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The cool November air bites at the edges of the afternoon, sharp and crisp against the skin, but the sun is bright enough to turn the autumn leaves into a vibrant stained-glass canopy. It's the kind of day where the transition from fall to winter feels both inevitable and beautiful. The case is finally in the rearview: the body of a petty officer found on a meticulously manicured golf course, a key witness located through a ham radio, and the subsequent paperwork trail that had kept the team caffeinated and cranky for seventy-two hours.
Now, the hum of Jimmy Palmer’s station wagon provides a quiet, mechanical sanctuary from the frantic energy of the Navy Yard. In the back, two-year-old Victoria is a bundle of primary colors and giggles. Dressed in a thick, padded coat and tiny mittens, she is busy kicking her little legs against her car seat, oblivious to the adult anxieties happening in the front row. Nick Torres sits in the passenger seat, his leather jacket squeaking as he shifts, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looks far more brooding than a man going to a playground has any right to be. His jaw is set, his dark eyes fixed on the passing Virginia suburbs.
He's still reeling from the visceral shock of checking his banking app and seeing a balance that looked like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. He’d meant to donate fifty bucks to Jimmy’s charity drive—a nice, standard gesture to support a friend—but a misplaced thumb and a forgotten decimal point had transformed a small kindness into a five-thousand-dollar accidental sacrifice.
"You're really quiet, Nick," Jimmy says, his voice soft, breaking the silence of the cabin. He glances over with that inherent, earnest kindness that usually makes Nick want to roll his eyes or make a sarcastic remark. Today, it just makes him feel a heavy, sinking guilt. "I know the bank situation is... stressful. But really, Catherine is great. She’ll have it sorted out."
Jimmy pulls into the parking lot of Inclusion Town in McLean. Before they even step out, he’s unbuckling Victoria and sliding her into the front-facing babypack strapped across his chest. The toddler’s cheek presses against her father’s shoulder, her little fingers immediately reaching up to tug at his glasses. Jimmy handles it with the practiced patience of a man who has had to become everything to his daughter since Breena’s passing.
As they walk toward the gates, Nick stops at the perimeter. This isn't the standard playground he remembers from his own childhood in various cities—dusty lots with rusted swings and dangerous metal slides. Inclusion Town is a marvel of engineering and empathy. The ground isn't covered in wood chips or sand that would snag a wheel; instead, it’s a seamless, soft rubberized surface in shades of deep blue and forest green.
Nick’s dark eyes scan the scene. He expects to see kids playing, but he isn't prepared for the way they are playing. There are wide, gentle ramps leading up to the structures' high points, allowing children in wheelchairs to race their able-bodied siblings to the top. He sees high-backed, harnessed swings where a young boy with a leg brace is being pushed by his father, his head tilted back toward the sky as he lets out a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. Nearby, a sensory garden features wind chimes that emit low, melodic tones and textured stones, where a little girl with noise-canceling headphones trails her fingers, her expression one of absolute peace.
"That's Catherine," Jimmy whispers, gesturing toward a woman in a bright teal vest who is laughing with a group of volunteers near a specialized merry-go-round that sits flush with the ground. "She’s the heart of this place. I told her we were coming. She’s already got the paperwork prepared to reverse the transaction. She knows it was a total glitch, Nick. No one expects a federal agent to drop five grand on a Tuesday."
Nick doesn't move toward Catherine yet. Instead, his gaze drifts to a lowered basketball hoop. A group of kids is playing a game of horse. One of them, a boy around ten years old in a motorized wheelchair, maneuvers with startling dexterity, spinning his chair to catch a pass. He takes the shot, the ball arching perfectly through the air before swishing through the net. The cheer that erupts from the other children—a mix of kids with visible disabilities and those without—is deafening, inclusive, and hauntingly beautiful.
In this corner of Virginia, the word 'can't' doesn't seem to exist. Nick thinks about those five thousand dollars. He thinks about the "stuff" he usually prioritizes—the maintenance on his car, the designer jackets, the nights out where the tabs run high, and the memories run thin. He looks at Victoria, who is reaching out from Jimmy’s chest, her tiny hand pointing at the colorful equipment.
She looks at Jimmy and says, "Daddy, look! Slide!"
Jimmy kisses the top of her head. "In a minute, peanut."
Nick looks at Jimmy—really looks at him. He sees the fatigue around his eyes, the memory of Breena that still lingers in the way he holds Victoria, and the incredible, stubborn hope he maintains. Jimmy spends his days surrounded by death in the basement of the Navy Yard, yet he spends his free time building a world where his daughter and her friends can just be kids.
"Nick?" Catherine Scott approaches them, her smile warm but professional. "I'm Catherine. Jimmy told me about the decimal point disaster. Don't you worry for a second; we can have that five thousand back in your account by Monday. We’re just so grateful you intended to give anything at all. Every bit helps."
Nick looks at Catherine, then back at the boy in the wheelchair who is now high-fiving a teammate. He feels a strange, unfamiliar tightening in his chest. It’s the realization that his "mistake" could actually be the reason another one of these structures gets built.
"Actually," Nick says, his voice sounding scratchier and deeper than usual. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. "Don't worry about the paperwork. Keep it."
Jimmy blinks, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Nick, wait. That’s five thousand dollars. You were just complaining that you were going to have to eat ramen for two months to make rent."
"I've had plenty of ramen in my time, Jimbo," Nick says, a smirk finally breaking through his facade, though it’s softer, more genuine than his usual cocky bravado. "This place... it needs it more than my landlord does. If that money builds another one of those ramps or gets another kid in a harnessed swing... yeah. It stays. Consider it an investment in the neighborhood."
Catherine’s eyes gloss over with immediate, profound gratitude. She reaches out, squeezing Nick’s forearm. "Mr. Torres, you have no idea. We were short on the funding for the spring expansion—the tactile path for visually impaired toddlers. This covers it. All of it."
Jimmy doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just steps forward, Victoria squished between the two men, and wraps his free arm around Nick’s shoulders in a fierce, lopsided hug. "You're a good man, Nick. A really good man. Gibbs and Ducky would be proud."
"Papa Duck!" Victoria giggles at the mere mention of his name.
Nick claps Jimmy on the back, feeling the warmth of the Virginia sun and the weight of the moment settle into his bones. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't tell the Boss I'm a softie, alright? I've got a reputation to uphold. I'm supposed to be the tough guy."
Victoria lets out a happy "Uncle Nick!" and reaches out to grab his nose with a sticky, mittened hand. Nick laughs, leaning down so she can reach him, and for the first time since he opened his banking app, the missing money doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels like the best thing he’s ever spent. But Victoria isn't content with just a nose-grab.
She begins to squirm in the carrier, her little boots thumping against Jimmy’s chest. "Play, Daddy! Play now!"
"I think that's our cue," Jimmy laughs, reaching back to unclip the heavy-duty plastic buckles of the babypack. He carefully lowers Victoria to the rubberized ground, and she immediately bounces on her heels, her eyes fixed on the massive, twisting yellow slide at the center of the park. "Go ahead, peanut," Jimmy says, taking her hand as she starts to pull him toward the structure. "The park is all yours."
Victoria takes two steps, then stops abruptly, turning back to look at the man in the leather jacket. She reaches out her other hand, waving it insistently toward him. "Uncle Nick! Come on! Go slide!"
Nick looks up at the slide—a structure clearly designed for children, though wide enough for accessibility—and then at the toddler’s demanding, hopeful face. He looks at his expensive boots, then at the bright yellow plastic.
"Oh, no, kiddo," Nick says, holding up his hands. "Uncle Nick is more of a... spectator. I’ll watch from the bench, okay?"
"Slide!" Victoria insists, her bottom lip beginning to tremble in that way that usually makes the entire NCIS team crumble. "Uncle Nick go whoosh!"
Jimmy gives Nick a helpless, apologetic look, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. "She’s the boss, Nick. And she's very persuasive."
Nick sighs, a dramatic, long-suffering sound, but there's no real heat in it. He peels off his leather jacket, hands it to Jimmy, and steps onto the soft blue ground. "Alright, alright. But if I get stuck in the tube, Palmer, you’re the one who has to explain to Gibbs why I’m late for the morning briefing."
Victoria lets out a squeal of triumph, grabbing Nick’s finger and leading the two men toward the ramp. As they ascend toward the top of the structure, Nick looks out over the playground—at the kids, the families, and the life he just helped build—and realizes he wouldn't mind going down this slide every single day.