30-.30 or something.”
“Jimmy? He’s a Medical Examiner.” John frowned.
“He’s also a medical doctor, and he’s taken EMT courses. He works the ER at Bethesda two shifts a week.” Tim returned to his computer. “Now ... I need to get this interview over with.” He rubbed his face, looking exhausted.
John settled down to the interview with a grumbled, “Okay, fine. But ... shouldn’t you be resting or something?”
Tim nodded. “Why do you think I want this done? I want to get back to NCIS, finish a Foxtrot Tango of paperwork, then take a nap in Abby’s lab. So ... Let’s please do this.”
John settled in then, answering all Tim’s questions. When they were done, Gibbs ambled by to say, “Tim, go the fuck home. We’ll wrap it up here. Ballistics seem to prove that the Admiral was the target. We’re still working on why. So go.” Tim just nodded, closed his computer and left, for NCIS. Gibbs turned to Admiral McGee. “You come up with a list of people you’ve pissed off enough to make them want to shoot you. E-mail it to Tim when you get it done. Might want to consult with your staff. Go.” He wandered off, consulting with someone who’d trotted up with a handful of papers.
Admiral John McGee was not an idiot, a fool in some ways, but not an idiot. He gathered up his staff and went back to his office to compile the list. He did think that his son was a bit officious and needed to back off a bit. After all, he was only a field agent, not a supervisor.
.
Tim settled at his desk with a soft groan. He was sure he had at least one cracked rib, maybe two. But he didn’t have time to hurt just yet, he had to set up his searches. He wondered if he was going to have to get clearance to check out the Admiral; he didn’t even think of him as father anymore. He wondered when they’d gotten so disconnected. He ignored his phone in favor of getting things done.
Jimmy dropped by, handed him more candy and remarked, “Did good. Call me if you have trouble breathing. Do not pull an AJ. If you do, I’ll kick your ass.”
“It’s already kicked but I’ll be down in Abby’s lab as soon as I get this shit set up.” Tim clicked his mouse then got up. “On my way as I grumble.” He shouldered Jimmy. “Jerk.”
“Bitch. Rest ... or I’ll tell Jet.”
Tim moaned, “No, just no. I’m gone. Seriously. Bad enough Abby’s gonna pitch a fit.” He headed for the elevator, feeling every step.
The second he entered the lab Abby jumped him, figuratively speaking; she had learned her lesson with AJ. “Tim! You look like hell. Hug?”
“No, Abby, too sore. I came down to see if I can lay down on your futon for a bit. Getting shot in the ruck really hurts. And in more fuckin’ ways than one.” He leaned against the coolers as he waited for Abby to get her futon out. “That cock-sucking twat-waffle shot my new laptop and my fuckin’ tablet. When I get my hands on him, he’s ... I’m gonna fuck ‘im up good.”
Abby gave a squeak. “Well, it’s lucky that we backed everything up just yesterday. Shame about that laptop. You’ve only had it ... what? ... a week?”
“Not even that. Ordered it on Saturday, got it Tuesday, and this is only Thursday. I’m glad we set up Wednesday as a backup day.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “I really, really need down soon.”
Abby patted him on the shoulder. “I got it set up really nice for you. Need any help?”
“I ... think so. Thanks.” Tim let Abby help him to lay down; he was really beginning to stiffen up and even breathing hurt.
After helping Tim lay down, Abby watched Tim for a moment then decided. She went out into the outer office and called Gibbs. “Gibbs, Tim’s down here but he doesn’t look good. I think he’s going into shock. Should I call Ducky?”
Gibbs, a bit distracted by trying to get his TAD agent to start doing something useful, replied, “Do what you think is best. Abby ... I have to go. This ASVAB waiver desk jockey ... bye.” He hung up the phone and managed to stop the jackwad from crashing all Tim’s searches so he could check his e-mail.
Abby, realizing that Gibbs probably hadn’t really listened to her properly, took matters into her own hands and called Ducky. Ducky listened carefully to her description of symptoms and said he’d be right there.
“Jimmy, dear boy, our Timothy doesn’t seem to be doing that well. Loan me your bag so I can check him out. You’ll have to stay here. I just got a call that we have a Marine on the way in. From the description it sounds like what we used to call heat stroke but best to make sure. Just sign for the poor man and tuck him away for now.”
Jimmy handed his bag over, saying, “If you need me, call.” He frowned for a moment but knew that Ducky would take good care of his friend. He resolved to check on Tim at the earliest opportunity.
.
Ducky tapped at the office door then opened it. Tim was half asleep on his stomach, a position he usually disliked. “Well, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself.”
Before Ducky could kneel, Tim got up with a moan. “I’ll get up. It’ll be easier on both of us. Want me to sit on the desk?”
“No, no, dear boy, just remove your shirt and stand in the light.” Ducky put the medic bag down on Abby’s desk and turned. “Oh, dear. That’s quite the bruise. I do hate to poke at it but I need to see if you’ve got a broken rib. I’d love x-rays.”
“You do have that portable x-ray.” Tim stood while Ducky poked and prodded.
“Does it hurt to breathe both ways? Or are you just stiff?” Ducky thought about the x-ray for a moment. “If I don’t like your lung sounds, I will have a picture.”
“It hurts both ways. I don’t feel that grinding sensation that AJ described. And, I’m stiff, hurts to move, and I really want to sleep.” Tim shifted uncomfortably as Ducky gave a bruise an exceptionally vigorous poke. “Ow.”
“I’m so sorry, dear boy. I would like to have a bit of a look-see via x-ray, if you don’t mind.” Ducky gave Tim an apologetic look.
Tim chuckled a bit then said, “And even if I do mind. Okay, let’s put a wheel under it and get ‘er done.”
Ducky nodded, “I’ll just drape your shirt over your shoulders. No need to struggle in and out of it. Come along.”
Tim obediently followed Ducky to the morgue and lay down on the table. Since the x-ray was set up to view corpses, he had to be flat on the table. Not that he minded, he hurt so bad now that all he wanted to do was be still.
Jimmy helped Ducky get everything in place then Ducky took his look. “Well, nothing is broken. You’ve got a cracked rib. I’ll give you some meds. No hugging, no lifting, no heavy exercise for the next four days. And I will have my eye on you, young man.” That was one of the few down sides to living with Ducky and Jimmy, they made sure both he and AJ stuck to doctor’s orders. “Come back in and I’ll take another look. I doubt you’ll have much trouble.” He gave Tim a sideoogle that said he’d better not, then turned to write out a prescription for some medications. “I’m not going to give you antibiotics unless you show signs of bronchial troubles. But I will give you some analgesics.” He scribbled then handed the scrip to Tim. “Fill that on the way home. I don’t have any samples to give you or I’d just do that. One of the consequences of being an ME.” He chuckled.
Everyone jumped when the Morgue doors banged open and Cosmo, Dean, and Remy all rushed in looking scared half to death. “Where is he? How bad? What the hell?” Remy’s voice bellowed over Dean and Cosmo, although they were loud enough.
Tim stood up.
Dean grabbed him. “What the fuck? Dude, what the hell? We agreed ... no more gettin’ fuckin’ shot. Jerk.”
Cosmo ran his hands over Tim’s shoulders and down his arms, demanding, “And what the holy fuckin’ hell are you doin’ in the damn morgue? Scare the shit out of us.”
Tim endured this for a moment, then yelled, “Gettin’ x-rays. Do not poke me. And who the fuckin’ hell sent you a damn half-assed text anyway?”
Remy snarled, “That new guy.” A few choice swear words underlined everyone’s dissatisfaction with Team Gibbs’ new TDA.
A shrill whistle from Ducky brought them all to a standstill. “Now that I have your attention; he was shot, but the bullets didn’t penetrate his laptop. He’s badly bruised and very sore, so I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you didn’t jostle him too much. He’ll be fine. He just needs some rest, analgesics and fluids. Take him away, please.” He started to turn away then turned back to say, “And he’s in here because I have an x-ray. Cracked ribs are hard to tell from broken ones by palpation. Now take him away.”
Dean carefully tucked himself under Tim’s arm. “Okay. Here we go. Lean on me. Where are we going?”
Gibbs came in in time to say, “Home. Stay with him. Tim, I’ll call you when I know something. Do not come back to work tomorrow.”
“Ducky said ...” Tim trailed off at Gibbs’ glare.
“Don’t care. I said stay home. Ducky?” Gibbs turned to his friend.
“Well, Jet, I would really rather he stay home for a day or two. He can’t work this case. He’s too close to the principal.” Ducky eyed Dean for a moment. “Very well. Dean, you know what to do. If you have any questions before I get home, call me ... or Jimmy. Now take our patient home.” He made chicken-shooing motions. “Go.”
Dean, Cosmo and Remy took Tim away; he protested but was told, “No, dude, you’re fuckin’ shot. You can’t tell any of us it doesn’t fuckin’ hurt like a damn bitch. Stop tryin’ to ...” the rest faded away.
Gibbs turned to Ducky. “How bad ... really?”
Ducky handed Gibbs a finger of bourbon in a beaker. Gibbs tossed it back then settled on the edge of Ducky’s desk. Ducky sat as well and helped himself to a dram of his own. “He’ll be fine in a couple of days. He really is just badly bruised. That ruck he carries ... it took the two shots. They went through his MRE’s, his tablet, his laptop and a few other things according to him. He’s no more hurt than if someone got in a couple of good blows with a cricket bat,” he sighed.
Gibbs joined him in the sigh. “Damn, when I got the call ... I swear, no wonder I’m fuckin’ gray before my time. Nearly had a damn heart attack. And then I get there and he’s fuckin’ workin’ the damn scene. The idiot EMTs gave him a quick once-over, then the damn idiots let him refuse aid. I ought a’ smack him one for that.”
Ducky smirked a bit. “You think our AJ is going to let him get away with that? I’d say they’ll be on the mats the minute I clear Timothy for duty.”
“Damn straight he will. And I get what’s left over.” He rubbed his face, got up, and headed for the door. “I’m going back up and see what kind a’ mess that POG I’m lumbered with has fucked up now.” He trotted out, grumbling about agreeing to train the untrainable.
.
Abby looked up as Dean came in with Tim’s pack in an evidence bag. “Digimon leave anything in here? We’re takin’ him home. And here’s his ruck.” He handed the bundle to Abby.
“No. He came down with nothing. He just wanted to lay down on my futon for a bit. He going to be okay?” Abby put the ruck on her evidence table and started wringing her hands. “He looked so bad.”
“He’ll be fine in a couple. Ducky said. Getting shot really takes it out of you.”
A voice from behind him made him turn on the defensive. “I suppose you know.”
Dean eyed the man for a moment then snarled, “I would. Who are you?”
“Special Agent Foggerty. I’m here for some results… if Dr Sciuto has them.” His sarcasm set Dean’s last nerve to twanging.
Abby eyed him for a moment then ordered, “Dean, show that jackwad out. He’s on my ‘won’t-work-for-him’ list. Evidence is evidence and I won’t twist it to make it say what you want. It is what it is. And, if you bring me contaminated evidence then blame it on me, you’re really on my shit list. Out!”
Dean just chested the man and snarled, “Okay. You heard the doctor. Out. Respect the science, dude.”
“I’ll tell Director Vance ...” Agent Foggerty quailed at Dean’s hot glare.
“Please. Go tattle to Daddy, again, that Dr Sciuto won’t fudge the data for you. I dare you.” And with that, Dean grabbed the man by the arm and hustled him out of the lab. “Git.”
Abby’s ‘Thank you.’ followed him down the hallway. She’d had trouble with him from time to time, the last time Elmo Jones had tossed him out and she’d reported him to Cynthia. He was one of two agents that were always a thorn in her side.
She shook her head and turned to Tim’s ruck. She rummaged for a second then began bagging everything as evidence. His laptop and tablet got special treatment as she was hopeful of getting a bullet. She grumbled as she worked, “I swear. Look at this mess. What the ...” she held up something grasped in a pair of tweezers. “What the hell is this?” She tucked it into an evidence envelope, sealed and initialed it then went on. When she was done she checked everything in, logging it on a clip board and putting it all back into a box. “There. I’ll start with ... this.” She held up a baggie with a sliver of something.
As Abby struggled with the bulk of Tim’s ruck, Tim was going to be even more pissed as she opened the MRE’s, drink mixes and trail mix bags. She knew there wasn’t anything there, but some jackwad, over-eager, over-achieving, DA would call all her work into question if she didn’t open every single thing and play with it. So she slogged through all the broken packages and grumbled.
.
Tim didn’t resist when Dean and Cosmo helped him into Tony’s huge Hummer. He hurt and he didn’t care who knew it.
“Ow. Cos, you ... ouch. Dean, take it easy.” Tim knew he was whining but he really didn’t care. Now that the adrenalin had worn off, he hurt.
Dean and Cos took his moaning stoically, mostly ignoring it. They got Tim home and into bed, gave him some more pills, and covered him up.
Dean patted his foot. “Go to sleep, you whiny bitch. You need anything ... here.” He put a small hand-held air horn on the nightstand. “Honk. Do not try to get out of bed by yourself.”
Cos nodded. “Seriously, man. Do not. You’ll just hurt yourself more. Sleep.”
They pulled down the shades and closed the curtains, leaving Tim in dim twilight. He managed to get comfortable and fall asleep.
Dean led Cos away hissing, “He better sleep. And ... man, I want a big piece of whoever shot him.”
Cos replied, “Well, they were shootin’ at his father, the Admiral.”
“I don’t care who the fuck they were shootin’ at. I care about who they hit. An’ that was some pretty shitty shootin’.” Cos bopped him on the shoulder. “Just sayin’. Grateful that that asswad can’t shoot.”
“Yeah. Better call AJ an’ see if he wants us in.” Cos dialed as he walked.
Tony answered his desk phone with, “DiNozzo. Speak.”
“Just want to know if you want one of us in. The other can stay here with Tim.”
“No. Both of you stay. I’d like one of you right in the room if Tim’ll tolerate it. Worried about his breathin’.”
“Okay. Gotcha. I’ll take first watch. Dean can make some sort of soup or somethin’ an’ bring it in?” He made the last a question. They’d all agreed that they were eating way too much take-out. It wasn’t the calories they were worried about, it was the quality of them. Greasy take-out just wasn’t the same as homemade anything.
“Great. Get a couple of loaves of half-baked out of the freezer and make up a pot of can soup. Thanks.” AJ hung up without saying good-bye.
Dean, who’d pressed his ear against the outside of the phone, just said, “Have to raid the freezer. Might have to send you out for something.”
Cos nodded. “Okay. I’ll go sit with Tim while you take inventory.”
“Great.” Dean headed downstairs to check the fridge, freezer, and pantry while Cos returned to Tim’s room to sit in his reading chair and fiddle with his tablet.
.
AJ hung his phone up, rubbed his face, then snarled, “I want this asshole ASAP. I’ll tune him up like a violin.”
Gibbs, who was just as pissed as AJ, agreed. “Yeah. You get my left-overs.”
Ducky made both of them jump when he said, “I’ll help. However, I came up to report. Our laddie is just bruised and sore. I’ll give him another once-over when I get home.”
Gibbs nodded. “Okay. Good. I’m going back to the scene to redo the ballistics. Something isn’t setting well.”
AJ just picked up his pack. “I’m going too.”
“Okay. Bye, Duck. Let’s put a wheel under this bitch.” Gibbs headed for the elevator with his ruck over his shoulder, AJ nearly tromping on his heels.
AJ stopped just outside the door. “I’m takin’ my spotter stuff, it’s in my ... Hummer. Damnit, Cos and Dean took it to take Tim home in. Shit!”
Gibbs just smirked at him. “Mine is in my car ... which we are takin’ to the scene. Dumbass.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
“Jarhead.”
The string of insults left several people staring as they ambled down the sidewalk, bumping each other as they went.
They climbed into the car and headed out.
AJ reached for the radio and got his hand slapped. “I’m not listenin’ to that shit you call music.”
AJ shook his hand and said indignantly, “You must have me confused with Abby. There’s a new Jazz station that I was gonna try.”
“Okay. My bad.” Gibbs turned his attention firmly back to his driving.
It took them nearly forty-five minutes to get back to the restaurant. Traffic was a mess; blocking off the streets around the area had tangled things so badly that traffic was at a crawl. The officers who were now directing it were dealing with a real mess. The traffic lights told drivers one thing, the officers another; most of them didn’t seem to understand that, if there was an officer on traffic control, you obeyed him, not the lights. The resultant confusion had led to several wrecks, which only added to the mess. Gibbs used his lights and siren liberally, as well as his horn and a few appropriate hand gestures which had nothing to do with ASL.
AJ held on with stoic calm. After one set of gestures he remarked mildly, “Not nice, Jet.”
Gibbs ignored him in favor of driving down the shoulder to bypass a line of vehicles at a light. His screaming siren and flashing lights kept the police off their backs, but several drivers in the line flipped them off.
When they got to the restaurant, Gibbs set up his spotter’s scope, checked the diagram Tim had drawn, with help from Remy, and peered through it. “Okay ... check me.”
Gibbs changed places with AJ, who also peered through the scope. He scribbled some numbers on a scrap of paper, eyed them, then handed them to Gibbs. He looked the equations over then nodded. “Think you’re right. Let’s go.”
The whole point of this was to find the nest. The PD had searched but come up empty. Tony was of the opinion that their man had based his search on the premise that their shooter had used a sniper rifle of some sort. Tony, due to the degree of damage done to Tim and his ruck, was more of the opinion that it was a hunting rifle. Not a .50, something smaller, American-made; perhaps a .30-.30 or .30-.06. They’d know as soon as Abby found a bullet.
Gibbs took the time to call her. “Abby. Found a bullet yet?” He put her on speaker so AJ could hear too.
“Yeah. This is not a military round ... believe it or not, it’s a Winchester .30-.06. Bring in your search pattern to around 750 to 1000 yards. We are not looking at a sniper ... more like ... a hunter who’s a fairly good shot. Some jackwad got pissed at Admiral McGee and took a couple of pot shots at him. Dumbass ... stupid ... twat-waffle. When you get your hands on him, give him a good punch from me.” A ding from the background made her squeak. “I gotta go.”
Meanwhile, Remy was doing his bit by calling around to some of his friends at Quantico, the Pentagon, and a few satellite offices. He got an earful about the Admiral, none of it truly complimentary but none of it bad. He was well regarded concerning his attention to detail and duty, but disliked for his rigidity and penchant for hide-bound nit-picking. They did admit that he was good at his job. Remy finally prodded, “An’ dat bein’?”
“Oh, he’s budgetary oversight on some project or other, acquisitions. Top secret, so I’m not really sure. But, he’s been raising hell lately because whatever it is, is over budget and he’s takin’ it out of someone. They have to bring the project in on budget, on time, and he’s got a real eye on them to keep them from cutting corners ... the bitching is epic.”
“Well, that’s ... ver’ interestin’. Merci bien, copain. I owe ya.” Remy hung up then started trying to find out what the project was and who was running over budget.
Abby wandered up to see what was going on in the bullpen, only to realize that Remy was the only one there. “Where’s everyone?”
Remy leaned back in his chair. “Tim at ‘ome. Dean an’ Cos wit’ ‘im. Jet an’ AJ went back t’ th’ scene. Ballistics didn’t add up. So, they went t’ check themselves. I’m tryin’ t’ fin’ de spark.”
“Okay. An’ you’ve gone very Cajun, ami. Calm down. So, let me see what’s what.” Abby patted Remy on the shoulder then reviewed his work. “Okay. There’s no reason that you can’t review all this. You’ve got clearance but ... someone’s blocked all external searches ... which they aren’t allowed to do. And ... there!” Abby grinned at Remy. “Voilà.”
Remy nodded absently which Abby took with a cheerful snort. He disappeared into the mass of numbers and Abby went back to her lab.
.
Tony, Gibbs, and Remy spent most of the afternoon going over all the Admiral’s contacts, searching for something, anything, that looked like a clue. With Tim out of the picture, it was hard going. Jimmy was no help, not that they expected much, he and Ducky had caught an autopsy and were working on that. Dean and Cos were at home with Tim, although Dean had shown up with a pot of soup and a loaf of whole-grain bread at about 1300. He dropped it off then left again, saying, “Eat. You’ll all be bitchy if you come home hungry. Jet, you’ll come to Mallard Manor for supper.” He pointed. “No argument.” Gibbs just shrugged and grabbed a slice of bread before Remy and Tony took it all.
They called it a day at 1700 and all headed for Mallard Manor. Tony’s huge Hummer rumbled away, returned by Dean, followed by Remy in Tim’s truck. It had become a habit for everyone from each house to come in in one vehicle, then use company cars for business.
When they reached the house everyone went to their assigned tasks; cell phones were great for getting organized on the move.
Ducky settled in his usual place at the kitchen table, out of the way but not out of the group.
Dean and Cosmo came down, Cos announced that Tim was still asleep and should remain so until dinner. They were assigned to cleanup, so they joined Ducky at the table.
Gibbs nodded to a bag of potatoes; “Remy, tater duty with me.” Remy just picked up a peeler and joined him at the center workstation.
Tony aimed Jimmy at the remains of the soup. “There’s not enough of that for everyone, so thicken it up. You’ll have to stand over it or it’ll lump. I’ll brown the beef and we’ll have shepherd’s pie. There’s still three loaves of bread in the freezer; someone get it and put it in the oven.”
Dean got up to do that while Ducky told AJ, “I’d love for you to make the mash with sour cream, if it’s not too much trouble.”
AJ shrugged. “If there’s enough sour cream, you got it.” He went to check the fridge for the sour cream and found that there were two tubs, which was just enough. “Great. There’s just enough. If it’s not, I’ll add some butter to them ... or do you want half and half?”
Ducky considered that. “Whatever you want to do, dear boy. I just love the tang of the cream. I remember when Mother used to make mash by just mashing the potatoes with a masher. Cream and butter were still a bit dear when I was a child.”
He went on to reminisce about the shortages the British people experienced due to the effects of WWII that lasted well into the late 50’s and early 60’s.
Tony continued to brown the beef while Gibbs and Remy peeled the bag of potatoes and cubed them, and Remy set the pot to boil. Gibbs said, “Don’t forget to add salt. If you don’t add it now, it won’t take.”
“Got it.” Remy reached across Tony for the salt shaker, which he took exception to.
“Damn it, Remy. Don’t fuckin’ reach across on top of a damn hot pan. You’ll either tip it over or get burned. Jerk.”
Remy bumped Tony’s shoulder gently. “Bitch.”
“Jerk. You’ll whine like a mother.”
“Won’t.”
“Will too.”
Ducky called them to order easily. “Boys, that’s enough. Remy, AJ is right. And I’d hate to see you burned. Be more careful.”
Remy smiled at Ducky and shrugged. “Okay.”
Gibbs just snorted and continued to peel. Remy returned to his work while Jimmy just shook his head and continued to stir the broth so it wouldn’t scorch or lump.
When Tony was done browning the meat and onions, Jimmy took the pan and scraped all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan, then dumped the whole thing into the gravy/veg mix. “There.” he scooped up a bit, offered it to Tony, and asked, “More salt ... pepper ... anything?”
Tony tasted carefully then offered, “Might add some Worcestershire sauce.”
Dean snagged that from a cupboard and handed it over. Tony dumped a good dollop into the pot and gave it a stir. “Yeah, that’s got it.”
They settled at the table to wait for the potatoes to boil and the bread to finish thawing. Tony stretched, then remarked, “I’m really glad that this house has a double oven. That bread takes up one and there’s no room for the pie.”
Remy nodded. “It do. An’ when ya make lasagna there’s no room in either oven. But, man it do be good.”
“Thanks.” Tony flinched a bit when a hand reached over his shoulder with a cup of coffee. “Man, bell; seriously, Jet.”
Gibbs smirked at him over his own cup. “Tough noogies.” He eyed Ducky for a moment. “We should wake Tim soon.”
Ducky nodded. “True. I’ll wake him and give him another once-over. Poor boy is going to be so stiff.” He shook his head, stood up, and ambled out the door to wake Tim and give him a poke and prod, and some pills.
Tim moaned when Ducky woke him. “Man, it hurts. Fuck.”
“Now, now, language, please.” Ducky chuckled softly when Tim gave him a stink eye. “And none of that, if you please.”
“Or even if I don’t please, right?” Tim sat up slowly at Ducky’s urging, grumbling sourly.
“Exactly. Now ... Let me have a good look at you.” Ducky examined Tim’s bruises carefully, listened to his lung sounds, and announced, “I do believe you’ll do. Bad bruises, a bit stiff; but no broken ribs or fluid in your lungs. Come along. Tony said to bring you down. I’m not sure exactly when supper will be done, but you don’t want to go back to sleep.”
Tim followed him slowly. He was a bit surprised when Dean gave up his favorite seat so that he, Tim, wouldn’t have to try to guard his back while he got to his usual seat. “Thanks. Coffee?” He turned the chair around and straddled it, something Ducky usually frowned at; this time he let it slide. Pressure on those bruises couldn’t be comfortable.
Cos got Tim a cup of coffee, dressed just as he liked it, then went back to his task. “We’re nearly done. The potatoes are soft.”
Tony handed Cos a ricer and pointed, “You know what to do.”
“I do. Who ever invented this thing is one of my heroes.” Cos started forking the drained potato pieces into the commercial-size ricer. It didn’t take him long to get all the potatoes done. He carefully added some butter and sour cream, salt, white pepper, and just a dash of cayenne. A quick stir showed that he’d guessed very well, the potatoes were smooth, creamy, and not too thick or thin.
Tony took the bowl and a tool that looked a lot like an ice cream scoop. He used that to put neat half balls of potato on the top of two baking dishes full of the meat and vegetable mixture. He stuck them in the oven to brown and finish heating. “There. By the time that’s done, the bread should be brown. Hungry, Tim?”
Tim groaned. “I am, and my stomach is a bit upset. All those pills on an empty stomach and ...” he just shrugged.
Remy bopped Dean on the shoulder. “You didn’t give him any bread? What the hell’s with that?”
Dean leaned away from Remy, bumping AJ in the process. “He didn’t ask,” Dean pouted back at his friend.
AJ shoved him back toward Remy. “Personal space, man. And ... he shouldn’t have had to fuckin’ ask. You should have just made him.” He short-ribbed Dean then said, “He probably didn’t even know he should.”
Tim scowled at them all. “Stop that before we have someone else on the wounded list. And I didn’t know I should eat something. Dean?”
Dean gave him a wide-eyed look then shrugged. “Well ... sorry, man, never actually thought about it. Eat before pills unless the bottle says otherwise; it’s a rule.”
Gibbs chuckled. “Not really. Just good sense. Tim, dumbass.”
Tim frowned then shrugged, “Ow. Damnit. Okay, now I know. Jerk.”
This brought a barrage of soft missiles like wadded napkins. He wasn’t that surprised to get hit in the face with a sock. Thankfully, it was clean.
“That’s right ... abuse a wounded man. I’m shocked.” Tim tried to look hurt but couldn’t help laughing.
“If you was truly wounded, we’d treat ya like it.” Dean wrapped an arm around Tim’s shoulders, careful of his bruises, and tried to kiss him on the cheek. Tim pushed him off with a loud ‘Ick! Dog kisses,’ to which Dean replied, “SEAL kisses, thankyouverymuch.”
Gibbs called everyone to order. “Sit the fuck down. Food’s nearly done.”
Everyone sat except for Tony and Remy, who brought the two pies to the table, then Remy went back for the bread. Jimmy had already put salad on the table.
They all dug in, passing things as required and making sure that Tim ate instead of pushing food around on his plate until it was cold.
Tim sighed, “Thanks. It was really good.”
He started to get up but Tony demanded, “And exactly what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Putting my plate in the dishwasher.” Tim realized that he wasn’t going to be let to do a tap of work, as Remy would put it. “Okay, okay, I’m sitting here and watchin’. Satisfied?”
“Yeah.” Tony picked up Tim’s dirty dishes and took them to scrape into the garbage bowl, then stuck them in the dishwasher.
The dishes were soon in the washer and the cycle started. Remy wiped the table down then turned to Tim. “I hep ya back up.” He didn’t wait for Tim to argue, he just levered him up and started him in the general direction of the stairs. “Ducky, I take ‘im up. You wanna look ‘im over?”
“No. I do believe that I’ve poked him enough for one day. Just get him into bed, give him another dose, and let him be. Thank you.” Ducky eyed Tim, giving him a look that let Tim know he’d better do as told. He hurt enough that he just grumbled a bit as he went.
.
Tim takes a long lunch to mend fences with his father. Someone takes a pot shot at the admiral so it's now up to the Pod to figure out who.
Mending Fences
Betaed by Jake and Jordre
McGee looked up from his computer as Gibbs approached his desk. “Boss, Father asked me to have lunch with him. I’d like to go, if I can get off.”
Gibbs sat down at his desk and looked at his monitor. “All your paperwork done?”
“Yeah, just finished the last, and we’re off rotation for the rest of the day.”
“Okay, go. If we catch a case, I’ll text you the address and you get there when you can.”
Tim smiled happily. “Thanks, Boss. I’m hoping he’ll ... ease up on me some.”
Gibbs frowned. He hated the fact that Tim’s Admiral dad dismissed his job as “some sort of geek thing.” He was hoping that Tim and Admiral McGee could reconcile but he wasn’t going to put too much confidence in it until further notice. “Good luck with that.” His sarcasm was plain in his voice.
Tim grabbed his ruck ―you really couldn’t call it a go-bag― and trotted off.
AJ watched him go until he opened the stairway door. “Hope that works for him. He’s really sad that his father doesn’t recognize all his hard work.”
Remy shrugged. “He’ come ‘roun’. Heard good t’ings ‘bout the Admiral ... an’ bad. Hope more good dan bad in dis.”
Dean and Cos showed up just then and distracted the rest of the group with questions about the investigation.
.
Tim settled at the table that his father had reserved. He was a bit early, so he wasn’t worried about getting stood up, yet. He took a menu to look at while he waited.
It wasn’t long before the Admiral showed up dressed in service dress blues; the Navy version of a business suit. “Sorry I’m late. Jason McDonahue is a huge bag of hot air. I finally told him I was meeting you. He wasn’t that impressed. Jerk.”
Tim shrugged. “Some people are more impressed with their own importance than others are impressed by it. I deal with that all the time. I swear, Master Chief Petty Officers are just about the worst.”
“And who would you say are the absolute worst?” John really was interested in his son’s answer.
“I’m not sure. LTJG’s are bad. They’re just far enough up the food chain that they’re really touchy about shit.” He glanced at the menu again. “What’s good here?”
“Steak ... Surf ’n Turf ... the salads aren’t bad, but ...” he eyed his son. “You look like you need a bit more meat on your bones, you okay?” He thought a second then asked, “And shouldn’t you be wearing blues?” referring to the Navy NWU or Naval Working Uniform.
Tim grinned, it felt good to realize that his Father really was concerned, he could tell by the look in his eyes. “Yeah. I just let my weight get away from me a bit. Jet’s pissed. AJ’s practically force-feeding me.” He realized his father needed a bit more information. “I’m not cutting back on the exercise, so I need more calories.” He shrugged. “Vance has decided that we can wear either Blacks or Coyote A-TAC’s but not blues or current MARPAT. That way we’re not confused with enlisted.”
“I see. You should have the ... share a Porterhouse with me?” At Tim’s ‘Sure. Sounds good,’ he continued, “Baked potato with sour cream and butter. Steamed mixed veg with just salt and pepper? And how can you burn up enough calories to look starved?”
Tim shrugged. “Sounds good. Just-rare steak?” John nodded. “I run 15 to 20 miles a week, depending on the weather. Swim another 10 to 15. Lift weights three times a week, working on strength rather than bulk. And do an hour of Tai Chi and an hour of yoga at least three days a week. That’s on top of the shooting to keep up my quals and all the running around on investigations and what not.”
John looked impressed. “You’re out in the field?”
“Yeah. I am not a desk jockey, no matter what you think.” Tim frowned at the menu to keep from getting snappish.
“Yes. um ... I had a man look into things. And I read his report carefully. There wasn’t any mention of you being in the field. Only glowing descriptions of your computer skills.” John frowned at the Host who scurried forward. “We’d like to order. Send our waiter over, please”
The waiter showed up, apologizing for making them wait but admitting he hadn’t expected them to make up their minds so quickly.
“That’s fine, son. We’re just men of action.”
Tim waited while his father ordered for them. He was pleasantly surprised that he remembered that shrimp cocktail was one of his favorites.
“So, you’re a field agent? I know ... I’m ashamed that I don’t know this. I was always so invested in you following family tradition that I never thought ... and that sea sickness, it’s really some sort of inner ear thing?”
“Yeah. Tradition is good, but not when it’s not good for the person. Tradition can show you a way to go and help open doors ... or it can be a straight jacket. In my case it’s the latter. And it is an inner ear condition. I forget what it’s called, but Ducky diagnosed me. It’ll never go away. Crackers and apples with ginger beer help; I just tough it out as best I can. I actually got sent ashore one time. I got dehydrated and passed out. Scared AJ and Jet into fits. I couldn’t even keep sugar water down.”
John McGee looked impressed. “It takes days for that to happen. I’d have thought you’d head for shore sooner.”
“I couldn’t. Matter of National Security that ... I don’t think your clearance is high enough. Sorry.”
“I’m cleared for Top Secret.” John looked indignant.
“I’m cleared for Top Secret too. But, as you know, there’s Top Secret, then there’s Top Secret.” You could hear the underline in his voice. Tim leaned back to let the waiter put his shrimp cocktail in front of him. “Thank you.”
John did the same then returned to their conversation saying, “I know. There’s a list floating around out there.” He chuckled softly. “It’s not official, but it works. There’s Top Secret, Extra Top Secret, Super Top Secret, and Burn Before Reading, Shoot Yourself In the Head After.”
Tim snorted. “I’ve heard AJ say that. I’m in the Super Top Secret bunch.”
John blinked then said, “I’m only Top Secret. Damn.” He bit a shrimp in half, chewed then asked, “I hear you’re considered one of the best hackers. I’m not even sure what that is.”
Tim poked at his cocktail for a moment, selected a shrimp then nibbled on it while he decided what he should ―or could― say. “Okay, basically, a hacker is someone who can break into a computer, server farm, or some other computer-based something ... without passwords, going around, through, or breaking firewalls and ... you don’t care about details.” Admiral McGee shook his head. “It’s either highly illegal, or very desirable. Or both. And that’s why my clearance is so high. I hack computers for NCIS. Mostly computers owned by either dead people, or criminals, which contain classified data.”
“I see.” He ate another shrimp. “I heard some scuttlebutt about a ... person who hacked ... an alphabet. One of those so top secret things. Interesting, in and of itself, but ...” he trailed off.
Tim nodded. “I heard the same thing. Seems that ... that alphabet… was blocking an investigation by ... another alphabet. Treason is treason, whether it’s committed by ... an operative or a civilian. No matter who pissed in whose ...” he waved a shrimp, “whatever.”
“I see. So ...” John had his answer. Tim hadn’t committed himself to anything and John wasn’t about to make him. Hacking the CIA was sure to piss them off, no matter who you were or why you did it. He had a quiet snicker to himself then turned the conversation to other, more comfortable subjects.
As he searched for a new subject his eyes fell on Tim’s ruck. “You carry a full ruck?”
“Yeah. You never know what you’ll need. Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.” Tim finished his last shrimp.
John eyed the ruck. “How much does that weigh?”
“Mmm. About forty-five ― fifty pounds. Not what I’d carry into a combat zone ... for that I’d add ammo, more food, water, and clothing ... but I actually use most of the stuff in there now on every crime scene. Plus a med kit, extra laptop, and some survival stuff. Mostly ... well, three MRE’s, water, water purification tabs, trail mix ... that sort of thing. And I’ve needed every bit of it at one time or another.”
John frowned, “I just ... you have no idea what a shooting war is like, so I don’t understand this ...” he waved a hand.
Tim didn’t let him get any farther. “Well, I’ve never been in combat overseas, but I’ve been shot at, shot, stabbed, blown up, and beaten. So ... no. You don’t get to go there.”
John’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Oh, and I forgot. Plane crash. Survival in the wilderness and ...” he grinned. “Stakeouts with AJ. Man’s a lunatic.”
John sighed. “Seems I’m really off base. Ah!”
The steak arrived just then, with two plates and the sides on their own little plates. Tim eyed the salad and said, “Take that back. The lettuce is brown, the tomatoes are dried out and ... never mind a critique, just get it out of my sight.” He wasn’t rude about it but he was very firm.
John eyed his salad and agreed. “He’s right. Just take it off the bill. I don’t think you’ll be able to do any better a second time around.”
The waiter flushed heavily, snatched the plates up and scurried off. After some consultation with the manager, he returned to offer free desserts. Tim agreed, asking for apple pie with ice cream. John declined, patting his belt, “No thanks. Got to watch the ol’ waistline.”
While the waiter had been talking with the manager, John had taken it upon himself to cut the steak in half, put one half on a plate for Tim and take the other for himself. Tim was pleased to see that his father had cut the eye in half and given each of them a part. Some people would cut the eye off then cut off a smaller piece of the opposite side. John had cut the tenderloin off, cut it in half then cut the New York Strip in half as well.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.” He refrained from mentioning the steamed veg, which looked tired.
They each cut into their steak, took a bite and chewed. Tim nodded happily. “Mmmm. Really good.”
John agreed. “They might not do veggies or salads well, but their steaks are the best.”
Tim disagreed. “You haven’t tasted Gibbs’ cowboy steaks. They’re ... melt in your mouth. He has a huge cast iron skillet. Heats it up red hot, throws in the steaks then puts butter on top of them. When he turns them over he pours beer on them then shuts the grill. Three minutes a side then another five. Perfect.”
“Sounds like a real winner.”
They continued to eat in near silence, only remarking on the food from time to time. This didn’t bother either of them as they were both trained not to talk with their mouths full and not to let good food go cold over gossip.
Tim suddenly realized something. “Where’s your entourage? I thought you had ... staff.”
“I do. But I sent them to a different restaurant down the street. We don’t need them. Besides, my staff isn’t big enough to properly be an entourage. I’ve got an assistant, a secretary and a couple of body guards.”
Tim thought about that one. “Why an assistant and a secretary?”
“My Assistant keeps all my appointments straight, keeps my contacts up to date and makes sure I don’t double book. My Secretary keeps up with all my communications, paper letters, reports, email ... that sort of thing. Makes sure I read what I should, get summaries of other things and that I’m not bothered by people who want me to do their jobs for them because they’re too limp-wristed to do the job themselves.”
“I see. Should you have sent them so far away?” Tim worried about that a bit.
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll call before we get ready to leave and have my car brought around,” John nodded once.
“Okay.” Tim wasn’t sure he liked the arrangement, but figured his father ought to know what he was doing by now.
They finished their meal, dessert included. Tim unashamedly pigged down John’s apple pie a la mode as well as his own. “Thank you. That was very good.” Tim picked up his ruck and slung it over one shoulder.
John eyed that for a moment then said, “You ought to put that over both shoulders properly, you’ll throw out your back.”
“I know. AJ’s always on me about it, but it’s a nuisance to put it on just to take it off again. Call your people, okay?” But he stuck his arm into the other strap and jiggled the ruck into position.
John made the call then said, “Five minutes.”
Tim followed him out the door to stand under the canopy to wait for his car. “I’ll stay with you until your car arrives.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, I came in my SUV.” Tim had finally bought himself an SUV; his Boxter was just too twitchy for the local winters. “Thanks.”
He moved out to the curb to look for the car. He was shocked to hear the ‘wheet’ of a bullet and feel the punch of one hitting his ruck. “Fuck! Everyone down! Now!” Everyone within ear shot hit the sidewalk or ran into a building… or just stood where they were and screamed.
Tim grabbed his father, who had ducked and was hunched down to make as small a target as possible. He covered him, feeling another punch as a second bullet hit his back.
John’s driver saw what was happening and actually drove the SUV onto the sidewalk, providing additional cover as he drove into the supports of the canopy making it collapse, shutting off the area completely.
Tim groaned but managed to cover his father and hustle him back into the restaurant. The two bodyguards hustled in right behind them, followed by the rest of the staff.
When they got inside they were greeted by a crowd of looky-Lou’s and several people who insisted on leaving by that particular door. Tim took one look and blew up. “You! Get the fuck back inside. You! Lock the damn door.” He pointed first to the milling group of diners, then the maître d’ who hurried to lock the door. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch! I can’t believe it. Not again! AJ’s gonna go spastic!”
Then he dialed 911. “This is Timothy McGee, NCIS Badge 2140. I’ve got shots fired at this location. Do not respond ... I repeat, do not respond. Shots were aimed at Admiral John McGee. That makes this an NCIS case. If we need crowd control, we’ll call the non-emergency number.” He listened for a moment then said, “Two shots, both hit my ruck.” He then hung up, dialed NCIS and went through the whole thing again, this time he requested his team to come work the scene.
He realized that someone was pulling at his ruck, so he let them have it. He turned to find someone he didn’t know holding it. “What?”
“I’m one of Admiral McGee’s personal assistants, Captain Martin. I’ve got some EMT training. Where are you wounded?” The Captain looked concerned so Tim twitched his shoulders.
“I don’t think I am. I feel like someone took a fuckin’ bat to my damn back but ... I don’t ...” he jumped as the man poked his back. “Ow.”
“Well, let me see you.”
Tim started to lift his shirt. A voice from the main room called, “Let me through, please. I’m a physician.”
Tim recognized Brad Pitt’s voice and said, “Let him through.” He turned to Captain Martin. “It’s okay. That’s Dr Pitt. No offense to your skills but, if I don’t let him see me and AJ finds out, he’ll take me on the mats.”
The captain chuckled. “I’ve heard about Badger. And no offense taken.” He backed away to begin the task of rearranging the Admiral’s schedule.
Dr Pitt took a good look at Tim, checked his lung sounds and palpated his abdomen. “You’re okay. I’d like you to take it easy, but I know that’s not gonna happen until this is over. Just take it as easy as you can. Analgesics of choice as needed. Head for the ER if things go sideways. Now ... I need to get out of here. I didn’t see anything, don’t know anything, and I’m due in surgery in two hours.”
Tim pointed, “Go out the back door. Thanks.” He yanked his shirt back down just in time for Gibbs to charge in and take over, much to his relief.
AJ’s wild-eyed look faded, “Damn it, Tim, this is the second time you’ve gotten shot. I told you ... not. You been checked out?”
Tim nodded to AJ. “Hey. Yeah. Pitt gave me a once-over. Glad you’re here. Keep me from shootin’ the stupid.”
AJ shook his head. “You can’t shoot ‘em. It’ll just get you whispered about and pointed at. And think of the paper work. By the way, you’re fillin’ out the shot report.” He grinned and shook his head “So, what the Foxtrot Hotel?”
“Someone sniped my Father. Only I got in the way. So ... we need to find out whose damn whiskey he pissed in this time.”
Remy ambled over with a small screw of pills. “Candy. Take it.” He eyed Tim, shook his head and said, “Tol’ ya .. don’an get shot again. Bitch.”
Tim just popped the thing into his mouth and chewed. “Thanks. Jerk.”
Gibbs showed up looking pissed. “Damnit, Tim.” He glanced around, saw the Admiral, stomped over and dragged him into a side room and got him seated. “Okay. What the hell?”
John McGee rubbed his face with both hands. “I have no clue. I haven’t pissed anyone off lately. You’ll do better to talk to my assistant and secretary. I need to see Timothy.”
Gibbs glowered at John for a moment, assessing him; he realized that the man had no idea. “Go. Send in your men, check on Tim and make sure he doesn’t over-do.”
Admiral McGee left to find his son. Said son was found in the main dining room, sitting at a central table. The entire room was controlled chaos as several tables were being used to interview the few people who actually admitted to seeing anything. Tim was doing something with a computer and making faces.
John sat down across from him. “Tim?” Tim looked up, grimacing as the motion made his blooming bruises twinge. “You okay? Really?”
Tim nodded. “I’m going to hurt like hell in a couple of hours, but my ruck absorbed most of the inertia. Ruined my damn laptop and my tablet, but AJ brought my backups with him. They took my whole ruck into evidence.” Tim returned to his computer for a moment then said, “Did you see anything at all?”
“No. I was texting when I heard the thud. I’m afraid I had no idea what I was hearing.” John actually fidgeted for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
Tim glanced up, realized that his father really needed reassurance. “I’m sure. First Dr Pitt, then an EMT looked me over ―whoever called them is a jackass― then Jimmy did. I’m fine. Just gonna be sore, just like last time. Only that was a .25 cal; this was more like a .30-.30 or something.”
“Jimmy? He’s a Medical Examiner.” John frowned.
“He’s also a medical doctor, and he’s taken EMT courses. He works the ER at Bethesda two shifts a week.” Tim returned to his computer. “Now ... I need to get this interview over with.” He rubbed his face, looking exhausted.
John settled down to the interview with a grumbled, “Okay, fine. But ... shouldn’t you be resting or something?”
Tim nodded. “Why do you think I want this done? I want to get back to NCIS, finish a Foxtrot Tango of paperwork, then take a nap in Abby’s lab. So ... Let’s please do this.”
John settled in then, answering all Tim’s questions. When they were done, Gibbs ambled by to say, “Tim, go the fuck home. We’ll wrap it up here. Ballistics seem to prove that the Admiral was the target. We’re still working on why. So go.” Tim just nodded, closed his computer and left, for NCIS. Gibbs turned to Admiral McGee. “You come up with a list of people you’ve pissed off enough to make them want to shoot you. E-mail it to Tim when you get it done. Might want to consult with your staff. Go.” He wandered off, consulting with someone who’d trotted up with a handful of papers.
Admiral John McGee was not an idiot, a fool in some ways, but not an idiot. He gathered up his staff and went back to his office to compile the list. He did think that his son was a bit officious and needed to back off a bit. After all, he was only a field agent, not a supervisor.
.
Tim settled at his desk with a soft groan. He was sure he had at least one cracked rib, maybe two. But he didn’t have time to hurt just yet, he had to set up his searches. He wondered if he was going to have to get clearance to check out the Admiral; he didn’t even think of him as father anymore. He wondered when they’d gotten so disconnected. He ignored his phone in favor of getting things done.
Jimmy dropped by, handed him more candy and remarked, “Did good. Call me if you have trouble breathing. Do not pull an AJ. If you do, I’ll kick your ass.”
“It’s already kicked but I’ll be down in Abby’s lab as soon as I get this shit set up.” Tim clicked his mouse then got up. “On my way as I grumble.” He shouldered Jimmy. “Jerk.”
“Bitch. Rest ... or I’ll tell Jet.”
Tim moaned, “No, just no. I’m gone. Seriously. Bad enough Abby’s gonna pitch a fit.” He headed for the elevator, feeling every step.
The second he entered the lab Abby jumped him, figuratively speaking; she had learned her lesson with AJ. “Tim! You look like hell. Hug?”
“No, Abby, too sore. I came down to see if I can lay down on your futon for a bit. Getting shot in the ruck really hurts. And in more fuckin’ ways than one.” He leaned against the coolers as he waited for Abby to get her futon out. “That cock-sucking twat-waffle shot my new laptop and my fuckin’ tablet. When I get my hands on him, he’s ... I’m gonna fuck ‘im up good.”
Abby gave a squeak. “Well, it’s lucky that we backed everything up just yesterday. Shame about that laptop. You’ve only had it ... what? ... a week?”
“Not even that. Ordered it on Saturday, got it Tuesday, and this is only Thursday. I’m glad we set up Wednesday as a backup day.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “I really, really need down soon.”
Abby patted him on the shoulder. “I got it set up really nice for you. Need any help?”
“I ... think so. Thanks.” Tim let Abby help him to lay down; he was really beginning to stiffen up and even breathing hurt.
After helping Tim lay down, Abby watched Tim for a moment then decided. She went out into the outer office and called Gibbs. “Gibbs, Tim’s down here but he doesn’t look good. I think he’s going into shock. Should I call Ducky?”
Gibbs, a bit distracted by trying to get his TAD agent to start doing something useful, replied, “Do what you think is best. Abby ... I have to go. This ASVAB waiver desk jockey ... bye.” He hung up the phone and managed to stop the jackwad from crashing all Tim’s searches so he could check his e-mail.
Abby, realizing that Gibbs probably hadn’t really listened to her properly, took matters into her own hands and called Ducky. Ducky listened carefully to her description of symptoms and said he’d be right there.
“Jimmy, dear boy, our Timothy doesn’t seem to be doing that well. Loan me your bag so I can check him out. You’ll have to stay here. I just got a call that we have a Marine on the way in. From the description it sounds like what we used to call heat stroke but best to make sure. Just sign for the poor man and tuck him away for now.”
Jimmy handed his bag over, saying, “If you need me, call.” He frowned for a moment but knew that Ducky would take good care of his friend. He resolved to check on Tim at the earliest opportunity.
.
Ducky tapped at the office door then opened it. Tim was half asleep on his stomach, a position he usually disliked. “Well, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself.”
Before Ducky could kneel, Tim got up with a moan. “I’ll get up. It’ll be easier on both of us. Want me to sit on the desk?”
“No, no, dear boy, just remove your shirt and stand in the light.” Ducky put the medic bag down on Abby’s desk and turned. “Oh, dear. That’s quite the bruise. I do hate to poke at it but I need to see if you’ve got a broken rib. I’d love x-rays.”
“You do have that portable x-ray.” Tim stood while Ducky poked and prodded.
“Does it hurt to breathe both ways? Or are you just stiff?” Ducky thought about the x-ray for a moment. “If I don’t like your lung sounds, I will have a picture.”
“It hurts both ways. I don’t feel that grinding sensation that AJ described. And, I’m stiff, hurts to move, and I really want to sleep.” Tim shifted uncomfortably as Ducky gave a bruise an exceptionally vigorous poke. “Ow.”
“I’m so sorry, dear boy. I would like to have a bit of a look-see via x-ray, if you don’t mind.” Ducky gave Tim an apologetic look.
Tim chuckled a bit then said, “And even if I do mind. Okay, let’s put a wheel under it and get ‘er done.”
Ducky nodded, “I’ll just drape your shirt over your shoulders. No need to struggle in and out of it. Come along.”
Tim obediently followed Ducky to the morgue and lay down on the table. Since the x-ray was set up to view corpses, he had to be flat on the table. Not that he minded, he hurt so bad now that all he wanted to do was be still.
Jimmy helped Ducky get everything in place then Ducky took his look. “Well, nothing is broken. You’ve got a cracked rib. I’ll give you some meds. No hugging, no lifting, no heavy exercise for the next four days. And I will have my eye on you, young man.” That was one of the few down sides to living with Ducky and Jimmy, they made sure both he and AJ stuck to doctor’s orders. “Come back in and I’ll take another look. I doubt you’ll have much trouble.” He gave Tim a sideoogle that said he’d better not, then turned to write out a prescription for some medications. “I’m not going to give you antibiotics unless you show signs of bronchial troubles. But I will give you some analgesics.” He scribbled then handed the scrip to Tim. “Fill that on the way home. I don’t have any samples to give you or I’d just do that. One of the consequences of being an ME.” He chuckled.
Everyone jumped when the Morgue doors banged open and Cosmo, Dean, and Remy all rushed in looking scared half to death. “Where is he? How bad? What the hell?” Remy’s voice bellowed over Dean and Cosmo, although they were loud enough.
Tim stood up.
Dean grabbed him. “What the fuck? Dude, what the hell? We agreed ... no more gettin’ fuckin’ shot. Jerk.”
Cosmo ran his hands over Tim’s shoulders and down his arms, demanding, “And what the holy fuckin’ hell are you doin’ in the damn morgue? Scare the shit out of us.”
Tim endured this for a moment, then yelled, “Gettin’ x-rays. Do not poke me. And who the fuckin’ hell sent you a damn half-assed text anyway?”
Remy snarled, “That new guy.” A few choice swear words underlined everyone’s dissatisfaction with Team Gibbs’ new TDA.
A shrill whistle from Ducky brought them all to a standstill. “Now that I have your attention; he was shot, but the bullets didn’t penetrate his laptop. He’s badly bruised and very sore, so I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you didn’t jostle him too much. He’ll be fine. He just needs some rest, analgesics and fluids. Take him away, please.” He started to turn away then turned back to say, “And he’s in here because I have an x-ray. Cracked ribs are hard to tell from broken ones by palpation. Now take him away.”
Dean carefully tucked himself under Tim’s arm. “Okay. Here we go. Lean on me. Where are we going?”
Gibbs came in in time to say, “Home. Stay with him. Tim, I’ll call you when I know something. Do not come back to work tomorrow.”
“Ducky said ...” Tim trailed off at Gibbs’ glare.
“Don’t care. I said stay home. Ducky?” Gibbs turned to his friend.
“Well, Jet, I would really rather he stay home for a day or two. He can’t work this case. He’s too close to the principal.” Ducky eyed Dean for a moment. “Very well. Dean, you know what to do. If you have any questions before I get home, call me ... or Jimmy. Now take our patient home.” He made chicken-shooing motions. “Go.”
Dean, Cosmo and Remy took Tim away; he protested but was told, “No, dude, you’re fuckin’ shot. You can’t tell any of us it doesn’t fuckin’ hurt like a damn bitch. Stop tryin’ to ...” the rest faded away.
Gibbs turned to Ducky. “How bad ... really?”
Ducky handed Gibbs a finger of bourbon in a beaker. Gibbs tossed it back then settled on the edge of Ducky’s desk. Ducky sat as well and helped himself to a dram of his own. “He’ll be fine in a couple of days. He really is just badly bruised. That ruck he carries ... it took the two shots. They went through his MRE’s, his tablet, his laptop and a few other things according to him. He’s no more hurt than if someone got in a couple of good blows with a cricket bat,” he sighed.
Gibbs joined him in the sigh. “Damn, when I got the call ... I swear, no wonder I’m fuckin’ gray before my time. Nearly had a damn heart attack. And then I get there and he’s fuckin’ workin’ the damn scene. The idiot EMTs gave him a quick once-over, then the damn idiots let him refuse aid. I ought a’ smack him one for that.”
Ducky smirked a bit. “You think our AJ is going to let him get away with that? I’d say they’ll be on the mats the minute I clear Timothy for duty.”
“Damn straight he will. And I get what’s left over.” He rubbed his face, got up, and headed for the door. “I’m going back up and see what kind a’ mess that POG I’m lumbered with has fucked up now.” He trotted out, grumbling about agreeing to train the untrainable.
.
Abby looked up as Dean came in with Tim’s pack in an evidence bag. “Digimon leave anything in here? We’re takin’ him home. And here’s his ruck.” He handed the bundle to Abby.
“No. He came down with nothing. He just wanted to lay down on my futon for a bit. He going to be okay?” Abby put the ruck on her evidence table and started wringing her hands. “He looked so bad.”
“He’ll be fine in a couple. Ducky said. Getting shot really takes it out of you.”
A voice from behind him made him turn on the defensive. “I suppose you know.”
Dean eyed the man for a moment then snarled, “I would. Who are you?”
“Special Agent Foggerty. I’m here for some results… if Dr Sciuto has them.” His sarcasm set Dean’s last nerve to twanging.
Abby eyed him for a moment then ordered, “Dean, show that jackwad out. He’s on my ‘won’t-work-for-him’ list. Evidence is evidence and I won’t twist it to make it say what you want. It is what it is. And, if you bring me contaminated evidence then blame it on me, you’re really on my shit list. Out!”
Dean just chested the man and snarled, “Okay. You heard the doctor. Out. Respect the science, dude.”
“I’ll tell Director Vance ...” Agent Foggerty quailed at Dean’s hot glare.
“Please. Go tattle to Daddy, again, that Dr Sciuto won’t fudge the data for you. I dare you.” And with that, Dean grabbed the man by the arm and hustled him out of the lab. “Git.”
Abby’s ‘Thank you.’ followed him down the hallway. She’d had trouble with him from time to time, the last time Elmo Jones had tossed him out and she’d reported him to Cynthia. He was one of two agents that were always a thorn in her side.
She shook her head and turned to Tim’s ruck. She rummaged for a second then began bagging everything as evidence. His laptop and tablet got special treatment as she was hopeful of getting a bullet. She grumbled as she worked, “I swear. Look at this mess. What the ...” she held up something grasped in a pair of tweezers. “What the hell is this?” She tucked it into an evidence envelope, sealed and initialed it then went on. When she was done she checked everything in, logging it on a clip board and putting it all back into a box. “There. I’ll start with ... this.” She held up a baggie with a sliver of something.
As Abby struggled with the bulk of Tim’s ruck, Tim was going to be even more pissed as she opened the MRE’s, drink mixes and trail mix bags. She knew there wasn’t anything there, but some jackwad, over-eager, over-achieving, DA would call all her work into question if she didn’t open every single thing and play with it. So she slogged through all the broken packages and grumbled.
.
Tim didn’t resist when Dean and Cosmo helped him into Tony’s huge Hummer. He hurt and he didn’t care who knew it.
“Ow. Cos, you ... ouch. Dean, take it easy.” Tim knew he was whining but he really didn’t care. Now that the adrenalin had worn off, he hurt.
Dean and Cos took his moaning stoically, mostly ignoring it. They got Tim home and into bed, gave him some more pills, and covered him up.
Dean patted his foot. “Go to sleep, you whiny bitch. You need anything ... here.” He put a small hand-held air horn on the nightstand. “Honk. Do not try to get out of bed by yourself.”
Cos nodded. “Seriously, man. Do not. You’ll just hurt yourself more. Sleep.”
They pulled down the shades and closed the curtains, leaving Tim in dim twilight. He managed to get comfortable and fall asleep.
Dean led Cos away hissing, “He better sleep. And ... man, I want a big piece of whoever shot him.”
Cos replied, “Well, they were shootin’ at his father, the Admiral.”
“I don’t care who the fuck they were shootin’ at. I care about who they hit. An’ that was some pretty shitty shootin’.” Cos bopped him on the shoulder. “Just sayin’. Grateful that that asswad can’t shoot.”
“Yeah. Better call AJ an’ see if he wants us in.” Cos dialed as he walked.
Tony answered his desk phone with, “DiNozzo. Speak.”
“Just want to know if you want one of us in. The other can stay here with Tim.”
“No. Both of you stay. I’d like one of you right in the room if Tim’ll tolerate it. Worried about his breathin’.”
“Okay. Gotcha. I’ll take first watch. Dean can make some sort of soup or somethin’ an’ bring it in?” He made the last a question. They’d all agreed that they were eating way too much take-out. It wasn’t the calories they were worried about, it was the quality of them. Greasy take-out just wasn’t the same as homemade anything.
“Great. Get a couple of loaves of half-baked out of the freezer and make up a pot of can soup. Thanks.” AJ hung up without saying good-bye.
Dean, who’d pressed his ear against the outside of the phone, just said, “Have to raid the freezer. Might have to send you out for something.”
Cos nodded. “Okay. I’ll go sit with Tim while you take inventory.”
“Great.” Dean headed downstairs to check the fridge, freezer, and pantry while Cos returned to Tim’s room to sit in his reading chair and fiddle with his tablet.
.
AJ hung his phone up, rubbed his face, then snarled, “I want this asshole ASAP. I’ll tune him up like a violin.”
Gibbs, who was just as pissed as AJ, agreed. “Yeah. You get my left-overs.”
Ducky made both of them jump when he said, “I’ll help. However, I came up to report. Our laddie is just bruised and sore. I’ll give him another once-over when I get home.”
Gibbs nodded. “Okay. Good. I’m going back to the scene to redo the ballistics. Something isn’t setting well.”
AJ just picked up his pack. “I’m going too.”
“Okay. Bye, Duck. Let’s put a wheel under this bitch.” Gibbs headed for the elevator with his ruck over his shoulder, AJ nearly tromping on his heels.
AJ stopped just outside the door. “I’m takin’ my spotter stuff, it’s in my ... Hummer. Damnit, Cos and Dean took it to take Tim home in. Shit!”
Gibbs just smirked at him. “Mine is in my car ... which we are takin’ to the scene. Dumbass.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
“Jarhead.”
The string of insults left several people staring as they ambled down the sidewalk, bumping each other as they went.
They climbed into the car and headed out.
AJ reached for the radio and got his hand slapped. “I’m not listenin’ to that shit you call music.”
AJ shook his hand and said indignantly, “You must have me confused with Abby. There’s a new Jazz station that I was gonna try.”
“Okay. My bad.” Gibbs turned his attention firmly back to his driving.
It took them nearly forty-five minutes to get back to the restaurant. Traffic was a mess; blocking off the streets around the area had tangled things so badly that traffic was at a crawl. The officers who were now directing it were dealing with a real mess. The traffic lights told drivers one thing, the officers another; most of them didn’t seem to understand that, if there was an officer on traffic control, you obeyed him, not the lights. The resultant confusion had led to several wrecks, which only added to the mess. Gibbs used his lights and siren liberally, as well as his horn and a few appropriate hand gestures which had nothing to do with ASL.
AJ held on with stoic calm. After one set of gestures he remarked mildly, “Not nice, Jet.”
Gibbs ignored him in favor of driving down the shoulder to bypass a line of vehicles at a light. His screaming siren and flashing lights kept the police off their backs, but several drivers in the line flipped them off.
When they got to the restaurant, Gibbs set up his spotter’s scope, checked the diagram Tim had drawn, with help from Remy, and peered through it. “Okay ... check me.”
Gibbs changed places with AJ, who also peered through the scope. He scribbled some numbers on a scrap of paper, eyed them, then handed them to Gibbs. He looked the equations over then nodded. “Think you’re right. Let’s go.”
The whole point of this was to find the nest. The PD had searched but come up empty. Tony was of the opinion that their man had based his search on the premise that their shooter had used a sniper rifle of some sort. Tony, due to the degree of damage done to Tim and his ruck, was more of the opinion that it was a hunting rifle. Not a .50, something smaller, American-made; perhaps a .30-.30 or .30-.06. They’d know as soon as Abby found a bullet.
Gibbs took the time to call her. “Abby. Found a bullet yet?” He put her on speaker so AJ could hear too.
“Yeah. This is not a military round ... believe it or not, it’s a Winchester .30-.06. Bring in your search pattern to around 750 to 1000 yards. We are not looking at a sniper ... more like ... a hunter who’s a fairly good shot. Some jackwad got pissed at Admiral McGee and took a couple of pot shots at him. Dumbass ... stupid ... twat-waffle. When you get your hands on him, give him a good punch from me.” A ding from the background made her squeak. “I gotta go.”
Meanwhile, Remy was doing his bit by calling around to some of his friends at Quantico, the Pentagon, and a few satellite offices. He got an earful about the Admiral, none of it truly complimentary but none of it bad. He was well regarded concerning his attention to detail and duty, but disliked for his rigidity and penchant for hide-bound nit-picking. They did admit that he was good at his job. Remy finally prodded, “An’ dat bein’?”
“Oh, he’s budgetary oversight on some project or other, acquisitions. Top secret, so I’m not really sure. But, he’s been raising hell lately because whatever it is, is over budget and he’s takin’ it out of someone. They have to bring the project in on budget, on time, and he’s got a real eye on them to keep them from cutting corners ... the bitching is epic.”
“Well, that’s ... ver’ interestin’. Merci bien, copain. I owe ya.” Remy hung up then started trying to find out what the project was and who was running over budget.
Abby wandered up to see what was going on in the bullpen, only to realize that Remy was the only one there. “Where’s everyone?”
Remy leaned back in his chair. “Tim at ‘ome. Dean an’ Cos wit’ ‘im. Jet an’ AJ went back t’ th’ scene. Ballistics didn’t add up. So, they went t’ check themselves. I’m tryin’ t’ fin’ de spark.”
“Okay. An’ you’ve gone very Cajun, ami. Calm down. So, let me see what’s what.” Abby patted Remy on the shoulder then reviewed his work. “Okay. There’s no reason that you can’t review all this. You’ve got clearance but ... someone’s blocked all external searches ... which they aren’t allowed to do. And ... there!” Abby grinned at Remy. “Voilà.”
Remy nodded absently which Abby took with a cheerful snort. He disappeared into the mass of numbers and Abby went back to her lab.
.
Tony, Gibbs, and Remy spent most of the afternoon going over all the Admiral’s contacts, searching for something, anything, that looked like a clue. With Tim out of the picture, it was hard going. Jimmy was no help, not that they expected much, he and Ducky had caught an autopsy and were working on that. Dean and Cos were at home with Tim, although Dean had shown up with a pot of soup and a loaf of whole-grain bread at about 1300. He dropped it off then left again, saying, “Eat. You’ll all be bitchy if you come home hungry. Jet, you’ll come to Mallard Manor for supper.” He pointed. “No argument.” Gibbs just shrugged and grabbed a slice of bread before Remy and Tony took it all.
They called it a day at 1700 and all headed for Mallard Manor. Tony’s huge Hummer rumbled away, returned by Dean, followed by Remy in Tim’s truck. It had become a habit for everyone from each house to come in in one vehicle, then use company cars for business.
When they reached the house everyone went to their assigned tasks; cell phones were great for getting organized on the move.
Ducky settled in his usual place at the kitchen table, out of the way but not out of the group.
Dean and Cosmo came down, Cos announced that Tim was still asleep and should remain so until dinner. They were assigned to cleanup, so they joined Ducky at the table.
Gibbs nodded to a bag of potatoes; “Remy, tater duty with me.” Remy just picked up a peeler and joined him at the center workstation.
Tony aimed Jimmy at the remains of the soup. “There’s not enough of that for everyone, so thicken it up. You’ll have to stand over it or it’ll lump. I’ll brown the beef and we’ll have shepherd’s pie. There’s still three loaves of bread in the freezer; someone get it and put it in the oven.”
Dean got up to do that while Ducky told AJ, “I’d love for you to make the mash with sour cream, if it’s not too much trouble.”
AJ shrugged. “If there’s enough sour cream, you got it.” He went to check the fridge for the sour cream and found that there were two tubs, which was just enough. “Great. There’s just enough. If it’s not, I’ll add some butter to them ... or do you want half and half?”
Ducky considered that. “Whatever you want to do, dear boy. I just love the tang of the cream. I remember when Mother used to make mash by just mashing the potatoes with a masher. Cream and butter were still a bit dear when I was a child.”
He went on to reminisce about the shortages the British people experienced due to the effects of WWII that lasted well into the late 50’s and early 60’s.
Tony continued to brown the beef while Gibbs and Remy peeled the bag of potatoes and cubed them, and Remy set the pot to boil. Gibbs said, “Don’t forget to add salt. If you don’t add it now, it won’t take.”
“Got it.” Remy reached across Tony for the salt shaker, which he took exception to.
“Damn it, Remy. Don’t fuckin’ reach across on top of a damn hot pan. You’ll either tip it over or get burned. Jerk.”
Remy bumped Tony’s shoulder gently. “Bitch.”
“Jerk. You’ll whine like a mother.”
“Won’t.”
“Will too.”
Ducky called them to order easily. “Boys, that’s enough. Remy, AJ is right. And I’d hate to see you burned. Be more careful.”
Remy smiled at Ducky and shrugged. “Okay.”
Gibbs just snorted and continued to peel. Remy returned to his work while Jimmy just shook his head and continued to stir the broth so it wouldn’t scorch or lump.
When Tony was done browning the meat and onions, Jimmy took the pan and scraped all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan, then dumped the whole thing into the gravy/veg mix. “There.” he scooped up a bit, offered it to Tony, and asked, “More salt ... pepper ... anything?”
Tony tasted carefully then offered, “Might add some Worcestershire sauce.”
Dean snagged that from a cupboard and handed it over. Tony dumped a good dollop into the pot and gave it a stir. “Yeah, that’s got it.”
They settled at the table to wait for the potatoes to boil and the bread to finish thawing. Tony stretched, then remarked, “I’m really glad that this house has a double oven. That bread takes up one and there’s no room for the pie.”
Remy nodded. “It do. An’ when ya make lasagna there’s no room in either oven. But, man it do be good.”
“Thanks.” Tony flinched a bit when a hand reached over his shoulder with a cup of coffee. “Man, bell; seriously, Jet.”
Gibbs smirked at him over his own cup. “Tough noogies.” He eyed Ducky for a moment. “We should wake Tim soon.”
Ducky nodded. “True. I’ll wake him and give him another once-over. Poor boy is going to be so stiff.” He shook his head, stood up, and ambled out the door to wake Tim and give him a poke and prod, and some pills.
Tim moaned when Ducky woke him. “Man, it hurts. Fuck.”
“Now, now, language, please.” Ducky chuckled softly when Tim gave him a stink eye. “And none of that, if you please.”
“Or even if I don’t please, right?” Tim sat up slowly at Ducky’s urging, grumbling sourly.
“Exactly. Now ... Let me have a good look at you.” Ducky examined Tim’s bruises carefully, listened to his lung sounds, and announced, “I do believe you’ll do. Bad bruises, a bit stiff; but no broken ribs or fluid in your lungs. Come along. Tony said to bring you down. I’m not sure exactly when supper will be done, but you don’t want to go back to sleep.”
Tim followed him slowly. He was a bit surprised when Dean gave up his favorite seat so that he, Tim, wouldn’t have to try to guard his back while he got to his usual seat. “Thanks. Coffee?” He turned the chair around and straddled it, something Ducky usually frowned at; this time he let it slide. Pressure on those bruises couldn’t be comfortable.
Cos got Tim a cup of coffee, dressed just as he liked it, then went back to his task. “We’re nearly done. The potatoes are soft.”
Tony handed Cos a ricer and pointed, “You know what to do.”
“I do. Who ever invented this thing is one of my heroes.” Cos started forking the drained potato pieces into the commercial-size ricer. It didn’t take him long to get all the potatoes done. He carefully added some butter and sour cream, salt, white pepper, and just a dash of cayenne. A quick stir showed that he’d guessed very well, the potatoes were smooth, creamy, and not too thick or thin.
Tony took the bowl and a tool that looked a lot like an ice cream scoop. He used that to put neat half balls of potato on the top of two baking dishes full of the meat and vegetable mixture. He stuck them in the oven to brown and finish heating. “There. By the time that’s done, the bread should be brown. Hungry, Tim?”
Tim groaned. “I am, and my stomach is a bit upset. All those pills on an empty stomach and ...” he just shrugged.
Remy bopped Dean on the shoulder. “You didn’t give him any bread? What the hell’s with that?”
Dean leaned away from Remy, bumping AJ in the process. “He didn’t ask,” Dean pouted back at his friend.
AJ shoved him back toward Remy. “Personal space, man. And ... he shouldn’t have had to fuckin’ ask. You should have just made him.” He short-ribbed Dean then said, “He probably didn’t even know he should.”
Tim scowled at them all. “Stop that before we have someone else on the wounded list. And I didn’t know I should eat something. Dean?”
Dean gave him a wide-eyed look then shrugged. “Well ... sorry, man, never actually thought about it. Eat before pills unless the bottle says otherwise; it’s a rule.”
Gibbs chuckled. “Not really. Just good sense. Tim, dumbass.”
Tim frowned then shrugged, “Ow. Damnit. Okay, now I know. Jerk.”
This brought a barrage of soft missiles like wadded napkins. He wasn’t that surprised to get hit in the face with a sock. Thankfully, it was clean.
“That’s right ... abuse a wounded man. I’m shocked.” Tim tried to look hurt but couldn’t help laughing.
“If you was truly wounded, we’d treat ya like it.” Dean wrapped an arm around Tim’s shoulders, careful of his bruises, and tried to kiss him on the cheek. Tim pushed him off with a loud ‘Ick! Dog kisses,’ to which Dean replied, “SEAL kisses, thankyouverymuch.”
Gibbs called everyone to order. “Sit the fuck down. Food’s nearly done.”
Everyone sat except for Tony and Remy, who brought the two pies to the table, then Remy went back for the bread. Jimmy had already put salad on the table.
They all dug in, passing things as required and making sure that Tim ate instead of pushing food around on his plate until it was cold.
Tim sighed, “Thanks. It was really good.”
He started to get up but Tony demanded, “And exactly what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Putting my plate in the dishwasher.” Tim realized that he wasn’t going to be let to do a tap of work, as Remy would put it. “Okay, okay, I’m sitting here and watchin’. Satisfied?”
“Yeah.” Tony picked up Tim’s dirty dishes and took them to scrape into the garbage bowl, then stuck them in the dishwasher.
The dishes were soon in the washer and the cycle started. Remy wiped the table down then turned to Tim. “I hep ya back up.” He didn’t wait for Tim to argue, he just levered him up and started him in the general direction of the stairs. “Ducky, I take ‘im up. You wanna look ‘im over?”
“No. I do believe that I’ve poked him enough for one day. Just get him into bed, give him another dose, and let him be. Thank you.” Ducky eyed Tim, giving him a look that let Tim know he’d better do as told. He hurt enough that he just grumbled a bit as he went.
.