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They were so dead. This was how it would end for Anthony DiNozzo. Not the heroic death he'd always envisioned, nary a noble sacrifice in sight. Instead of Michael Biehn in Terminator or Sam Neill in The Hunt for Red October, he was going to be freakin' DiCaprio in freakin' Titanic.
Cold, and pointless, and dead.
From the far side of Tony's car, McGee knocked a handful of snow off the roof. It slid under Tony's collar and down his neck, and Tony snapped his head up at the frigid interruption of his thoughts. "Watch it, McGee! Hypothermia is not a good color on me."
From the other side of the car, McGee glared back at him. "Like it matters. Gibbs is going to kill us for being late."
"He's not going to kill us," Tony lied, sliding a load of snow off the driver's side of the windshield with the edge of his glove. Of course Gibbs was going to kill them. Gibbs was absolutely going to kill them. But Tony could let the probie live in blissful ignorance for a while longer. "It was a freak snowstorm. I bet everyone's having trouble digging out."
"Not Gibbs," McGee said.
No, not Gibbs. Snow probably parted for him like... like the Red Sea. Except white. Had anyone ever parted the White Sea?
Tony brushed his gloves together to clear them off, and went on, "And Ziva... do you think she even knows how to drive in snow? Not that what she does can really be considered driving, even in good weather. It's more like... vehicular homicide looking for a place to happen."
"I'm not worried about Ziva," Tim said, looking down again, scraping off the passenger-side window. "I'm worried about the fact that we're going to be late, and we're going to walk in together."
"So what?"
"So--they're going to know."
A shiver ran down Tony's back, and he twitched his shoulders to get rid of it. That snow must have melted back there. "Are you planning to tell them?"
"Of course not."
"I'm not planning to tell them. So, for all they know, I was just late picking you up this morning to give you a ride."
"And why were you giving me a ride?"
"Because--" Tony waved vaguely, and droplets of melted snow pattered against the window. "Your car's in the shop. You're afraid the salt is going to screw up the finish on the Porsche. I don't know. It doesn't matter, McGee, no one else overthinks these things like you do."
McGee didn't say anything, working with grim determination on the rear windshield, and Tony frowned as it hit him. "Are you pissed at me?"
McGee breathed out heavily through his nose, then looked up at Tony. "If we'd been out here half an hour ago, we would've had time to clear the car off and not be late."
Tony slogged his way around the car. McGee was making a point of not-looking at him again, so Tony addressed himself to McGee's ear. "If we'd tried to be out here half an hour ago, that means you would not have had time to have been clenching your fists in my Egyptian combed cotton sheets an hour ago."
McGee swallowed hard. "Tony..."
"You would rather I hadn't--"
McGee closed his eyes. "I'd--I'd prefer it if you'd looked out the window first."
Tony slid off a glove, manfully ignoring the biting cold, and took hold of McGee's upper arm, bringing him to a halt. He nudged his cold nose against McGee's cold cheek and murmured, "Maybe I was distracted, McGee."
McGee shivered nicely--oh, yeah, Tony could make the voice work--and straightened up. "Gibbs is still going to kill us," he said, but he looked torn. Like he wanted to stay mad at Tony, but it was, of course, a losing battle.
Tony grinned at McGee, even though the wind chilled his teeth. "You're only alive when you stare death in the face."
McGee looked suspicious, all cute little furrowed brow and set lips. "Steve McQueen or Evel Knievel?"
"Ian Fleming."
"Ah."
"Paraphrased."
"Right." McGee gave him a teasing smile. "So, that's the only reason we're doing this? Because it's going to get us killed?"
Tony let go of McGee and pulled his glove back on. And looked back at him.
And looked. McGee's smile became more tentative.
Tony kept looking.
Until McGee finally broke, shaking his head, looking down. "No, that's not--I know that's not true."
"Good," Tony said, with a very solemn nod.
And a very solemn head-slap with a handful of melting snow.