Chapter Text
To Make the World That Simple
ATC for “The Arizona”
by MAHC (RoxanneRolls)
This three-part story begins during the ending scene between McGee and Gibbs in the Season 17 finale “The Arizona.” Italicized passages in the first part indicate dialogue written by Gina Lucita Monreal, who wrote the episode.
Chapter 1: Something About Me
POV: Timothy McGee
“I wanna tell you somethin’ about Joe. Somethin’ about me.”
Tim McGee sat perched on Gibbs’ couch, face somber, having no idea what his boss might reveal about the subject of their latest case, or about himself, but he could tell it was heavy. Never had Gibbs begun a sentence directed at McGee with “I want to tell you something about me,” and it was mildly terrifying. He already knew the not-so-secret secret that Gibbs had tracked down and taken out the murderer of his wife and child, so he figured any other revelations might be anti-climactic, but it seemed like his boss needed him to listen, and Tim was not about to let him down.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs was the man Tim McGee admired most in the world. Gibbs wouldn’t like that, he was sure. Wouldn’t like being on a pedestal. Oh, McGee was well aware of the veteran agent’s flaws, a man who fought his demons nightly and sometimes lived up to his second-B-for-bastard reputation. But even before Paraguay, even before the two men laid themselves bare in almost every way possible, witnessing their worst moments, forcing strength into each other’s failing bodies and souls in order to claw their way off that ship and back home, even before that life-changing bond, McGee had known Jethro Gibbs was a man to admire, to emulate, to make proud.
He had worked with the Supervisory Special Agent for almost 18 years, had survived in a hell-hole with him every day for two months, but there was still so much about Gibbs that remained a mystery. Which was why, as he sat, open-mouthed and stunned, he was also incredibly grateful for the honor of being the person with whom Leroy Jethro Gibbs chose to share a terribly personal, terribly painful memory of war and homecoming.
“What I saw in Kuwait…before that I was different. Took something from me. It’s what war does.” Gibbs paused, his eyes closing, forearms resting on his knees, and McGee watched him intently, knowing there was no expectation of any comment. Finally, the veteran agent continued. “Sometimes, I think if my girls had been there when I got home, maybe they wouldn’t have recognized me.”
McGee flinched at the mention of Gibbs’ family, an overwhelming wave of despair rushing through him for what his friend and mentor had lost. His mind substituted Delilah, Johnny, and Morgan for Shannon and Kelly Gibbs, and he forced back a sob, comprehending just how devastating it had to have been. He could not fathom how Gibbs had survived such tragedy.
As if he were unaware of any struggle within his senior field agent’s heart, Gibbs murmured, “Maybe there wouldn’t have been enough of me left for them to hang onto. Maybe…the best of me was gone.”
McGee wanted to counter that speculation, assure him that the best of Leroy Jethro Gibbs most certainly was not gone, that the man before him was good, decent, loyal, heroic – an icon among the entire agency. He wanted to share with him how very much he was admired and respected and…most of all, loved, by every single one of his team, by Leon…definitely by Jack – McGee was certain about that. But he didn’t, because now Gibbs’ stare was distant, as if he was seeing back 30 years.
“You come home,” he said softly, “and you’re like half a person. The other half of ya’s still back there where…at least it made sense.” He shook his head slowly, still staring, unfocused, through time. “Where…even with the bullets and the blood and the chaos, ya knew what mattered.”
Unconsciously, he let long fingers tug the chain around his neck, and McGee saw a flash of silver appear over the collar of the black T-shirt before a round medallion was swallowed up in Gibbs’ large palm.
“You knew that the guy next to you was willing to die for you…and you for him.” McGee wondered whose faces Gibbs saw in his memories, whose voices he heard, whose deaths he had witnessed, whose names might be etched on that medallion.
Gibbs’ voice was husky now, thick with emotion. “And ya look around, and think…it shouldn’t take a war…to make the world that simple.”
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Gibbs laid both hands on the box that held Joe Smith’s ashes and let his fingers rub gently over the top, Jackson Gibbs’ worn silver ID bracelet brushing against a side.
As he soaked in the experience of his boss’s rare emotional revelation, McGee was struck with his own memory of a man willing to die for him, of a man who stayed behind with only a rifle and side arm to fend off an overwhelming force long enough for him, Torres, and those children to make it to the refuge of the helicopter. Flashes of those darkest hours threatened to take his breath, and he forced himself to take in air through his nose and let it out through his mouth like Dr. Grace had showed him.
That did little, though, to dispel the vision of Gibbs’ battered face, his lips and cheek split open and splattered with blood, his eyes swollen almost shut, as he stumbled through the narrow passages of the rusting hulk, prodded, and sometimes punched, by the business end of a baseball bat, only minutes removed from being savagely beaten and kicked. McGee was not spared either, but his physical torture paled in comparison with his boss’s. He could still feel the terror shoot through him, nauseate him, at the memory of being tied up and forced to watch as Gibbs writhed on the filthy table, half drowning under the canvas that covered his face during the waterboarding, finally, mercifully, passing out, the remaining water bubbling from his lips, proof, at least, that he still lived.
“Tim?” The voice, soft but concerned, broke through the disturbing scenes, and he lifted his eyes to find Gibbs leaning toward him, brows drawn together, his right hand moving from the box to McGee’s arm. “You okay?”
For a moment, he stared at his boss, mentally cataloguing each faded scar Gibbs’ strong face bore from the nightmare of Paraguay: the split cheek, the busted eyebrow, the gashed forehead, the broken nose. Lastly, his gaze rested on the permanently-crooked left ring finger. He considered that maybe there was some symbolism in that before the familiar voice sounded again, louder this time, accompanied by a quick shake to his elbow.
“McGee?”
“Yeah, Boss,” came the automatic answer. Tim blinked twice, struggling to thrust the harsh visions of their jungle ordeal out of his mind.
With a heavy sigh, Gibbs shook his head. “Aw, hell, McGee. I shouldn’t have – “
But Tim’s hand shot out, grabbing Gibbs’ flannel sleeve before he could say more. “No, Boss!” he insisted, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that the startled look on his companion’s face would have been funny under other circumstances. “I mean…I…” A melancholy smile softened his face, and he let his hand loosen. His next word held so much meaning and emotion that his voice broke slightly as he uttered it. “Gibbs.”
The senior agent's eyes widened before he cocked his head in acknowledgement of the name and the sentiment.
“Don’t you know,” McGee managed, “how much it means to me that you would share what you just did? That you would share it…with me?”
Gibbs seemed to study him, reading his emotions, before he offered McGee that familiar smile, the one that just barely lifted the right side of his mouth and then disappeared almost immediately.
Tim wanted to say more, wanted to sooth whatever pain his mentor was dealing with from the memories, but instead he pushed up from the couch and extended his hand to show his appreciation for the precious gift he had been given. Gibbs stood also, those cool blue eyes flicking down to McGee’s outstretched hand, then back up, and another smile touched his lips, this one not as melancholy. With the back of his left hand, he gently batted away McGee’s right and stepped up to him, pulling the SFA against his chest, his arms wrapping Tim up tightly.
“Means somethin’ to me, too, Tim,” he whispered hoarsely against McGee’s ear.
He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but neither man seemed eager to let go. Finally, they kind of mutually loosened their arms and stepped back, throats clearing simultaneously to cover the emotions clogging them.
“You really sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Tim asked one more time, a little concerned about Gibbs going alone all the way to Hawaii with Joe’s ashes.
Lifting his chin in the general direction of the door, Gibbs said, “Don’t forget the grill.”
The dismissal was kind, but clear. McGee nodded, moving around the couch and into the foyer, picking up the cleaned grill top from where he had propped it against the wall separating the two rooms. “Boss I – ”
But Gibbs was already bending down, throwing the garment bag Tony had given him years ago over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen.
“Have a good trip, Boss.”
After one more fond look, Tim tugged open the outside door, moving past the coat rack as he avoided banging the metal against the carefully painted wood. Just before the door closed, his periphery caught sight of a light tan jacket hanging there, and his last thought before he stepped from Gibbs’ house was that he was pretty sure he had seen Jack in a coat like that just the day before.
TBC