Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something is wrong with Tony DiNozzo.

He is acting weird again. Not that, according to Tim McGee, Tony doesn’t always act weird. Because he tends to act loud and brash when something is bothering him. When Tony is upset, he tends to act like he usually does with his movie quotes and his antics and his pranks and his McNicknames. Just everything is turned up to maximum volume and it’s in stereo with surround sound.

For the past few weeks, Tony has been quiet and sullen. Brooding.

Tim likes that word. Brooding.

Right now, it’s the only word to describe Tony. He works at his desk, eyes fixed on his computer monitor. There is no flair, no tricks, no strange antics, or weird behavior. He doesn’t throw out his arms and prance around the bullpen while describing his latest dates, his conquests.

He arrives, works, and goes home. Then, it’s the same thing the next day.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I don’t remember the last time Tony called me something other than my real name. Yesterday, he even called me Tim. He never calls me Tim.

At his desk, Tim struggles to find the team’s current case fascinating. His eyes are glued to the file, but nothing seems to be sticking. He reviewed it at least ten times so far, but he can’t even remember their suspect’s name. Johnson or Johanssen or Jackson or something like that.

Whatever their suspect’s name is, they believe he misappropriated several boxes of office supplies. Run of the mill routine items that could be purchased from any office supply store: paper clips and printer paper and ballpoint pens. It isn’t exciting, but it’s the case Gibbs caught and it’s the case they’ll work.

Why would anyone steal ballpoint pens?

Subconsciously, Tim’s eyes glide to the growing collection of pens in the cup on his desk. Whenever he returns to the bullpen, one or two pens have usually hitched a ride with him. Abby Scuito sent an e-mail last week offering a stay of execution for anyone—she told Tim that she knows the pen thief is Jimmy Palmer because he’s just too happy and that instantly makes him a suspect—who left her pens in the box by her lab. No questions asked. Tim would love to return them, but knowing Abby, she already has a security camera set up. He is already in too deep now and Tony hasn’t even called him McKlepto yet.

Abby is going to kill me.

When Tim glances at Tony, the look on the senior agent’s face surprises him. His eyes are narrowed, his lips pulled into a deep frown. He looks like Tony, but not the man Tim knows.

Suddenly, Jethro Gibbs hops up from his desk. “Going for coffee.”

None of the team bothers to say anything because it’s not like they could stop him. He hustles out of the bullpen without looking back. That gives Ziva David an opportunity to glance at Tim. She raises her eyebrows and jerks her chin towards Tony. Her eyes say, Have you uncovered what his problem is?

Ziva expects Tim to fix Tony. As though that could happen.

Barely raising his shoulders, Tim manages a covert shrug. With another assessing glance at Tony, Ziva starts to rise from her chair.

Tony holds up his hand. “The case, Zee-vah. Worry about the case.”

Resignation slips onto her face while she sits back down. She works on her computer while Tim reads the case file. There is a clue here, but he just isn’t seeing it yet. He pulls out a piece of paper to write down the date of the shipments. Then, he loads a map of the base and tries to determine where their sticky-fingered ensign could grab the office supplies.

They work in silence for what feels like a long time. As much as Tim hates to admit it, the quiet doesn’t help him think anymore. He is used to the idle chatter, movie quotes, and outlandish theories. He got used to the noise, noise, noise.

Tony smacks his hands on his desk. The sudden noise makes Tim jump. He looks over, half-expecting Tony to magically return to his former self. Instead, Tony shrugs on his coat.

“Going for lunch.” Tony sounds so much like Gibbs.

Nodding, Tim turns back to his file. While Tony makes his way to the elevator, Ziva clears her throat. When Tim doesn’t move, Ziva raises her chin and tilts her head towards Tony’s retreating form.

“Go speak with him, McGee,” she hisses.

The color drains from Tim’s cheeks. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I do not know. Speak with him.” There’s an accusing undertone to her voice as though Tony being quiet is all Tim’s fault. “Perhaps you will make him wet from the shower.”

Tim cocks his head. “Do you mean ‘right as rain?’”

“That does not sound correct.” She runs her hand along her chin. “I believe you should speak with Tony because if you wish not to, it will have to be me. And…” Her voice trails off.

Tim doesn’t want to find out exactly what she’ll do. Her ‘methods’ tend to end up with the other person in tears or in the hospital without much room for variation. While she is settling into her role as an investigator, the sensitivity training hasn’t stuck with her yet. And they can’t ask Gibbs because he’s well, Gibbs. Typically, Tony is the one tapped for emotional situations.

And since Tony is the one who needs talking to, that leaves me.

With a world-weary sigh, Tim grabs his coat and gear. He might not look forward to discussing Tony’s emotional state, he might be hoping to have the old Tony back. He never thought he could miss the jester that Tony plays, but here he is, hoping the man is back to his normal, annoying self soon.

Tim has one arm in his jacket while he hustles to catch up.

“Hey Tony! Wait up!” he calls.

Tony must not hear because he ducks straight into the elevator. By the time Tim reaches it, the doors are already closed. He stares at the metal, head tilted and face screwed up in thought.

Tony would’ve—should’ve—waited for him.

Tim bolts to the stairs before taking them as fast as he can. His heart is pounding in his chest. He makes a mental note to hit the gym more often. When he explodes into the lobby, his chest heaves from the effort. One of the security guards wheels around, wide eyed. Tim ignores him as he scans the lobby. Tony is already heading through the exit.

Tim rushes after him. As soon as he is outside, the cold air smacks him right in the face. It freezes the sweat collecting on his forehead. He holds up his hand to block the bright sunlight as he continues to look for Tony. His head whips around, but he catches Tony hustling towards the street.

Tony gets caught by a Don’t Walk sign. He stands on the street corner, gaze fixed on the sign across the street. His body is relaxed, his arms loose at his sides. When Tim sidles beside him, the junior agent is panting and nearly doubled over on his knees. If he was trying for nonchalance, he isn’t even close.

“You’re following me, McStalker.” Tony’s words are a statement, not a question.

“I…uh, um – “ Tim flinches. “I decided to get lunch too.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Sure, you did.”

That makes Tim flinch again. As soon as the pedestrian sign changes to Walk, they head across the street together. Despite it being lunchtime, the streets are nearly deserted. Most agents either eat in the cafeteria or go somewhere else because the Navy Yard isn’t in a great neighborhood. Still, there are a few decent restaurants in this area of Southwest.

“Do you want to grab lunch?” Tim asks.

Tony makes a face. “Not today, McGee.”

Those words make Tim visibly wilt because he thought Tony might want to eat lunch together. They used to grab meals together all the time, but now, they rarely said two words that aren’t related to their current case. A brown delivery truck rattles past, leaving the stench of exhaust in its wake.

When they walk past their usual pizza place, Tony expectantly glances at Tim. The junior agent keeps walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony, who picks up the pace. Tim hustles to keep up.

“Is something bothering you, Tony?” Tim asks.

Tony hesitates because he didn’t expect Tim’s directness. Eventually, he just shakes his head.

Tim doesn’t say anything either. He continues to walk with Tony. They head past a little café where they used to grab breakfast sometimes after an all-nighter. They pass the Thai place with the great takeout. Tony looks at Tim, but the younger man keeps following Tony. They’re heading towards the edge of the restaurants in Southwest where the neighborhood turns rough.

“Pick something, McGee,” Tony says.

Tim eyes the Chinese place with the worst chicken chow mein that he’s ever eaten. With or without Tony, he’ll need to pick a restaurant soon and he sure as heck isn’t eating there.

“Are you sure that nothing is bothering you, Tony?” Tim asks.

Tony sighs. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Work stuff.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah.” Tony waggles his head. “And it’s the case. There’s a lot to unpack there.”

But it’s some guy who stole office supplies…

Tim wants to call him out, but the look on Tony’s face stops him. Tony’s eyes are fixed on a side street that leads deeper into the west part of Southwest. Whatever seems to be going on, Tony doesn’t want Tim to be part of it. And that just makes Tim more curious.

Tony scratches at the sidewalk with his shoe.

“I need a walk to clear my head.” He fixes Tim with a hard look. “Alone.”

Clipping a nod, Tim takes the hint. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Maybe some other time,” Tony says blandly.

Tim notices a sandwich shop across the street that they’ve never tried.

“I’m going to grab a sub,” he says. “Do you want anything?”

“They’re called hoagies,” Tony corrects.

That makes Tim laugh. The difference between a hoagie and a sub has always been a sore point for Tony after his years in Philadelphia as a cop. It’s meat and bread with toppings. To Tim, it doesn’t matter what it’s called as long as it tastes good.

“What’s a hoagie?” Tim jokes.

Tony gives Tim a lighthearted shove before he laughs.

“’Ain’t this where the Atomic Hoagie shop used to be?’” he quips.

Tim can’t stop his brow from furrowing. He might be relieved to hear a movie quote, but it isn’t one he knows. Though, he recognizes a bad Sylvester Stallone impersonation when he hears it.

“Rocky Five,” Tony explains. “Sylvester Stallone. Talia Shire. Rocky comes back as a boxing coach.”

“I didn’t realize they made five of them,” Tim admits.

Tony flashes his first genuine smile in weeks. “Hopefully they’ll make five more.”

It might not be the progress Tim hoped for, but it’s a flash of his old friend. At least he knows that Tony is still in there somewhere. With a little work, maybe he’ll even be back before the weekend.

Tim hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to grab lunch. I want to be back before Gibbs.”

“Good luck.” Tony offers him a mock salute.

Smiling, Tim starts across the street. He heads for the entrance, but when he looks over his shoulder, Tony is still hustling up the street. Ducking to head west on that side street.

Doing his best to stay covert, Tim doubles back. He follows Tony from the opposite side of the street, hanging back a full half-block because Tony knows how to spot a tail. They head west for two more blocks before Tony heads into a store with a cheery red and white awning. Tim continues up the street until he passes the quaint, little coffee shop. The name, Love You Latte, is etched into the glass window with stylized hearts and coffee cups around it. It must be new because the team has ordered takeout from every restaurant within a ten-block radius of the Navy Yard, and he doesn’t recognize the name.

Tim ducks behind a parked car. Thankfully, the sun is high enough that he can see through the storefront. It takes a moment for him to notice Tony talking to a man with a gleaming bald head and deep-set, nasty eyes. From the look of it, their conversation might even be friendly.

He covers his mouth with his hand. His heart feels as though someone just chucked it off a cliff.

Why the hell is Tony talking to Trent Kort?

Chapter Text

When Tim heads back to the bullpen, his mind is whirling at a hundred miles an hour. No matter what he does, he can’t slow it down.

His brain is struggling to come up with a reason, any reason, that Tony would meet with Trent Kort. The man who tried to kill Tony last year. The man who incinerated Tony’s beloved Mustang without even knowing whether he was inside. Tim watched the car explode on the live feed in MTAC. He heard the explosion through the headphones in MTAC. His ears rang for weeks after. He and the team thought Tony was dead when they cleared the charred remains from the burnt out husk.

Why is Tony meeting with Kort?

Feeling oddly numb, Tim returns to his desk. He collapses into his seat, teeth clenched and a dull ache starting behind his eyes.

There is a salad waiting for him. In all the confusion, he forgot to grab an actual lunch.

When Ziva materializes by his side, Tim nearly leaps out of his skin. He releases a gurgling cry before clutching his hand to his chest. Ziva cocks her head and puts her hand on her hip.

She offers him a plastic fork.

Tim looks at it. Looks back at her.

“You appear to have become a zombie,” she says.

That makes him raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“You are a zombie.” She holds up her hands and makes a “wooooo” sound with the fork.

He snatches the fork out of her hand. “I think you mean, ‘looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’”

Tapping her hand to her chin, she considers the idiom. “They are both dead, yes? Then it does not matter which imaginary creature you resemble. That is not the point.” Tim doesn’t know what the point is anymore either. “You have spoken to Tony, yes?”

Tim nods.

Then, Ziva is crowding into his personal space to try and knock him off his game. As though she could do more damage than seeing Tony with Trent Kort. He slides his chair to the side to give him more space, buy him more time. At times, Ziva can be intimidating, but right now, Tim is too worried about what Tony is up to. And why he is meeting with Trent Kort.  

“And Tony is all wet?” she says.

Tim squints at her because he doesn’t even know what idiom she is trying to murder.

“You know from the spring showers.” She wiggles her fingers like rain.  

Tim blinks owlishly. “They bring May flowers, but are you still trying to ask if Tony is right as rain?”

She shrugs with one shoulder, her lips pursed. “Perhaps.”

Usually, Tim doesn’t mind the managled metaphors and her strange ways of talking, but right now, it’s driving him crazy. He wants time to think. He wants to access Tony’s computer and comb through his e-mails until he finds some tangible reason for why Tony would be meeting Trent Kort.

Tim’s mind is going to all the wrong places. Blackmail. Extorsion. Bribery. Corruption. Nothing that Tony would ever stand for and maybe, just maybe, that’s why he is acting so weird.

Ziva claps her hands. “I bought you a lunch.”

Tim nods. “I see and thank you.”

“I am glad all is well with Tony,” she says.

“Yeah, me too,” Tim replies tightly.

Looking away, he removes the lid to his quinoa salad. He hates quinoa with every fiber of his being, but eating it gives him something to do. Something other than trying to remote access Tony’s computer from his own desktop or hacking into the senior agent’s e-mails.

All Tim knows is that all is not well with Tony.

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

Not long after Tim returns to the bullpen, Gibbs swoops back to his desk. He grunts his greeting to the junior agents. Tim doesn’t look up from his work, but replies with “Hey, Boss.”

He is trying not to think about what Tony could be up to with Kort. He doesn’t want to consider what Tony could be doing. Whether Kort could be blackmailing Tony or whether the senior agent could throw his career away or whether there’s a case no one knows about.

If it’s another case, why wouldn’t Tony ask for our help?

Trying to shove it aside, Tim attempts to focus on their current case. The words might as well be gibberish because nothing sticks. If anything, he is thinking about how much he hates quinoa. He chokes down some of the salad, but the quinoa is slimy and gross and goes down hard. Eventually, he shoves it aside because the food congeals into a heavy lump in his stomach.

Later, Tony purposefully strides back into the bullpen. He carries a wrapped sandwich like a football. He goes up on his toes—to Tim, it looks like a pirouette, but it’s probably a football move—before he drops into a wide stance in front of Tim’s desk. He feigns right, then left, then ducks right again to slam the sandwich in front of Tim.

“It’s a touchdown!” Tony says before he makes a crowd-roaring noise in the back of his throat.

Tim looks up, mildly annoyed and mildly relieved to see a person resembling the Tony that he knows.

Tony flashes a crooked grin. “’Looks like you might’ve played some football.’”

“No, I never did.” Tim’s reply sounds like a question.

That makes Tony laugh. “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Jack Nicholson. Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched. Guy spends time in a mental ward and goes up against a particularly twisted nurse.”

At her desk, Ziva clears her throat. “Perhaps that is where you would like to go.”

When Tony looks over, he narrows his eyes at Ziva. He dramatically throws out his hand while he makes a show of shoving Tim’s salad straight into the trashcan. Then, he pushes—more so, rolls—the sandwich towards Tim.

Ziva’s face folds into bitter anger. “How could you – “

“That was my lunch,” Tim interrupts.

Tony just grins, leering in Tim’s face. “I brought you a better one.’” He rolls the sandwich so close that it nearly falls into Tim’s lap. “Meat, McGee. Real food. Man food. Not girly quinoa.”

When Tim drops his gaze to his desk, there is an oil trail left by the sandwich across his desk and the case file. Gibbs will be pissed by the mess, but thankfully, it doesn’t appear that Tony brought Tim a carefully disguised glitter bomb. Though with Tony, Tim can never really tell.

Tim holds Tony’s gaze, shocked to find his eyes searching. As if Tony is trying to determine just how much Tim learned when they went for their walk. Tim saw more than he should, and his mind is desperately trying to fill in the blanks. He can’t read Tony’s expression.

Eventually, Tim says: “Thanks for the sub, Tony.”

Tony gasps. “You wound me, Probster. I brought you the best hoagie in Washington.”

“Not around here. It’s called – “

Tim is interrupted by Gibbs clearing his throat.

“Food,” Gibbs says. Then he barks: “Get back to work.”

“I want to make sure McGee eats a good meal, Boss.” When Gibbs’ glare hardens, Tony smirks. “Probie won’t grow up big and strong by only eating rabbit food.”

“DiNozzo!” Gibbs snaps.

Instead of instantly straightening, Tony stares hard at Tim’s face for another long second. To his credit, Tim doesn’t back down. He sets his jaw, raises his chin, tilts his head. Challenging Tony to give something away, to be the first one to break for once.

Tony rests a hand on Tim’s forearm and the younger man stiffens. He squeezes hard enough to catch Tim’s attention, for the hair on the back of Tim’s neck to rise.

Tony drops his voice. “Whatever you think you saw, Probie. It was nothing.”

Chapter Text

Steadily the days slide past after Tim watched Tony meet Trent Kort in that coffeehouse. Tony returns to his old, loud, annoying self. Except now, he is turned up to max volume in stereo. Somehow, Tim didn’t know Tony could be even more Tony. The movie quotes are nearly constant, the jokes, the ribbing, that trademark shit-eating grin never seems to leave his face. Even Gibbs is getting annoyed.

Tim never really noticed that Tony acts more like himself when he is trying to hide something. Whatever happened with Kort, Tim decides, it definitely isn’t over.

One day when Tim is alone in the bullpen, he investigates Tony’s desk. He shouldn’t be doing it, but he does it anyway. After all the times Tony has gone through Tim’s desk—and even picked the lock on his bottom drawer so many times the key doesn’t work anymore—Tim only feels like it’s fair.

There are Post-Its along the right side of Tony’s desk in a haphazard, unorganized way. Their notes range from illegible shorthand to Need milk to Watch None But A Lonely Heart tonight? That Post-It and the milk one have been there for three straight weeks. The rest come and go, but there isn’t any method to the organizational madness…much like Tim is finding with Tony.

Tim digs through Tony’s desk drawers. He tells himself that it’s a way to get back at Tony for invading his privacy, but he is a little worried about what the senior agent might’ve gotten himself into. They might not be friends—and some days, Tim isn’t sure if he actually likes Tony—but he wants to protect his partner. The inside of Tony’s desk is a complete and utter disaster. A garbage heap of candy bar wrappers and MSM magazines and office supplies. The bottom drawer is full of medals and ribbons, likely from all those awards ceremonies that Gibbs never attends. He draws the line at looking through Tony’s computer because some places are sacred—and also, Tim would need a warrant.

Going through Tony’s desk doesn’t tell him much. His gut is screaming at him that something is going on, but Tim just can’t prove it.

Yet.

Later that week, Tim decides to grow a goatee because he needs a change and wants to try something new and because, he can. It doesn’t hurt that a cute woman at a bar told him he had a “beard face.” He didn't know what that meant, but he decided to give it a try.

Tim doesn’t say anything to his team.

On Monday morning, he just shows up with it.

Ziva doesn’t care. Gibbs doesn’t seem to notice.

But Tony…

He sits at his desk, head cocked and face pulled into a deep frown. He is staring at Tim as though the junior agent just walked off a spacecraft. Tim just smiles at him through those whiskers he never believed he could grow. He doesn’t think he looks half bad. In fact, he'd like to think the woman from the bar would call him "attractive."

Tony runs his hand across his jawline. “There’s something on your face, Probie. ”

Tim rubs at his goatee. Grinning wickedly.

“Did you forget to shave for the last two months?” Tony asks.

Tim narrows his eyes. “I stopped this weekend.”

Tony makes a pfft noise. “Sure.”

It might’ve taken two whole weeks, but Tim isn’t about to admit that. He just rubs his cheek to show off his newest accessory. Tony climbs out of his chair to slowly stride through the bullpen. He stops in front of Tim’s desk to marvel at the beard. Well, he probably isn’t marveling at it, but that’s the closest expression Tony has. There isn’t any humor in his eyes as they scan over Tim. Instantly, Tim feels a bit like a bug under a microscope. On the surface, the interaction is light-hearted, but there is something more intense behind it as though Tony is still trying to determine just how much Tim knows about Trent Kort.

Nothing. I know absolutely nothing.

“The ladies love it,” Tim offers.

“I did not see it before,” Ziva says. When Tim looks wounded, she stops her work to scrutinize him. “I think you look rather dashing, McGee. Very rugged like a flapjack.”

“I think you mean lumberjack,” Tony says. “But yeah…no, McGee is no Paul Bunyon.”

Ignoring Tony, Tim beams at her. “Why thank you, Ziva.”

Tony waggles his fingers. “You know what, Ziva. You don’t count.”

A loud thud echoes from her desk causing both men to look at her. Narrowing her eyes, she props up their latest case file. Behind it, she could be doing anything.

Tony chokes on air. “You might be a woman, Zee-vah. But you’re our teammate. So, your opinion doesn’t count.” He turns back to Tim. “Neither does Dawn in accounting nor Jane in the armory.”

Leaning back in his chair, Tim licks his lips. He catches the goatee with his tongue and it’s gross, but he isn’t about to tell Tony that. And while Dawn in accounting and Jane in the armory might be old enough to be his grandmother, they were the only ones to notice his recent transformation. They told him how great he looks with the goatee.

Tim crosses his arms. “Other ladies like it too.”

Tony half-smiles. “’A tall handsome man with a little grey beard.’”

“You have just called McGee handsome,” Ziva says, laughing.

Tony points to himself. “Teammate. My opinion doesn’t matter, remember? Anyway, that was from The Pianist. It’s about – “

As if on cue, Gibbs swoops into the bullpen. He heads to his desk before turning back to his team. He stops in his tracks, staring intently at Tim, who barely manages a tense smile.

“That thing, McGee.” Gibbs gestures at his own chin. “Gone.”

Tim cringes as he nods. Tony presses his lips together to keep from laughing.

“On it, Boss,” he says.

He considers running home over lunch to shave, but he figures Tony would make fun of him for the rest of the year. And considering it’s still March...

“Tony,” Gibbs says.

“Go talk to our vic’s boyfriend. On it, Boss.” Tony is already halfway to his desk.

When Tim reaches for his gear, he pauses until Tony is ready to call for backup. There might be computer work waiting for him, but Tim is hoping that Tony will take him on the interview. Ever since he witnessed Tony meeting with Trent Kort, the older man has been seeming to avoid Tim at all costs. He might be acting like himself and playing the part, but Tony is careful not to be alone with Tim anymore. And when they are, he is louder and more aggravating as if driving Tim away on purpose.

Tony glances at Ziva. “You’re with me, Zee-vah.”

And with that, they grab their gear and stride out of the bullpen.

Sighing, Tim tucks straight back into the computer work. He doesn’t need to be told to run the financials, investigate the victim’s e-mail account, and poke around the internet history. Computer stuff. For Tim, it’s always the computer stuff.

When he finds an interesting transaction in the victim’s financials, Tim prints out the record. Two copies, one for Gibbs and one for Tony. Both of them are Luddites—not that Tim would say that out loud, if he wants to live to see their next case—and prefer information they can hold in their hands. Gibbs doesn’t even check his e-mail. Usually, he asks Tim to handle that for him.

Looking up, Tim is shocked to find the bullpen empty. He doesn’t even know when Gibbs left. He rubs at his goatee and sighs. It might be itchy and a pain to style, but he liked it for the weekend that he had it.

Maybe I’ll keep it. What will Gibbs do if I still have it tomorrow?

Tim moves toward Gibbs’ desk to place the printout on the spartan surface. The only way to know that someone was here is the half-empty coffee up in the right corner. And even that appears as though it could’ve been abandoned by someone passing through.

Then, Tim places the extra copy on Tony’s desk. Tim has no idea how Tony will find the paper in the mess that is his workspace. There are errant papers and case files, the ever-expanding rainbow of Post-It notes and a few uneaten candy bars and a half-eaten breakfast sandwich thrown around. Tim puts his paper on top of the breakfast sandwich because that’s where Tony will be headed when he comes back.

Tim allows himself a cursory glance of Tony’s desk. He hasn’t been snooping around like he was before. There hasn’t been any evidence of Tony meeting with Trent Kort again. And Tim, he’s hoping that was a one-time thing. A moment of temporary insanity on Tony’s part.

Just as he turns to leave, Tim notices two Post-Its stuck to the bottom of Tony’s computer monitor. That’s where Tony puts all the most important ones. One of them is the ubiquitous Watch None But A Lonely Heart tonight? Post-It. But it’s the other one that stops Tim in his tracks.  

It reads, The Mall 7:30 in Tony’s lopsided, messy script.

For all Tim knows, it could mean that Tony has an appointment with a tailor to shop for a suit in one of Washington’s many shopping malls. Not that Tony would ever be caught dead in a shopping mall or that his favorite designers aren’t even sold there. Tim has a sudden suspicion that Tony is meeting with Trent Kort again. Tim rubs at his goatee as he stands there, mulling.

I’ve got to get to the bottom of it before Tony gets himself in trouble.

Chapter Text

While Tim works through the afternoon, he considers the Post-It stuck to Tony’s computer monitor. The M in mall might be capitalized. Tim can never be sure because Tony’s handwriting looks like a preschooler grabbing a crayon for the first time. The only place Tim can think of is the National Mall. Tony isn’t the kind of person who frequents a suburban shopping mall.

Why would Tony be heading to the Mall on a Thursday? 

The team is still working their case—an assault involving a petty officer and his live-in girlfriend—when the hour nears seven o’clock. Tony keeps checking his watch until Gibbs makes a weird huffing sound. It could be telling them to call it quits or to prepare for an all-nighter.

Tony chucks his gear into his backpack and tears off for the elevator without saying a word. Dumbfounded, Tim just stares at his retreating form. He packs up his things and with a quick glance at Gibbs—who doesn’t even look up—he leaves for the night too. Ziva throws him a tiny wave.

After reaching his car, Tim starts to drive home. Instead, his instinct to follow Tony gets the better of him. Thankfully, traffic is light and it doesn't take long to reach his destination. He ends up parked on the edge of the National Mall. He doubts that Tony will be here, but he keeps telling himself if just one little thing happens, he’ll keep going.

If he managed to arrive before the time on the Post-It—which, he did.

If he could find a parking space—which he did, just at the edge of the Mall and that never, ever happens.

If he can find Tony in the huge park at night—well, he is still working on that.

Across the dark green space, the Washington Monument cracks against the night sky like a spear. He scans the entire Mall, but he can’t see very far. For a place that is such a tourist destination, there aren’t many lights here. The entire place is mostly deserted with only a few stragglers and a couple of late tourists wandering through the area.

For a moment, Tim considers leaving. He debates about heading straight to Gibbs’ house to talk about what Tony could be up to. Tim would do it too, except that if their situations were reversed, Tony wouldn’t go to Gibbs without proof. Tony would creep around and gather evidence until he knew exactly what Tim was doing, confront him, and then drag his ass straight to Gibbs.

Sighing, Tim rubs at the back of his neck. He should’ve talked to Tony at some point. It would’ve been easier than all this sneaking around. But what exactly was Tim supposed to say: “Why are you hanging out with Trent Kort, Tony?” Like Tony would’ve been serious about it. If anything, he would’ve laughed, lobbed a movie quote and McNickname before acting like Tim was losing his mind.

Tim slips out of the car. He feels oddly resigned at the moment. Nothing will happen other than him wandering about in the dark for a while. Then, he’ll head home and act like it never happened.

At least I can try to figure out what’s going on with Tony.

Until he is standing on the sidewalk, Tim forgot how huge the National Mall truly is. He doubts he’ll be able to find Tony and Kort if they’re even here. Heck, Tony’s note may have meant he planned to buy a new suit from Sears at the mall in Silver Spring. It could’ve meant anything. And yet, here Tim is thinking the worst of the worst.

The air is warm and slightly humid. A breeze carries the sweet scent of cherry blossoms and fresh rain as it rushes past. This year is an early spring, and the world is starting to reawaken and bloom with new life. Tim loosens his tie as he glances down the poorly lit sidewalk. There isn’t anyone here.

Okay, I’ll do one lap and then head home.

He sighs.

I shouldn’t even be here.

Tim sighs quietly because he already knows that he has come too far to leave now. He heads down the concrete pathway, sticking as close to the trees as he can. He keeps his face tilted downward, eyes up to scan for anyone. There are a few joggers, a young couple walking arm-in-arm, a woman on a cell phone lamenting about her cat’s latest visit to the vet and –

Tim’s stride falters at the sight of him.

Tony DiNozzo stands in an offshoot from the main path. Beside a trashcan and a sulfur-yellow streetlamp, he keeps an eye on his watch.

Tim picks up the pace as he rushes down the path. Once he gets further ahead, he’ll double back and hide in the trees. From there, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Maybe he’ll confront them. Maybe he’ll talk to Tony after Kort leaves. Maybe he’ll head straight to Gibbs’ house and lay it all out. The plans pinball around his head until there’s the start of a headache behind his right eye. Despite his thinking, nothing seems to be sticking.

Just as Tim starts off the path, he catches the soft footsteps behind him. They’re coming fast. He starts to turn around, but the person grabs him and hustles him straight into a small swath of trees. He goes to fight back, but he ends up face first against a tree with his left arm twisted up behind his back. With every movement, the person draws his arm higher. His fingers are tingling. Of course, he would get mugged while snooping on a clandestine meeting. He's a federal agent for fuck's sake.

“I don’t have any cash,” he announces.

“Do you really think I want your money, Agent McGee?” The voice is pompous and arrogant, and so fucking British.

Trent Kort.

Tim’s heart drops straight to his stomach. His blood turns to ice as he tries not to consider what the man could—will—do to him. Tim tries to move backward, but Kort shoves him deeper into the tree. The rough bark scratches his face. The ligaments in his left hand are growing sluggish.

“What are you doing here?” Kort asks.

“Going for a walk,” Tim says. “It’s a nice night.”

Kort barks something that could be a laugh. “You’re a dreadful liar, Agent McGee. And you are not as devious as you think. I saw you outside of Love You Latte during my last meeting with DiNozzo.”

Hearing Kort say the name of the coffeehouse in his dark and gravelly voice is so ridiculous that Tim wants to laugh, but he can’t bring himself to. Kort would probably rip off Tim’s arm for that.

“I’ll ask you again,” Kort growls. “Why are you here?”

“You’re meeting with Tony.” Tim’s voice is muffled by the tree in his face.

“My dealings with DiNozzo aren’t your concern.”

“What do you want with him?” Tim's voice is strident.

Kort makes a strange high-pitched noise, something between a laugh and a chuckle. When he hauls Tim off the tree, the junior agent tries to break free. It doesn’t matter because Kort’s hold on his arm is too tight. Kort frog marches Tim through the trees back to the little alcove where Tony waits. As soon as they break through the trees, Kort roughly shoves Tim towards Tony.

Tony’s eyes widen as they slide between Tim and Kort. When they land back on Tim, anger settles across Tony’s features. Tim hugs his arms to his chest. He wonders how far he could run before Kort grabs him again. Despite the man’s short stature, Kort runs like a greyhound.

“Look what I found. A spy.” Kort studies Tim for a moment, the irony lost on him. His eyes settle on Tim’s goatee. “Bold choice, Agent McGee. I believe it rather suits you.”

The way Kort draws attention to Tim’s goatee causes a pit to rise in his stomach. Tony glares at Tim with narrowed eyes. Tim manages a slight, sheepish smile while holding his hands out as if to say Ta-da.

“What are you playing at, DiNozzo?” Kort growls.

“Nothing,” Tony says.

Kort keeps his attention on Tim. “Did you know he was following you?”

“Of course not,” Tony snaps, still glaring Tim down.

Kort glances away from Tim long enough to determine whether Tony is telling the truth. Tim shoves his hands into his pockets and studies the top of his shoes. His left arm is throbbing, but he won’t give Kort the satisfaction of rubbing it. He feels Tony’s eyes boring a hole through him.

“Get out of here, McGee.” Tony’s tone of voice tells Tim that he’s a dead man walking.

Tim turns to leave when Kort clucks his tongue.

“Stay, Agent McGee,” Kort says. “I believe we could use the company.”

Tim’s head whips between Kort and Tony because he isn’t sure who he should listen to. One is, technically, his boss and the other, a crazed CIA who would put a bullet in his brain because it’s Thursday. Tim shouldn’t be anywhere near here. He should be in his apartment with a glass of wine and a book.

What in the hell was I thinking?

He decides to listen to Tony because the senior agent will make Tim’s life a living hell if he doesn’t. And yet, Tim will probably be in for it starting tomorrow morning.

Tim barely takes a step before Kort slides in his way. His face is twisted in a cunning, cruel smile and Tim wonders whether he is coming up with a plan to kill him. He already tried to kill Tony more than once.

Tony holds out his hand. “McGee isn’t part of this.”

Tim desperately wants to know what this is, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to ask. Right now, he is thinking that Kort is blackmailing Tony because it’s the only thing that makes sense. Tim wishes he had gone straight to Gibbs first.

Kort smirks. “He is now, it seems.”

Tony starts, “Should we get to – “

“About our meeting tonight,” Kort says. “We’ll reschedule for another time. One that I expect Agent McGee to join us. Since he is sneaking around, I would rather keep an eye on him.”

Tony steps forward. “This is between you and me.”

Smirking, Kort shrugs with one shoulder. “Consider the terms changed.”

And with that, he starts out of the alcove. Kort makes it to the main path where he is shrouded in darkness. He stops short, glancing over his shoulder.

“And DiNozzo?” he calls.

Tony looks over. “Yeah?”

“Keep your geek on a tighter leash.”

Then, Kort melts into the darkness. Tony is channeling his best inner Gibbs to glare down Tim. He waits for a moment before he moves to the path to ensure that Kort is gone. Once he is sure that they’re alone, Tim rubs his shoulder where Kort tried to rip his arm off.

Tony swivels around, index finger raised in accusation. He is the angriest that Tim has ever seen him.

“What the hell were you thinking, McGee?” Tony asks.

“Me?” Tim blinks. Takes a full step back. “Me?! What the hell am I thinking? What the hell are you thinking, Tony? You’re meeting with Trent Kort! He’s the spy who tried to blow you up!”

Tony hunches his shoulders before biting out in an angry whisper: “Don’t you think I remember that?”

“Then why are you meeting with him?”

Tony runs his tongue along his teeth. Eventually, he says: “I’m working.”

Tim just blinks at him. “What does that even mean?”

Tony lets the silence stretch between them until it’s a wide, gaping chasm in the darkness. Tim stretches his left arm over his head, trying to relax the ache in his shoulder. His fingers still feel sluggish and strange like the tendons were connected for the very first time.

He never even considered that Tony could be working on something. It never even crossed his mind that there could be a case, an angle, something that Tony worked at. But the better question is for whom? And why?

After what feels like a long time, Tony opens his mouth to speak. Then, he thinks better of it and ends up shaking his head. He just looks back at the path where Kort disappeared minutes ago. The temperature is plummeting around them and Tim pulls his jacket tighter around his throat. He can’t tell if it’s the cool night air or how Tony looks at him as though Tim betrayed him.

He starts, “Tony, I – “

“You shouldn’t be here, McGee,” Tony interrupts. “You shouldn’t be part of this. You shouldn’t even know about it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you were following me.”

Tim half-smiles. “You didn’t notice the tail.”

When Tony’s expression darkens, Tim understands he said the exact wrong thing.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Any of it.” Tim is flailing now. “I was worried because you were meeting with Kort. He tried to kill you before and I thought he might try again. I wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re my partner for G-d’s sake, Tony. I’m here if you need help.”

“I’m fine.” Tony shakes his head. “You aren’t involved.”

Tim’s smile turns remorseful. “It sounds like I am now.”

“Not by my choice,” Tony says. “I don’t know what Kort is playing at, but I don’t like it.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

Tony makes a face. “I’m not dragging you into this mess.”

“I hate to tell you, but I’m already in it.”

Licking his lips, Tony scuffs his shoe against a loose rock on the ground. He shifts his weight before he looks back to where Kort just left. When he speaks, his voice is calm and quiet.

Tony shakes his head. “I’m handling it on my own.”

Chapter Text

As soon as Tim arrives home, he attacks his goatee with a razor. Not because Gibbs ordered him to. Or because Tony and Ziva said it looked good.

But because Trent Kort said that it suited him.

Tim stares at his reflection in the mirror above his bathroom sink. The left half of the goatee is gone while the right side of his face is still covered in whiskers. A modern-day Janus, two-faced.

That comment from Trent Kort left Tim feeling dirty and used and all wrong inside. Shaking his head, he continues to rid himself of that wretched thing on his face. Once he is clean-shaven, Tim is relieved by the sight staring back at him. His face, clean-shaven and familiar, is there.

What the hell is Tony thinking?

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

The days quickly slip past after Tim snuck into Tony’s meeting with Trent Kort.

Tony doesn’t talk to Tim. Instead, he prefers to communicate through e-mail. There are no McNicknames, no obscure movie quotes, no sign of the giant ball of life that is Tony DiNozzo. He e-mails simple commands like, Please find the address, McGee. Thank you very much. It’s the please and thank you that let Tim know how pissed Tony is. Tony is like Gibbs in that respect. Pleasantries are reserved for people they'd rather shoot.

Tim tries not to mind the silence, but it is pressing on him like an invisible weight. The bullpen is lifeless and blah and so very, very dull compared to when Tony is in full swing.

Even Ziva seems to be bothered. She levels the side eye at Tim while asking, “What did you do to Tony, McGee?” every time they’re alone. Half-smiling, Tim just shrugs because he isn’t about to tell Ziva that Tony is meeting with Trent Kort. Things might be bad now, but that would end with him in a body bag.

A few weeks after Tony and Kort’s last meeting—the one that Tim crashed—Tony sidles beside Tim’s desk. He clutches a case file in his hands.

Tim looks up, almost shocked to find Tony there. Whatever he needed, Tony could’ve sent an e-mail. As much as Tim hates it, he has grown used to the cold shoulder. He doesn’t know what to say to Tony that could make the sneaking around behind his back any better.

Tony tosses the file on Tim’s desk with a thwack. Tim flinches.

“Can you trace that, McGee?” Tony asks.

Inside the file, Tim discovers a single piece of paper with an account number, a date from last week, and a low six-figure transaction. The request itself is easy, but it’s the why that Tim is stuck on. It might be a simple transaction trace, but Tim has a sinking feeling about what it’s related to. Likely, Tony wants Tim to uncover the origin of the money in the account. Nothing good comes from that amount of money unless someone wins the lottery.

Maybe it’s an inheritance. But if Tony’s asking me to look into it then, yeah, right…

Tim looks up. “It isn’t related to our case.”

Tony puts his hands on his hips. “I know, but I need your help.”

Dropping the file, Tim double-checks the bullpen to ensure that it’s empty. Ziva left a few minutes ago and Gibbs disappeared earlier in the morning. Still, Tim wants to ensure Gibbs didn’t creep back at some point. He doesn’t want to think about what Gibbs will do if—when—he finds out Tony is talking to Kort.

“Is it related to…” Tim’s voice trails off to let Tony fill in the blank.

Tony sets his jaw. “Yeah.”

Tim sucks a breath through his teeth. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Of course, I do,” Tony says.

“Okay,” Tim says like he doesn’t believe him.

Rolling his eyes, Tony reaches for the file. Tim leans his weight on top of the paper while looking up at Tony’s face. There is an unsettling serious expression on Tony’s face that Tim isn’t used to seeing. It’s like seeing Tony dress up like a homeless person for an undercover operation. It just isn’t natural. A pit settles deep into Tim’s stomach.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Tim sighs.

But I’m going to anyway.

“What do you need?” Tim asks.

“I want to know where the money came from,” Tony explains. “I looked into – “

“You?” Tim interrupts.

Tony throws him a dirty look. “I can run a simple bank trace.” He waggles his hand at the file. “That is not a simple bank trace. I don’t know what the hell that is. I need your voodoo.”

“And what am I looking for?” Tim asks.

Tony shakes his head. “It’s need to know.”

“And I don’t need to.” When Tony nods, Tim’s frown deepens. “Right. Got it.”

Tim rubs at the back of his neck while he contemplates Tony’s request. If anything, Tony might be in over his head with whatever he is doing with Kort. Tim desperately wants to ask more questions. He wants to drag Tony into interrogation until he learns exactly what is going on.

I don’t like not knowing what Tony is up to, but I have to trust him.

While Tim runs the trace, Tony haunts the space by his desk like a lost ghost. Even after Tim says it’ll take a while and he’ll holler when he’s done, Tony just pulls a chair over to wait. It doesn’t take long to discover the money was funneled through several shell companies before ending in the account Tim now assumes belongs to Trent Kort. He prints out the results before shoving them into the file with a flourish. Then, he hands them to Tony, who stares, dumbfounded, at Tim.

“Good work, McGee,” Tony says.

Tim grins. “Thanks.”

And with that, Tony swoops to his desk to grab his coat and his gear. He is nearly out of the bullpen when he turns back. Tim looks over.

“Do you need something else?” Tim asks.

“Don’t tell Gibbs,” Tony says.

And before Tim can reply, Tony is loping to the elevator. Tim has no idea what he plans to do with the file and if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t want to know.  

Frowning, Tim glances back to the information still on his screen. Under the guise of closing the windows, he minimized them instead. He glances through the shell companies before he runs a check on their suspected origins. The information on his screen sends his heart plummeting. One of them is believed to be connected to a terrorist organization in Paraguay.

Tim swallows hard as the questions pinball around his brain. Trent Kort is receiving money from a terrorist group. Tony is involved with Trent Kort. Whatever they’re doing together can’t be good.

Just what the hell is going on?

Chapter Text

Later that afternoon, Tony lopes back into the bullpen as though he was down in Abby’s lab, not running a secret errand with an even more secret file. He throws Tim a furtive look and the younger man just nods. Whatever Tony is up to, they’re both in it together now. If Tim wanted to tell Gibbs, he should’ve said something as soon as the team leader came back from lunch.

It’s too late now. I’m already in over my head and I don’t even know what it is.

When he heads back to his desk, Ziva opens her mouth as if she is about to ask a question. There’s a rising glint in his eyes before he does a dance move. A weird little hop-step.

Tony starts singing: “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. It’s a – “

“It is raining,” Ziva says, pointing towards the window.

Stopping mid-dance move, Tony puts his hands on his hips. He pouts at Ziva, making a surprisingly sad face that almost Tim believes. Then, he clucks his tongue at her.

“I have blown you again, yes?” Ziva deadpans.

Tony can’t keep the shit-eating grin from crawling onto his face. “You might mean ‘burst my bubble,’ Zee-vah.” His grin turns lascivious. “That’s something else entirely. Though, we could work something out.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed. As though she doesn’t truly understand what he was talking about.

Tim is trying not to laugh. “Maybe try a different one? Why don’t you use the parade one again? You got that right yesterday.”

Ziva cocks her head in the opposite direction. “Do you mean where I have stormed Tony’s gathering?”

Tony opens his mouth before thinking better of it. “You know what, that’s close enough. I’ll allow it. Though, the correct answer is ‘rained on my parade.’ And no, Ziva, it takes more than that for me to be washed out.”

“Perhaps you are in need of a shower then.”

Tim presses his hand against his mouth to keep his chuckles contained.

At his desk, Gibbs is growing more tense with each passing moment. He clears his throat, but that doesn’t seem to catch Tony’s attention.

“DiNozzo?” he barks.

Tony flinches. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Get back to work.”

“Your tone isn’t very neighborly, but I’m on it.” Then he heads over to his desk while humming a tune that Tim recognizes from his childhood: Mr. Rogers’ Won’t You be My Neighbor?

They get back to work and the afternoon vanishes before Tim even realizes that it’s quitting time. Gibbs and Ziva are already gone for the day when Tim begins to pack up his things.

Tony slides into Tim’s way before he can leave.

“He called another meeting.” Before Tim can say it, Tony clips a quick nod. “Yeah, you know who.”

When they leave together, Tony is trying to be as covert as possible as though he is some kind of secret agent. He tells Tim to take the elevator while Tony takes the stairs. They meet in the employee parking lot with Tim coming from the west side and Tony from the south side. With how strange Tony is acting, Tim fully expects to have to wear a black hood so he doesn’t know where they’re going. Instead, Tim ends up folded into the passenger seat of Tony’s new car: a black Honda sedan. The interior is sleek and new, but Tony glares at everything with a certain disdain.

“How are you liking the new car?” Tim asks.

Tony glowers at the road. “It’s fine.”

And that’s the end of the conversation. They end up back at the National Mall. Even though it’s well after dark, the night air is humid and warm and smells of new flowers. There are more people out than last time, but it’s still mostly deserted. It’s too dark to see the sights.

“Where are we going?” Tim asks.

Ignoring him, Tony leads the way deeper into the darkened park. They head off the concrete walkway and right past a Do Not Walk On The Grass sign as they decidedly trample on the grass. Tim tightens his coat around himself as he follows Tony. They are headed straight for a small thicket.

Inside the lump of trees, Trent Kort waits for them. He smiles like a cat that ate a canary.

“DiNozzo.” His eyes slither from Tony to Tim. “I’m glad you could join us, Agent McGee.”

Tony’s shoulders tighten. “You wanted to meet.”

“We have things to discuss,” Kort says.

Tony raises his jaw. “We’ll talk, but McGee stays here.”

Kort runs his tongue across his lips. Considering.

Whatever is happening between them, Tim can’t quite place. He glances from Tony to Kort and back again. He is so far out of the loop that he isn’t even on the same planet and it’s playing to his disadvantage. He wishes he knew whether Tony was being blackmailed or extorted or whatever the hell is going on.

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Kort says.

“Just like you amended it, I’m doing the same thing.” Tony crosses his arms, raises his chin even higher. “If you want to talk, we’ll do it where McGee can’t hear.”

They silently face off for a long moment. When Tim opens his mouth to say that he’ll be fine listening, Tony glares him into silence. Tim shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the broken sidewalk underneath his feet. There’s a huge crack running down it with blades of grass poking out.

Eventually, Kort holds out his hand. “I’ll acquiesce, DiNozzo. We’ll talk – “ he gestures somewhere in the tree line “ – over there. Agent McGee shouldn’t be able to hear. Do you find this acceptable?”

Tony nods. “Very.”

And when they leave for their clandestine meeting, they don’t even turn back to look at Tim. In the darkness, he catches a flash of movement. It’s so quick that Tim thinks his mind is playing tricks on him.

He is chasing ghosts.

Chapter Text

Only a few days later, Tony arrives at Tim’s desk. He is grim-faced, sullen. Tim looks up from his computer, almost surprised to find Tony there. By the look on his face, Tim understands what Tony isn’t saying: Trent Kort called another meeting.

Because that’s just what Tim needs right now.

He is supposed to be investigating the financials for their most recent case, a dead petty officer in Rock Creek Park. Gibbs has been on the warpath all morning and if Tim doesn’t have something when he gets back, he’ll be a dead man too.

Tim sighs quietly. He hadn’t expected sneaking around to be so damned exhausting. He still doesn’t know how Tony managed to keep an entire undercover life secret while still showing up for work.

“When?” Tim asks. “Tonight?”

“Right now." Tony’s face tightens. "He wants to meet right now.”

Tim licks his lips. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Sighs as though his very soul is leaving his body. If he leaves without results, Gibbs will kill him when he gets back. If he stays here, Tony will kill him for screwing up whatever he is doing with Kort.

I can't win. Damn it.

“We need to go.” There’s a knife-edge to Tony’s voice.

Why does the meeting have to be smack dab in the middle of lunchtime when they’re the only ones in the bullpen? Tim had hoped to work through lunch and whip out the results for Gibbs as though he had them all along. It’s as if Kort couldn’t arrange worse timing.

The double life he leads is starting to take a toll on his work one and his normal one. Tim hasn’t gone through Pepto-Bismal like this since he started on Team Gibbs. He isn’t cut out for espionage. This much he learned and trying to keep secrets from Gibbs…well, Tim can’t think of many things that are more difficult. The only thing worse is trying to keep secrets and not have results.

Tony clears his throat. Tim looks helplessly at his computer, knowing that he’ll have to abandon his work and hope Gibbs takes mercy on him later.

Tim hops to his feet. Snatches his creds and phone. Holsters his weapon to his belt. Then, he and Tony head to the elevator. Whenever they’re together, they don’t talk much anymore. Not that they were overly chatty before—Tony would make a joke, Tim would roll his eyes and pretend that it wasn’t funny—but now, it seems less and less. Tim asks questions that Tony ignores. They’re both in way over their heads, but neither knows how to keep themselves from drowning.

At least Tony isn’t alone in this mess.

They take Tony’s little Honda to the location of the meeting. He narrows his eyes at the odometer, slams on the brakes harder than he should. Grouses about the acceleration and the handling and damned near everything you could want in a car. Tim tries to tell him how great the radio is and its power everything.

“It has no character,” Tony bites out.

Tim just blinks at him.

“No heart.” Tony sighs. “No soul.”

Tim tilts his head. “Tony, it’s a car.”

Tony doesn’t say anything as they arrive at the location of their meeting. It’s a small community park at the edge of Washington, near the border of Virginia. There are signs all around the entrance that advertise their community series of theatrical plays in the park. The location strikes Tim as strange because their meetings tend to be in closed places with lots and lots of trees. Secret places. All cloak and daggers and the places that would be great movie scenes.

Why did Kort choose this place?

Tony parks the car in the small parking lot, but there isn’t anyone else here. He puts the car in park, narrowing his eyes at the gearshift. Then, he slides out of the car with Tim on his heels.

Here, the air is warm with the first hints of summer. The trees are just starting to blossom and the smell of new life carries on the wind as it rolls past. Deeper in the park, a lawn mower is already hard at work. Tim’s eyes glide around the huge open space, scanning for threats and Kort and that lawn mower.

Tim looks at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “Where?”

“The stage,” Tony says.

And with that, he stalks along the asphalt path through the park. Past empty baseball and soccer fields. Past a little playground where tired mothers watch their toddlers go wild. Past a little pavilion where a group of elderly people knit in a huge circle.

There is nothing secret about this place.

They end up in a huge, concrete monstrosity that sits in the center of the park. There is a huge concrete stage with cement steps and seating all around. Toward the back, there are a few raised structures likely for the lighting and sound crews when they’re here.

Uncertain, Tim eyes the set-up. “Interesting place.”

Tony half-smiles. “They do movies in the park here sometimes. They usually have a huge Bogey marathon over the summer. Maybe we should check it out. I’ll bring popcorn.”

Hm, I didn’t know Tony liked golf movies.

That’s the first olive branch Tony has offered since he found Tim sneaking around the secret meetings. Even though Tim doesn’t know anything about golf, he nods. He’ll look up some golf movies when he gets a chance to be ready for when he and Tony watch them again.

“That sounds like fun,” Tim says.

Tony’s look calls him a big, fat liar.

With a wave of his hand, Tony leads Tim up to the stage. Tim hasn’t stood in the middle of one since he was at MIT and trying on a dance club for fun. He wasn’t any good—actually, he was all uncoordinated gyrations and flailing arms and mistimed jazz hands—but he did enjoy being up with the lights and the sound and the crowd.

But honestly, the place is a tactical nightmare. Up here, they are out in the open. Exposed. All it would take is one wrong person to wander past on a jog and they’ll be discovered. Though, when Tim thinks about it, he realizes he hasn’t seen another person since they hit this side of the park.

Something isn’t right.

“Doesn’t Kort usually beat us to the meets?” Tim asks.

Tony half-shrugs. “Not always.”

And that’s when Kort wanders out from the opposite side of the stage. His face is pulled into a probing smile, his hands held carefully away from his sides.

“Enter stage left,” Tony says.

Tim shakes his head. “That was stage right, Tony.”

Tony furrows his brow. “Why do you know that, McGee?”

Tim presses his lips together. If Tony finds out his past as a drama geek, he will never, ever live it down.

Kort draws closer, his eyes fixed on Tony. He hazards a glance out at the seating area, but there isn’t anyone in the audience. Tim looks out too.

“Interesting choice, DiNozzo,” he says.

Tony dips into the pantomime of a bow. “’All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts…’”

“Quoting Shakespeare, are we?” Kort asks.

“As You Like It,” Tony says. “Laurence Olivier. Elisabeth Bergner.”

Kort just stares at him. Looks at Tim as if he should be the one to tell him.

“It’s from a Shakespeare play, Tony,” Tim says gently.

Tony glances over his shoulder. “I knew that. Just no one plays Jacques like Laurence Olivier.”

Tony throws his hands out as if he is ready to launch into a soliloquy. Kort’s features pinch with annoyance, a suppressed rage that simmers below the surface. As though he is stuck working with someone like Tony because he has no other choice.

“You said you knew the location of Le Grenouille, DiNozzo,” Kort growls.

Tim’s heart seizes in his chest as he wheels around to look at Tony. So, that’s why the older man was still sneaking around with Kort. He was still looking for Rene Benoit. Tim thought Tony had laid that to rest after going undercover to date Jeanne Benoit.

What the hell was Tony thinking?

Tony shrugs, flippant and dismissive. “I don’t know that. I have no way of knowing that.”

Kort opens his mouth before his face turns a violent shade of red. He snaps his mouth closed as he stalks closer to Tony. If Tony is nervous, he doesn’t show it. Tim is slowly reaching for his weapon.

“You assured me this wasn’t a joke,” Kort snaps.

“You’re right.” Tony levels a deadly look. “It isn’t a joke. I might not know where Rene Benoit is, but I sure as hell know what you’ve been up to.”

Kort rolls his eyes. “And what is that?”

“You’ve been a bad boy, Kort. Making deals with those rebels in Colombia in an attempt to flush out Rene Benoit. Or – “ Tony strokes his chin as if deep in thought “ – maybe you’re just selling them weapons to get rich quick. Maybe – “ he claps his hands, expression turning shocked “ – the arms dealer is you.”

Tim looks at Tony curiously while Kort’s face turns a shade that can only be described as purple. Kort takes a few steps closer until he is close enough to punch Tony, who settles in his stance.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with, DiNozzo.” Kort’s voice sends a chill down Tim’s spine.

“I don’t.” Tony throws his head back in laughter. “You told me that by helping you, I was a patriot. That I was doing my sworn duty to hunt down terrorists who were planning an attack on American soil. Meanwhile, you’re collecting the terrorists’ money. You told me – “

“Exactly what you wanted to hear.” Kort’s face twists into a brutal smile.

Under Tim’s careful eye, Tony’s hand shifts imperceptibly toward his service weapon. Tim’s hand slides closer to his weapon too. And that’s the moment Trent Kort lunges at them like a caged animal.

Before Tony unholsters his weapon, Kort grabs Tim by his left hand.

It doesn’t take much for Tim to end up on the wrong side of his own weapon. His left arm is twisted up behind his back. The cold metal of his own gun bites at his temple. He tests Kort’s hold on him, but it only ends with the CIA agent jerking Tim’s hand higher behind his back.

Tim grimaces.  

Tony has his weapon raised, eyes hard and jaw set as he sures up his aim. His weapon is rock-steady and terrifying. There’s a surprising fury simmering in his eyes. He is ready to blow out Trent Kort’s brains.

“Let him go,” Tony snaps. “Now!”

From behind Tim, Kort says: “I don’t believe I will.”

“He isn’t part of this,” Tony says.

“Why do you think I wanted Agent McGee here, DiNozzo?” Kort genuinely laughs. “He’s my escape plan.”

There’s a jerk on Tim’s arm and then, Kort is guiding him away. Exit stage right, Tim wants to say, but he doesn’t. Tim just follows the man’s lead because with a gun to his head and an arm dangerously near dislocation, he isn’t in a position to argue.

Tony’s weapon never falters. Not even as he takes a step forward.

“You’re under arrest, Kort,” Tony says.

Behind Tim, Kort releases a harrumph. Tim twists his body for a look, but Kort just shoves the gun deeper against his temple. Tim winces at the pressure, head tipping to the side to alleviate it.

“And just how do you plan to stop me? Alone?” Kort has the balls to laugh again.

Tony tilts his head toward the seating area.

“No, not alone,” he says. “With them.”

When Tim flicks his eyes toward the seating area, the space is rapidly flooding with agents wearing navy jackets emblazoned with the letters FBI and Homeland Security in gold font. Tobias Fornell has a front-row seat. Behind the senior agent, a bulky man in what Tony would call a standard G-man suit slithers from behind the stage. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches a glint from where the lighting people would sit.

Sniper scope. Gibbs must be here too.

“On what charges?” Kort sounds like the whole thing is hilarious.

Tony sures up his aim again. “Espionage. Arms dealing. Assault on a federal agent. Attempted kidnapping of said federal agent. Inciting a terror event. Being an all-around douchebag. I’m sure there’s more that I can’t think of. What do you have, Fornell?”

From his spot in the stands, Fornell pipes up. “I have a whole list. I’ve waited a long time, Kort. You have no idea how much fun it’s going to be throwing the book at you.”

“Wrench in the plan, boys.” Kort buries the gun deeper into Tim’s temple to show he’s serious.

Tim clenches his teeth, trying to play it off, but the gun against his head fucking hurts.

Tony slowly moves forward. Never faltering. Never wavering.

“I believe we were just leaving,” Kort snarls.

And the FBI agents on the stage give Kort a wide berth while he drags Tim toward the exit. Tim knows there will be a wide perimeter set up outside. Kort won’t hesitate to put a bullet in Tim’s brain with the slightest provocation. Kort won’t be getting far and Tim, he won’t be getting out of here alive. They continue moving, but Tony is slinking across the stage. Following as close to Kort and Tim as he dares. Trying to get even closer without alerting Kort.

Kort huffs. “What do you think you’re doing, DiNozzo?”

“I’m coming too,” Tony says.

Kort chuckles darkly. “The hell you are.”

Tony glares at him. “Did you think I’m going to let you leave with my partner?”

“I don’t believe I gave you a choice.”

Tim starts, “Tony…”

And that’s when he catches the look on Tony’s face. The one that says, I know what I’m doing, McHostage. Just wait for my signal. Tony and Kort start bickering about how Tony is tagging along. The pressure against Tim’s head grows more painful. For a moment, Tim is pretty sure Kort will pull the trigger because Tony is pissing him off.

Suddenly, Tony throws himself at the pair of them. He leaps like a flying squirrel with his arms and legs out, coattails flapping behind him.

They go down hard, a tangle of limbs and bodies, weapons flying. Something deep in Tim’s left shoulder pops loudly. The fire ignites down his arm. Still, he kicks Kort in the stomach as hard as he can. Kort attempts to recover, but Tony is already slapping cuffs on him. Tony hauls Kort to his feet while he throws his free hand out at Fornell.

Tim pulls himself into a sitting position. He tries to move his arm, but he can’t. He cradles his aching arm to his chest, frowning at the sight around him. The world spins a little, but he watches Tony hold Kort by the collar of his jacket. He looks triumphant.

“Do we have to do all the work for you, Fornell?” he asks.

Fornell just gives him a nasty glare. He clambers up the stairs.

“It would’ve been easier if you didn’t make things complicated, DiNutzo.” Fornell rolls his eyes. “This isn’t one of your stupid movies.”

“You wanted proof,” Tony is saying. “I got your proof and your collar and – ”

“This isn’t over, DiNozzo,” Kort growls.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. You’ll get me and my little geek too.”

While Fornell hauls Kort away, the CIA agent is braying all the ways he plans to ruin Tony. While the FBI agents mill around, Tony grins at the task force and the successful arrest. It takes him a moment to notice Tim on the ground, left arm cradled to his chest.

“Hey, McGee.” Tony crouches down. “Are you okay?”

Tim tries to move his arm. Clenches his teeth as he shakes his head.

“I think he dislocated my shoulder,” Tim says.

Tony presses his lips together. “It could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, but it still hurts like hell.” Tim attempts to smile, but it comes as a grimace.

Hooking his hand beneath Tim’s good arm, Tony gently helps the junior agent to his feet. He guides Tim through the milling crowd of agents as they clear up the scene. Tim cradles his ruined arm to his chest. It feels as though the whole left side of his body is on fire.

“Let’s go find the ambulance,” Tony says.

“Then you’ll tell me what just happened?” Tim asks.

Licking his lips, Tony surveys the sea of agents. “It’s a long story. A really, really long one.”

Chapter Text

When they arrive at the hospital, Tim is whisked through the emergency department for tests and scans.

A dour looking doctor with deep-set eyes advises Tim that he’ll need surgery to reset his dislocated shoulder. Tim barely has a chance to blink before they take him straight back.

Tony doesn’t tell him the story.

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

When Tim wakes up from anesthesia, the world is warm and wonderful and cottony soft. He isn’t used to feeling as though he is floating somewhere around the ceiling, as if nothing he ever experienced was real. He tries to hold onto the feeling, but it is slipping through his fingers like sand.

It takes him several long moments to remember where he is.

Hospital.

The whole world smells like disinfectant, but he doesn’t care. He feels like he could be turning into a pillow and right now, that’s the only thing that really matters.

It takes him a few moments to blink through the pillowy haze to recognize the hospital bed. Above the door, there is a television playing an old black and white movie. Tim opens his eyes wide. Closes them. Reopens them and the movie is still playing.

The sound of a siren cuts through the room. Tim flinches violently before realizing that there is someone snoring in the visitor’s chair beside the bed. Tony DiNozzo sleeps, head rolled against the back of the chair with his mouth hanging open. His hair is mussed, suit rumpled. He snores again.

The fact that a human could make that kind of noise strikes Tim as hilarious. He dissolves into a fit of giggles that causes Tony to stir. The senior agent slowly wakes, blinking owlishly as he takes in his surroundings. When he notices Tim is awake, he pushes himself up in the chair.

"Welcome back, Probie,” he says. “How was your nap?”

Tim absently rubs at his eye. “I’m still sleepy.”

The corner of Tony’s lips tick upward. “How’s your arm?”

Tim blinks, poleaxed. “I have arms?”

Tony opens his mouth as if he doesn’t know quite what to say. When Tim looks down at his chest, he is astonished to find the mess of IV tubes and the giant sling affixing his left arm to his chest. He wiggles the fingers of his left hand, surprised to find he can make them move.

“I have arms,” Tim says with a strange sense of wonder.

That leaves Tony in hysterics, doubled over and clutching at his sides. It takes him a full minute to stop laughing at Tim and by then, the younger man glowers at him. Tim knows that Tony is laughing at him, but he isn’t sure why.

Maybe he’s jealous that I have arms.

Tim’s eyes slide to the television. “What are we watching?”

“Some Like It Hot,” Tony says as though it explains everything. And to Tony, it just might.

“Oh,” Tim offers. “But I don’t like the heat.”

“Then you are not part of the Some, McIceberg.”

They settle into a comfortable silence as the movie plays out on screen. Now that he’s awake, Tony turns up the volume. Despite watching it, Tim has no idea what’s going on.

Tim may or may not doze off again because when he opens his eyes, a different movie is playing. His mouth is drier than a desert. A steady pounding pain starts up in his left shoulder. Surprisingly, he feels—almost—sober. Tony is still in the visitor’s chair, looking far less rumpled this time. His hair is neater, his tie straight. He holds a cup of coffee in his hand.

His smile broadens. “Welcome back again, Probie. How was the nap?”

Tim furrows his brow. “I didn’t fall asleep.”

“Tell that to the drool on your chin.” Tony’s grin takes over more of his face. “How’s your arm?”

When Tim wiggles his fingers, the pain radiating down his arm causes his vision to white out. His brain nearly shorts out and he loses his breath.

He clenches his teeth. “It. Hurts.”

Tony is already on his feet. “I’ll go get the nurse.”

“Not right now,” Tim says.

Tony looks at him as if he has lost his mind.

Tim forces a brave smile to tell Tony that he is just fine. Right now, there are so many questions that Tim needs the answers to. The pain meds will wait, but there are few times when Tony will be truly honest with him. If Tony thinks Tim is hurting, he’ll tell Tim what he wants to hear—the truth—in order get the younger man to take pain meds. At least, Tim hopes so.

Tim grimaces again. “Trent Kort.”

The name makes Tony’s entire body go rigid. He leans back in the chair, chin raised and eyes fixed on Tim’s gaze. His expression clearly reads, I’m listening.

“You were playing him.” Tim shudders. “The whole time. The meetings. The visits. Everything was a ruse. You were working with Homeland Security, and you hate Homeland.”

Tony tilts his head as if to say, Guilty as charged.

Tim tries to blink through the ache in his arm. Right now, his shoulder has its own heartbeat. And trying to talk to Tony is like trying to talk to Gibbs. Maybe it’s even worse than talking to Gibbs because at least, Tim has learned to read the team leader by now. With Tony, it’s all guesswork and Tim is still slightly drugged and his arm is killing him and –

“Why?” Tim blurts out.

Tony looks at Tim, who is rubbing his shoulder. Tony really looks at the wounded and pathetic husk of the junior agent. Then, he smiles sympathetically and sighs.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Tony asks.

“If it was obvious, I wouldn’t be asking.”

Tony smiles, sheepish. “He blew up Betty.”

“Betty?! He killed Betty!?” Tim feels like he should know who Betty is. “Jesus, Tony, I had no idea. I – “

“The Mustang,” Tony interrupts, clearly amused by Tim’s panic. “I named her after Betty Grable. She was the best car I ever owned. And I had such a short time with her. I always wanted a vintage Mustang and Kort blew her up like she was nothing. It was…” And that’s when Tim notices the chink in Tony’s armor. “…one of the worst things I have ever gone through.”

When Tony looks back at the television, there is a sparkling sheen in his eyes. He scratches at his nose. Blinking rapidly at the television.

Tim drops his eyes to his blanket. He never knows what to do with sudden displays of emotions, especially from someone as resilient as Tony. Based on the reaction, Tim doubts Tony is that upset about his car being blown up. Sure, Tony might have loved the Mustang, but setting such an elaborate trap is a stretch for even someone who loves movies as though they are real life.

Could it have to do with Jeanne?

Tim watches the now sullen man watching television. Tony has his arms hugged to his chest, his expression caught somewhere between wistful and heartbreak. Wherever Tony is, it isn’t in this room with Tim. He is a lifetime away with someone else entirely.

Oh my G-d, he loved her.

Tim clears his throat.

Blinking slowly, Tony looks over at Tim as if he forgot he was there. When their eyes meet, Tony steels himself as if expecting a snarky comment from Tim. Instead, Tim offers Tony a sympathetic smile and a nod to tell him that he won’t ask about it. Tim leans back in the hospital bed, trying to ignore the growing ache in his left shoulder.

Tim changes the subject. “How’d you do it?”

Tony tilts his head. Still pretending to be Gibbs.

Tim clarifies: “Convince Trent Kort that you were on his side. That you’d be willing to…what were you doing anyway?”

“I reached out and told him that I was still working to take down Rene Benoit.” When Tim’s brow knits together, Tony smirks. “Le Grenouille. The Frog. I told Kort I wanted to take him down. Kort asked me to re-establish contact with Jeanne – “ Tony pauses as if in a moment of silence at the mention of her name “ – as myself this time. No cover. No BS. Just meeting with her as Tony DiNozzo.”

“And did you?” Tim asks.

Tony vehemently shakes her head. “Of course not. I already ruined her life once. I wasn’t about to do it again. I didn’t care what Kort thought. She isn’t even in DC anymore. So, it didn’t really matter if he thought we were back to dating again. I told him I was getting closer to her father.”

Tim fiddles with the bulky sling. “But you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Fire shines in Tony’s eyes. “I was pumping Kort for information. Once he thought I was working for him, he gave me a little. Not much, but it was more than enough to do what I needed.”

“Like that bank transfer?” Tim blinks at him. “Wait, you actually had a warrant?”

That makes the fire in Tony’s eyes burn even brighter. “Like I said, McHacker, I needed the voodoo only you do. Homeland’s geeks couldn’t do it, and neither could the FBI. But you did me proud, Timmy. Fornell even bet me twenty bucks that you wouldn’t be able to do it.” Tony taps his finger against his finger at his chin. “Speaking of which, Fornell owes me more money now.”

Tim isn’t sure whether he should be slightly offended that Tony called him Timmy and a geek in the same sentence. Or if he should be proud of Tony’s rare praise.

Instead, he flicks his eyes to Tony’s face. “Don’t forget my cut.”

And just like that the serious moment evaporates into nothingness.

Laughing, Tony throws out his arms. “Fat chance, Probie. That’s my money. Uncle Sam already paid you for your hard work.”

Tim shifts for a better look at Tony. The sudden movement turns the dull ache in Tim’s shoulder into a white-hot fire lancing down his arm. There is still so much more he wants to say. They haven’t talked like this, openly plainly—as partners and friends and themselves—in longer than Tim cares to remember. He wants to hold onto the moment for just a little longer.

“Ah,” Tim groans.

Tony leans forward, face stitched with concern. “Are you okay, McGee?”

Tim grits his teeth. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head. His good hand is trying to bury itself into his bad shoulder and rip out what is hurting. If he can scoop out all the bad bits, it’ll feel better. He yelps at a new wave of pain. He shakes his head again, more violently this time.

Tony leaps to his feet. “Let me get the nurse!”

Seconds later, Tony returns with a woman in a long white coat in tow. Tony talks animatedly with his arms swinging and head bobbing, but Tim can’t make the words out. All he can feel is the pounding in his shoulder and he tries not to think about the mess inside.

The IV tubes buried in his arm jiggle. He didn’t notice the doctor moved closer. Tony stands by the door, arms hugged to his chest and a face in a rictus grin.

The doctor is talking now. “…kick in, Agent McGee. You’re going to feel – “

Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

When Tim is discharged from the hospital the following day, he isn’t allowed to drive a car. It is only supposed to be a few weeks while his arm is in the sling, but it feels like a lifetime. He bums rides from Tony and Gibbs and when he is feeling suicidal, Ziva. If no one is around, he takes the bus.

One day Tony suddenly remembers that Tim’s car is still parked in the garage at the Navy Yard. Despite Tim’s earnest protests, Tony decides he’ll bring the Porsche back to Silver Spring. Tim needed a ride home and he just missed the bus.

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat, good hand flat against the dash and eyes screwed shut. At some point, Tony took driving lessons from Ziva because he alternates between gunning the engine and slamming on the brakes at the last possible second. He takes every corner on two wheels and tailgates every car that ends up in front of them.

Tim’s life flashes before his eyes. He will draft his will when he gets home.

If I make it.

Tony’s smile is broad, manic even. He hasn’t smiled like this since his Mustang was turned into a twisted heap of smoldering metal from Trent Kort’s bomb.

Tim barely manages to keep his lunch down.

“Tony.” Tim’s voice is a warning.

“Come on, Probie.” Tony clucks his tongue. “Live a little. What’s the point of driving a Porsche if you don’t drive it like it’s a Porsche?”

Tim closes his eyes tighter. “You sound like Ziva…”

“Well, this car has more than a hundred horsepower.” The engine purrs like a cat when he presses the gas. “You know what, Ziva took my Honda out once and it’s never really been the same. Why did you buy a Porsche anyway if you don’t like to drive it?”

“Maybe I wanted one.” Tim shrugs with his good shoulder. “Maybe I could finally afford one.”

Tony chuckles. “So, here you are.”

Tim half-smiles. “Here I am.”

Tony clears his throat. “It’s a total babe magnet too. How’s it working so far?”

Tim doesn’t have a reply to that. He never considered his car to be a babe magnet and he can’t quite fathom how a car could make a woman want to date him. He files that point away for further exploration once his arm heals up. Maybe he’ll see if there is any truth to it.

When the car stops at a red light, Tim manages to relax a little. He fully expects the car to roar out of the intersection like a racecar at a starting gate when the light changes, but they don’t move. They remain still for an abnormally long time. Tim eventually opens his eyes to find Tony waiting at what appears to be the world’s longest red light. Tony rolls his hands against the supple leather steering wheel as though trying to see if it fits him properly.

Outside the car, squat brick houses line the streets. From the look of it, they never left the city. Tim might not know where they are, but it isn’t anywhere near Silver Spring. Tim thinks they’re heading clear in the opposite direction toward Alexandria.

Tony revs the engine. The front-end snarls in anticipation. Tim braces himself against the dashboard.

Tim starts, “Tony, don’t…”

Tony smiles that shit-eating grin. “’This is where my jurisdiction ends.”

Tim just blinks at him. “What?”

The light turns green.

Tony slams on the gas. The Porsche’s engine snarls as it bucks and peels out of the intersection. Tim is thrown back against the passenger seat and clutching his seat belt. He never knew there could be a more terrifying driver than Ziva David or Jethro Gibbs, but here, Tony DiNozzo is proving him wrong.

“’And this is where mine begins,’” Tony crows.

Tim leans back against the headrest, eyes shut tight again. “We don’t have any jurisdiction, Tony. Though, if Metro catches you driving like a psycho, they’re going to arrest you.”

Tony laughs. “That line is from Fast & Furious. Vin Diesel. Paul Walker. An FBI agent and a street racer team up to bring down a heroin dealer. You should watch it sometime.” Glancing over, he surveys Tim’s position in the seat. “Nevermind. Maybe you should stick with Driving Miss Daisy. That’s closer to your speed.” He accelerates the car. “Get it, Probster? Your speed?”

Tim isn’t watching Tony drive. “I get it, Tony! It’s hilarious! You’re hilarious! Just please slow down!”

And Tony does for a split second right before accelerating down the tight city streets. Somehow, they make it all the way to Silver Spring without getting a traffic ticket or killing anyone.

When Tony blazes into Tim’s parking space, he throws the car into park with a flourish. He sits there, hands clutching the wheel and an almost drunken smile on his face. He looks exhilarated, fully alive.

Tim barely manages to peel his good hand off the door handle. He can’t get out of the car fast enough. He pours his body onto the asphalt, his jelly legs barely supporting his weight. He drags a deep inhalation as though he is drinking the warm, humid air. His heart tries to escape his chest because it hasn’t figured out that they’re back on terra firma yet.

Tony looks over. “What’s wrong, Probie?”

Tim points at him, accusing. “You’re…you’re worse than Ziva.”

“Don’t blame me, McGoober. Blame the machine.” Tony’s megawatt grin reaches full strength. “I only drive it the way it was built to be driven.”

“It’s a car. It goes as fast as you tell it to!”

Tony schools his expression into a mask of consideration. “Speaking of your car, you won’t be driving it for a while, right? What’d the doctor say for the sling? Six weeks?”

Tim just looks at Tony, not understanding where he’s going.

“It isn’t good to let your car sit,” Tony continues. “Want me to drive it around for you?”

Staring at Tony, Tim is slack-jawed before he cracks up. His good hand clutches his side from the laughter. The thought of Tony peeling around Washington in the Porsche like Ziva in her Mini-Cooper is more than Tim can handle after his brush with death.

Tony’s smile dips to half-mast.

Tim recovers with a serious, “I don’t think so.”

“Just let me know.” Tony talks as though Tim didn’t say anything. “I’m going to catch a cab home. I’ll be here to get you at 0700, McPassenger.”

After Tim nods, Tony tosses the keys to the junior agent. They hit him square in the chest before sliding into his sling. Tony’s laughter rings through the parking lot while Tim fumbles to extricate them. When he looks up, Tony is long gone.

Tim’s eyes dart to his car. He never would’ve guessed that Tony’s car made him happy.

I know a way to get Tony’s Mustang back, but Gibbs is going to kill me.

Chapter Text

It’s a Saturday not long after Tim got hurt. He drags himself out of bed after he tossed and turned all night. Today is the day, but he isn’t looking forward to it. The hour is early, morning’s first light just sneaking through his bedroom window. He opens the box to a brand new laptop he bought last week with cash. He wipes the operating system and installs a basic one of his own. Something quick and dirty and untraceable that will be easily erased once he is done.

He pulls on his most generic clothing. Worn blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black jacket with a black baseball cap. He packs everything up into a black backpack. He ditches the sling that keeps his left arm stable. His overstretched tendons are screaming, but he’ll have it back in soon enough. This might cost him another week or two in the sling, but it’ll be well worth it.

He brings just what he needs. Cash and keys. He leaves his wallet and cell phone at home. No ID, no weapon, no creds. Nothing traceable. Nothing that will make him stand out.

He already memorized the bus route to his destination on the other side of Washington. In a small twist of fate, he found a small coffeehouse called Whole Latte Love. With what he is about to do, it only seems fitting. An untraceable message to get his point across because only one person will understand it.

Tim takes a circuitous bus trip. Three buses in random directions with several changes between. He starts in the early hours before most of the city is even awake. Through the grimy bus windows, he watches the sun rise higher in the sky and the city come to life. He feels like he is watching someone else’s life play out before him.

He disembarks the bus about ten blocks from his destination. There is a bus stop right out front of the coffee shop, but it’s a different route and far more traceable. He hitches his backpack higher on his good shoulder before he takes an indirect route to the coffee shop. The neighborhood is gentrified here. One of the places in Northwest slowly being reclaimed by yuppies and hipsters. The sidewalks are full of people that are going to coffee shops or browsing independent bookstores or small breweries. They’re all wrapped up in their own lives. No one even looks twice at Tim.

The walk to the coffee shop leaves Tim sweating through his shirt. The sun is high in the sky now and it’s almost too warm for his jacket with the heat reflecting from the people and the storefronts. It took Tim too long to shove his bad shoulder into his jacket that he won’t try to take it off.

It doesn’t take long to reach the coffee shop. It’s along a main drag of storefronts that looks straight out of a movie set. Out front, there is a small blackboard with a hand-drawn cup of coffee in green chalk and lots of hearts floating around it. A blue and green awning with a similar colored sign advertising that it is Whole Latte Love. In the window, there is a sign promising free WiFi. That’s what sealed the deal for Tim.

When he heads inside, he is shocked to find it crowded. He expected it to be empty, but nearly every table is full. There are two young couples tucked in the corner, a few people who could be college students, and a young man reading a sci-fi novel. On a quick sweep, Tim catches the security camera by the door. He keeps his back to it, hat down low on his face. He is the oldest person here by a decade.

Thankfully, there isn’t a line. When Tim moves the counter, the barista is a young man with a flannel shirt, a fu-manchu mustache, and a face like pincushion. Tim has never seen so much metal in someone’s skin before. The barista soaks up Tim’s generic clothes with a bland disinterest. Tim is wondering whether he should have let Abby Scuito dress him.  

“What can I get you?” the barista asks.

Tim smiles, awkward. “Medium coffee, black.”

The barista waits for Tim to order something else. Just beside the register, a huge plate of muffins and pastries wait to be eaten. There is a banana nut muffin the size of Tim’s head that calls his name. He skipped breakfast, but he doesn’t order it. He can’t remember how many people he has arrested because a sharp waitress managed to remember a nuance about a suspect’s order. Extra pickles, no mayo, dressing on the side.

No matter how delicious it looks, that banana nut muffin won’t take me down.

“Just the coffee,” Tim says.

With a quick nod, the barista fills Tim’s order. He doesn’t ask whether Tim is staying, and the barista uses a house mug. Of course, it’s a hot pink one with glittery hearts and a drunk-looking unicorn on the side. When he passes it to Tim, he smiles brightly. Tim makes a face at the mug. He pays cash and places the change in the tip jar. He doesn’t want to be remembered as the non-tipper.

Tim finds his way to a small table in the back. It might be near the restroom, but it’s out of view from the security camera. If he works quickly, he won’t have to worry about anyone staring at his screen while they hit the head. He settles into the rickety seat. Then, he sips the scalding coffee. It’s an amazing cup of coffee and Tim is almost disappointed that he won’t be able to drink it again.

Just get it done.

It takes him a few tries to get the laptop out of the bag. His shoulder is throbbing, but he is doing his best to look normal, act normal. First, he plays around to look as though he could be working. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Not long, but enough to not look suspicious.

He finishes the coffee.

Then, he logs into his target: a banking website. It isn’t hard because he remembers the numbers from the transaction Tony asked him to run weeks ago.

Trent Kort’s bank account.

He doesn’t know the exact balance, but he keeps his numbers close to the total he remembers. First, he pulls an amount—a modest mid-five figures sum that is the sole purpose for the attack—into a freshly made account. He’ll deal with that later. Tim sends a sizable donation to a charity for rehoming stray kittens. The rest he deposits into an account for a charity out of California for wounded veterans. Once he is done, he wipes the operating system. He closes the laptop and shoves it into his backpack. Then, he leaves without looking back.

Outside, the air is warm and humid. Summer is nearly here. He should be sweaty and anxious and nervous, but he is oddly light. There are no sirens, no police coming to arrest him. Still, he keeps his hat down low and doesn’t look anyone in the eye. He heads in the opposite direction for a bus that will take him on a scenic drive out of Washington again. He’ll take a different route this time.

The laptop will be at the bottom of the Anacostia by dinnertime.

Chapter Text

The week slips past in a strange flurry of scenes. Snippets of scenes and life and conversation. Tim can barely concentrate on their current case—a UA ensign, who is just visiting his girlfriend. He keeps his attention split between his computer and the elevator. Every time it dings, he thinks it’s the FBI coming to arrest him for draining a dirty CIA agent’s bank account.

Gibbs gives him the side-eye. Tony calls him, “McSpastic” and “McSuspicous” and “McJumpy.” And what seems to be Tony’s all-time favorite, “McSuspect.” Tony takes to quoting movies involving criminals and their dealings. Tony recites almost the entire script to The Usual Suspects. Tim flinches and flushes and hides his face. For Tim, it only makes things worse.

On Thursday, Tim trails Tony and Gibbs out of the Navy Yard. His arm is still in that awful sling, still a useless extension of himself. The team is leaving early for once. The sun is still high in the sky, the air sticky and warm and humid. It’s a typical summer day, but the kind Tim doesn’t usually enjoy because he tends to be too busy working.

Ziva was the first one out of the bullpen. By the time the men reach the parking lot, her red Mini Cooper is nothing more than a blur by the exit.

Tony is challenging Gibbs to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors because Tim still needs a ride home. Even though Gibbs is completely ignoring the senior agent, Tony plays the game against himself. He throws scissors before shaking his head and changing to paper.

Gibbs just stares at him.

In the end, Tony throws his hands up to the sky.

“I can’t beat the master,” Tony says. “It looks like I’m taking you home. Let’s go, Miss McDaisy.”

Tony heads across the sunbaked asphalt toward his car. He wears a disdainful expression as he heads towards that sad little Honda.

Gibbs turns to Tim. “It came.”

And that makes Tim smile in his own right. Maybe he’ll be able to see the fruits of his labor before he ends up in prison. He forgets how long the statute of limitations is for an illegal wire transfer.

Before Tony reaches his car, Gibbs clicks his tongue. When Tony turns back, Gibbs jerks his head towards his own car. Tony throws Tim a questioning glance, but the younger man just shrugs with one shoulder. He might know what Gibbs is up to, but he isn’t about to spill the beans.

Gibbs would probably shoot me.

They pack themselves into Gibbs’ car. Tony allows Tim to ride shotgun.

Tony bows deeply. “Beauty after the mortally wounded.”

Tim rolls his eyes.

Once they’re in the car, Gibbs takes the side streets back to his house in Alexandria quicker than Tim expects. While Tony manages to pass out—mouth hanging open and snoring—in the backseat, Tim holds the door handle in a white-knuckle grip. Even after the ride Gibbs gave him this week, he hasn’t gotten used to the near-death experience that comes with every trip in the car. And that’s when Tim understands why Tony took the backseat. If they’re going to die in a horrible and fiery crash, Tony wanted Tim to have the front row seat.

Tim closes his eyes. Takes the entire ride with his heart in his throat. 

From the backseat, there is intermittent snoring noises. Somehow, Tony fell asleep.

As soon as they near Gibbs’ house, the team leader accelerates the car harshly. Tim slams his good hand on the dashboard because he knows what is coming. Right in front of his house, Gibbs slams on the brakes. The car skids to a stop with a loud screech.

Tony wakes up screaming. Tim’s heart might be trying to escape his chest, but he is laughing and giddy. Tony blinks owlishly, hands running over his chest to ensure everything is where it should be.

“I’m alive.” Tony laughs in disbelief. “I’m still alive.”

Tim smirks over his shoulder. “How was the nap?”

Gibbs just grunts at them.

Leaning down low, Tony glances out the window.

“I thought we were driving Timmy home, Boss,” Tony says. “Shouldn’t we – “

And that’s when he catches sight of the thing in Gibbs’ driveway.

A vintage Mustang.

One that’s identical in every way to the car that Trent Kort blew up except for one little, insignificant detail. This one is a bright, cherry red.

And I made Trent Kort pay for it.

Tony stares at it as though there’s a UFO in Gibbs’ driveway. He clambers out of the car, staring slack-jawed at the Mustang.

Gibbs climbs out of the car with Tim right behind them. Tim hangs back, good hand on his bad shoulder. Between his slingless weekend activity and Gibbs slamming on the brakes just now, the entire joint feels jostled and strained. Like nothing is lined up the way it should be. He breathes through a wave of pain that courses through him. He manages not to throw up.

“Nice car, Boss,” Tony says. “I didn’t think I’d ever see another one.”

The genuine grin slides slowly across Gibbs’ face. Out of his pocket, he pulls a keyring with a keychain of a tiny pair of hot pink fuzzy dice. He holds them in front of Tony, who does a double-take between his boss and the car. When Gibbs jiggles the keys, Tony tilts his head like a trained dog.

Tony’s eyebrows jump. “Boss?”  

“Happy birthday, Tony,” Gibbs says.

Tony’s expression turns uncomfortable. “My birthday isn’t until July.”

Gibbs lifts an eyebrow. “So? Don’t question the damned present, DiNozzo.”

That causes Tony’s face to split into a wide grin. It’s almost as if Gibbs’ dour words took the sting out of his niceness. It’s the most genuine smile that Tim has ever seen Tony wear. That makes Tim grin too.

“Take it for a spin.” Then as if there’s any question, he adds: “It’s yours, Tony. Got the papers already sorted."

Tony’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Gibbs hooks a thumb at Tim. “Take McGee home.”

Maybe Tony heard the order, but he acts like he didn’t. He is too busy bounding towards the new car to notice that Tim closed the distance between them. Tony hops into the car, inhaling deeply the smell of whatever dusty, old cars smell like. He takes to inspecting every inch. If Tim has to admit—even though he knows absolutely nothing about old muscle cars—Gibbs did a good job because Tony is happy. The senior agent is busy admiring the little details like the knobs on the radio and the steering column.

Gibbs leans closer to Tim. “Nice work.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Tim says.

Gibbs fixes his eyes against the side of Tim’s head. “Where’d the money come from?”

Tim flinches, face blanching. “Do you really want to know?”

Gibbs remains silent.

Tim clears his throat, loosens his collar. “I…uh—um, I had some leftover from my book advance.”

Gibbs’ look calls Tim a liar, but he doesn’t press. He is Gibbs and he probably already knows that Tim drained Trent Kort’s private bank account. He probably even knows about the thousands of dollars Tim sent to the cat charity and the hundreds of thousands that Tim donated to a wounded veterans charity, all in Trent Kort’s name. At least the dirty CIA agent will be able to write off the donation on his taxes.

Pfft. Like he files taxes. Maybe I should call the IRS too.

Before he has a chance to confess his crime to Gibbs, Tony pops up out of the car. He jerks his chin at Tim, face rapt with excitement like a little kid looking for trouble.

“Let’s go for a ride, Probie!” Tony draws out the e sound in the nickname.

“Yeah, we’re going to my apartment.”

“Of course, we are,” Tony says.

That makes Tim chuckle. Wherever they’re headed, they’re obviously not going to Tim’s apartment. Surprisingly, Tim doesn’t mind because he is just excited to be finding the normal back in his and Tony’s partnership. Once Tony hops back into the car, he begins adjusting the seat. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel, but he is bounding back and forth like he could bust at the seams.

Grabbing his backpack, Tim heads to the Mustang. He slides into the uncomfortable bench seat. He doesn’t understand what Tony could ever see in this car. It is huge and boxy, a boat on wheels. But the excitement is rolling off Tony in waves and for Tim, it’s contagious. It begins as a tiny pit deep in his stomach, a frenzied happiness that will come once he just lets go.

Tony motions for Tim to roll down in the window. Tim looks, dumbfounded, at the crankshaft. It takes more effort than it should to open the window when Tim rolls it down. Why should he have to do this in the age of power windows and power locks and power everything?

Tony waves at Gibbs. “You coming, Boss?”

Gibbs offers a good-natured smile. “Been a long day, Tony. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Your loss!” Tony laughs wickedly. “We’re going to be like Steve McQueen.”

Tim looks over. “Who?”

“Oh Probie, you have so much to learn.”

Tony finishes hand cranking his window down while Tim puts his up. He just glances at Tony, who puts on his aviator sunglasses. Tim’s eyes glide to the dashboard. The interior of the car is already uncomfortably warm. It smells oddly like burnt plastic and old leather.

“Why don’t we use the A/C?” Tim asks.

Tony just looks at him.

“The air conditioning?” Tim clarifies.

Tony laughs, a little hysterical, a little crazed. “Do you think a beauty like this has A/C?”

“Well, yeah,” Tim says. “Don’t most cars have it?”

Tony makes a gurgling noise. “This is a first-generation Mustang, McGee. It doesn’t need something silly like – “ he uses derisive air quotes “ – ‘air conditioning.’”

Tim just stares at him, poleaxed. If there isn’t air conditioning, he’ll be nothing more than a sweaty pile of goo on the bench seat by the time he gets home. He reaches back to make sure the car has seatbelts and surprisingly, it does.

“It’s a V8,” Tony says as though it makes everything better.

When Tony starts the car, the engine roars to life with a ferocious energy. Gibbs stands on his front porch, waving at them as Tony backs the car out of the driveway. Tim throws Gibbs a rictus grin as if the team leader could save him. Gibbs just cracks up before disappearing into his air-conditioned house.

As Tony puts the car into drive, there is a strange look on his face. Hunger, a longing, a ghost of a haunted memory. Tim wants to head back to his apartment to enjoy an early night. Based on the look on Tony’s face, he’ll need to rethink his plans.

Tim blinks at the heavy glare coming off the car hood.

“Silver Spring,” Tim says. “We’re going to my apartment.”

Tony chuckles as though it’s the funniest thing he heard all day.

Tim’s eyebrow jumps. “Tony? Where are we going?”

Tony looks at Tim over his sunglasses and says: “‘Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.’”

Chapter Text

ONE MONTH LATER:

Sitting at his desk, Tim considers their latest case: a petty officer who went missing from a destroyer in Norfolk. The petty officer left for a well-earned shore leave, but he never returned. So far, the team can’t find any trace—digital or physical—of him. It’s as though he disappeared into thin air. He could be UA or the victim of a crime or abducted by aliens for all they know. Or as Tony likes to darkly joke, “maybe he got Nor-fucked.”

He and Tony are likely going to be heading back to Norfolk soon. It might be mid-morning when there won’t be any traffic, but Tim isn’t exactly looking forward to a four-hour drive for more interviews. Especially with Tony behind the wheel. Ever since he got his new Mustang, he drives with a reckless, bordering on suicidal abandon. Tony keeps saying he drives like some guy named Steve McQueen—whoever that is—and Tim thinks Tony drives more like Ziva David.

I can’t wait to get the sling off so I can drive again. It might take longer, but I’ll get there alive.

Gibbs and Tony are at their desks, toiling away, while Ziva is down in Abby’s lab. Tim is about to point out the inconsistency in a witness statement. That’s going to be what sends him and Tony out to Norfolk.

The elevator dings. No one pays it any mind until Gibbs’ head snaps up. The movement is almost instinctive.

In an instant, Gibbs jumps to his feet. The sudden motion sends Tim scrambling for his weapon. Not that he can use it, but the reflex is so ingrained. Tony leaps to his feet too. He has his weapon out, seeming to forget they’re in the safety of a federal building.

Trent Kort stalks out of the elevator. His face is pinched, and his body coiled with predatory intent. His black suit is impeccable, his bald head downright gleaming. He looks as though he just returned from an operation. He reminds Tim of a comic book villain. Lex Luthor, maybe.

Kort points an accusing finger at Tony.

“You!” His shout echoes through the agent floor.

Tony does his best Who me? face. Eyes wide, easy smile, and free hand flat against his heart. When he notices that it’s just Trent Kort, he slides his weapon back into his desk. Tim flumps back into his chair and attempts to disappear into his computer.

Gibbs is the first to the edge of the bullpen. When Kort tries to enter the bullpen, Gibbs steps into his path. Gibbs moves his sports coat aside to show Kort that he is armed. Tim keeps his eyes on his computer monitor. Tries his best to blend into the background.

Would Gibbs really murder someone in the bullpen?

Gibbs glares at Kort, who looks up with a nasty half-smile.

“My business is with DiNozzo,” he drawls.

“DiNozzo is on my team.” Gibbs sets his jaw. “Your business is with me.”

Kort’s smile darkens. “Then perhaps you should have shot me when you had the chance, Gibbs. This isn’t a social call. My director will be discussing your shenanigans – “ he says the word as though it was dripped in battery acid " - with your director. It is your fault that Le Grenouille is now in the wind.”

Gibbs shrugs. “Shame you lost your Frog again.”

“It was a months long, multi-level operation that you and DiNozzo destroyed by – “

“You took money from terrorists,” Gibbs interrupts.

That makes Kort’s jaw clench. Tony disguises his laugh as a cough. Tim starts looking into the signs of an alien abduction, so he has more to consider when they head to Norfolk.

Gibbs steps forward. “Get out of my house!”

When Kort squares his shoulders, he draws himself to his full height. He might not be as tall as Gibbs, but he is just as terrifying. Tim’s eyes slowly slide off the article he reads about crop circles and aliens to watch the showdown. Tony moves to stand beside Gibbs.

Kort shoots him a death glare as though he is about to grab Tony by the lapels and beat him to death. Gibbs holds his arm out. Tim can’t tell whether it’s to keep Tony back or keep Kort away.

“What do you want?” Tony growls.

Kort narrows his eyes. “You involved the FBI. You got me suspended from the CIA. You cost me – “

“What. Do. You. Want.” Tony bites out every word.

“My money,” Kort says. “You drained my account.”

Tony stares at him as if waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, he dissolves into peals of laughter. Even Gibbs is chuckling. Tim sinks lower and lower into his desk chair.

“What money?” Tony asks.

“You know what money.” Kort pauses for effect, but when Tony doesn’t move, his expression darkens. “Are you a bloody moron? I know you know where it is.”

“Hey!” Gibbs snaps.

He shoves Kort hard enough to send the CIA agent stumbling back a few feet. Gibbs balls his hand into fists and steps forward, but Tony stops him. Because that’s probably what Kort wants right now. Tit for tat, the ability to throw one of them in jail like he was. Based on the expression on Gibbs’ face, Tim figures that he’ll call Ziva and have her ‘visit’ Kort in the parking lot.

“You’ve called me worse, Boss.” Tony grins rakishly. Then he turns back to Kort: “I don’t have your money.”

“I know it was you, DiNozzo.” Kort licks his lips. “Because you sent it to a cat rescue called The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee.”

Tony can't stifle his laughter. “I bet you’re feline good about that, huh?”

Kort sighs with his very soul. “Where is the rest of my money?”

Then, Tony flinches as though something just hit him. He makes a face, waggles his head from side to side. Kort’s eyebrows rise because he seems to believe Tony must just admit to stealing his cash.

Tim is still ducking down in his seat. Any further and he’ll be under the desk soon. He found a website about alien abductions and anal probes. He isn’t sure which is worse. That website or the scene playing out in front of him.

Tony throws his hands out before shaking his head. “I thought I had something there, but nope!” He claps his hands and shakes his head. “You know how it is, Kort. Sometimes, us bloody morons might think of something, but we just can’t keep track of it.”

Kort balls his hands into fists.

“Next time keep a closer eye on your piggy bank,” Tony says.

When Kort takes a menacing step toward Tony, the senior agent matches it. Gibbs slides in between them. When Kort sizes up his opponents, he offers them a blank, nasty smile.

“Don’t think this is over, DiNozzo,” he says.

Tony rolls his eyes. “It never is. And blah, blah, blah, ‘I’ll get you, my pretty.’” He cackles like the Wicked Witch of the West. “There, now you don’t have to do it.”

Kort just glares at him before he turns on his heel.

Tony waves theatrically. “Keep your eyes peeled for those warlords, Kort! I’ve heard they don’t like being short-changed!”

Kort makes a two-fingered motion—the British equivalent of the middle finger—over his shoulder.

Tony and Gibbs watch the dirty CIA agent go. Once he is gone, Tony turns away. He hustles over to Tim’s desk, where the junior agent is still pretending to work on their case.  Tony crowds into Tim’s personal space until the younger man holds his breath. Tony’s eyes are fixed on Tim’s computer screen.

“Anal probes, Probie?” Tony singsongs. “Is there something you need to tell me about your weekend activities? You aren’t supposed to be using your work computer for personal time.”

Tim’s cheeks grow hot as he closes the website. “I was running down a theory about our missing petty officer. Running down your theory.”

“Oh, Probie.” Tony laughs. “That was a joke. I think we all know our petty officer is probably on a week-long bender with a girl he just met. Who hasn’t been there before?”

Tim tilts his head to look at him.  

“Well, you might not have. But it’s a perfectly normal thing.”

“No, it’s not, DiNozzo,” Gibbs interjects on the way back to his desk.

Tony visibly wilts before leaning even closer to Tim. The younger man slides back in his chair.

“Do you know anything about Kort’s money, McGee?” Tony asks.

Tim half-shrugs. “Not at all, Tony. It wasn’t me.”

Tony clips a nod. “The money for the car.”

“That was leftover money from my book advance and Gibbs.”

Tony’s look calls him a liar. “The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee. What a great charity to donate to. Kort definitely thought it was a cat-tastrophe.” When Tony says that, Tim can’t keep the self-satisfied grin off his face. “Just tell me that you donated the rest of the money to starving children.”

Tim stays quiet.

“A homeless shelter,” Tony guesses.

Tim turns back to his computer. He checks his e-mail and there is so much spam.

“The humane society,” Tony continues. “You know, the one with the sad song on the commercial that makes you donate a hundred bucks after a few glasses of Scotch.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Tim says.

Tony shrugs. “What can I say? That commercial gets me every single time.”

“But no, I didn’t take Kort’s money,” Tim says.

Tony snaps his fingers. “Oh, I bet it was disabled veterans.”

Tim flinches so hard it sends his mouse skittering to the floor. That leaves Tony chuckling before he thumps his hand hard enough on Tim’s back to hurt. Tony grabs the mouse off the floor. When he passes it back to Tim, he grins broadly. Even though Tim will never admit what he did out loud, Tony already knows everything. Tim’s smile is tight.

“Good work, McGee,” Tony whispers. “And thank you.”

Tim just shrugs, half-smile on his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tony.”