A sudden screech rips me straight out of a dead sleep. Before I'm even completely awake, I am lunging after cell phone, so it doesn't wake Delilah. I slam my hand against an empty spot on the nightstand. It blares again. I snatch it up and silence the call. I stare at the screen for a long moment. It's a picture of Tony from Christmas with a Santa hat and goofy grin.

I take a quick stock of the bedroom. Delilah's side of the bed is empty, her wheelchair gone. Morning light filters through the blackout curtains. The whole apartment is silent…which only happens when everyone else is gone.

And if Tony's already calling, that means…

Oh shit. I overslept.

Pressing my hand against my eyes, I accept Tony's call. The cuff of my sportscoat scratches my cheek. I'm still in yesterday's suit. This is great. Just freaking great.

"McGee," I say.

Tony's voice replies, "Hey Tim. I'm here."

I survey my clothes and sigh. "I'm going to be a few minutes."

"I figured." He laughs and then, he's gone.

I fly through the apartment as I get ready. A five-minute shower, brushed teeth, and different suit later and I look like a whole new man. I don't worry about breakfast because Tony and I will probably grab something on our way to the stakeout. Nothing makes the time go faster than eating.

I rush to the bookshelves to retrieve my gun from the safe. Sitting on top, there are two breakfast sandwiches, still warm, wrapped in wax paper. A note in Delilah's perfect, block script reads:

T, One for you and one for Tony. Coffee is in the kitchen. Go get 'em, Tiger.

Love you, D. PS – Tell Tony I expect a visit.

The note makes me grin. Inexplicably, she loves that line for Spiderman. The Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst version, not the newer reboots. Don't tell Tony, but those are her favorites. I never cared for superhero moves, but she does. Since she controls our television time, I have seen them all. Please don't ask about the difference between the DC and Marvel universes because she can talk about it for hours. In some ways, she is as bad as Tony.

After moving the food to the side, I free my gun from the safe. A quick jaunt to the kitchen to fill two travel mugs with coffee. I'm already late, so I fix Tony's coffee just the way he likes it. Extra sugar with extra half and half like atherosclerosis doesn't exist. Then, I rush out the door while juggling the travel mugs and sandwiches. Locking the door is a feat, but I make it to the lobby without dropping anything or scorching myself. As soon as the elevator doors open, a familiar voice carries.

"…when I learned the gendarme wasn't just a bunch of Jacques Clouseaus."

There's a low murmuring from an eager listener. I round the corner to find Tony standing next to the doorman's desk. Old Bertram sits at his desk, neck craned as Tony regals him with a story. As soon as he sees me, he further perks up. For how old he is—likely in his 80s—I have never seen him so animated.

"Say, Mr. McGee, look who I found!" Grinning, Bertram gestures as Tony as though I haven't seen him. "It's Mr. DiNozzo! Can you believe it?"

Tony easily leans against the desk. "I was just telling Bertram about Paris."

"I heard," I say, nodding. "Have you been there, Bert?"

"Those used to be the days. Jetsetting off to some foreign city to…" At that, Bertram's laid-back demeanor changes into something else. Those huge eyes behind his glasses shift warily between the two of us. "If you boys will excuse me…"

I glance at Tony, who shrugs. We head across the lobby towards the doors without speaking. Despite our years in law enforcement, we have never been able to track down Bertram's life before becoming doorman to our building. Despite his age, he officially doesn't exist before the year 1996. Tony's working theory is Bertram used to be a CIA agent or is in witness protection, but I think he has seen one too many movies. We probably just aren't spelling his last name right.

Outside, the sun shines brightly. I wish I hadn't left my sunglasses back in the apartment.

Tony gives a heavy sniff. "Why do I smell coffee?"

"Because I have some," I say, laughing. "And Delilah made us breakfast."

Tony takes his drink and sandwich. "I should come visit more often."

"She says you owe her a visit."

"If she's cooking, I'll be here every day. My dad tries to handle it when he's in town." He sips his coffee, frowning at some thought.

"And?" I ask.

Tony half-shrugs. "He tries."

We meander down the block to where Tony parked the car. I lean against the passenger side door. The metal is already baking, reflecting the early day's heat back at me. Tony remains on the sidewalk, facing me. The sunlight highlights the dark bags underneath his eyes and the sallow glint to his cheeks. In some unspoken agreement, we inhale our breakfast and coffee.

Tony catches me staring.

"Jetlag," he explains. "I've been up since 2:30."

I offer him the last of my coffee, which he readily accepts. He takes a sip and flinches violently. Then, he downs the remnants and passes me the travel mug.

"Damn, Tim," he says. "How do you drink it like that?"

I shrug. "If you drink it fast enough, you don't even taste it."

"Yeah, it tastes better in France." His voice trails off as though he didn't mean to bring it up.

The offer to leave behind my whole life here, but my chance to set my own course professionally. I have Delilah's support and blessing. The choice is mine and mine alone.

I quickly change the subject. "Have you talked to Bishop yet?"

He won't look at me. "I figured you could do the honors."

I start to pull out my cell phone, but I pause. Tony stares blankly at the morning musings across the street. The city dwellers milling about, the joggers and parents with strollers and the people walking their dogs. If I didn't know better, I would say he looks disappointed.

"I'm still considering it." I trip over my words. "The offer. Delilah says we should, but I don't know yet."

He nods without looking back. "You tell me when you make up your mind."

When I call Ellie, she answers on the first ring. "Hey McGee. How was your night?"

"Fine. I got some sleep," I say, chuckling. "Tony and I are headed to relieve you. What's your location?"

"NCIS."

"What?" I ask

"Didn't Nick call you?"

I meet Tony's questioning gaze. "Uh, no. Why?"

"We arrested George Pitts at 0230. We saw him leaving a bar with a petty officer. So we picked them up after he ran a stop sign. They said they were going to go somewhere to 'have fun.' Though I think their definitions of fun were likely different." She clears her throat. "We found his kill bag and a chess piece in the trunk of his car. Slam dunk, huh?"

"Yeah, it sounds like it." Tony tilts his head. I cover the mouthpiece and say to him, "Bishop and Torres arrested George Pitts in the middle of an abduction last night."

"Why didn't they call us?" he asks.

"Good question." I turn back to the phone. "Why didn't you contact us, Bishop?"

"Nick said he would." I hear a rustling on the other end. "Hey Torres, you never called McGee and DiNozzo about the arrest. What gives?"

A moment later, I hear Torres say, "Tell him that he and Tony needed their beauty sleep."

Ellie gasps. "I'm not telling him that!"

As they delve into a squabble, I snap, "Hey! Hey! Someone needs to notify Gibbs."

"That's a great idea," Ellie says. "Thanks for doing handling it, McGee. We've got an interrogation to handle. Tell Gibbs we've got everything under control." And with that, the line goes dead. I don't think they really do, but I leave them to it.

Cringing, I pocket my phone. I mentally draft a text to Gibbs, but it doesn't come out quite right. Hey boss, guess what. Ellie and Nick caught a serial killer while I was home sleeping. And oh yeah, Tony is back! I doubt the phone call would be much better.

Tony keenly watches me, an expert in Tim McGee after all these years. He knows I'm floundering, but he has the grace not to say it. I updated him on the case while he nods, head tilting and listening. At the end of the summary, he murmurs, "Hm, that was easier than I expected."

"Yeah, except we get to tell Gibbs."

Tony's features pinch at the mere mention of our former boss' name. It makes him look callous and exhausted, nothing like Tony. I motion for the car keys; he relinquishes them without a fight. Since rush hour is over, it doesn't take long to reach Gibbs' house. I park the Charger against the curb. I begin to climb out of the car, but I notice Tony's seat belt is still clipped.

"Am I supposed to feel weird?" he whispers.

I press my lips together. "Have you spoken since you left?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not a word."

I stare at Gibbs' Craftsman. With its faded paint and empty porch, it appears rundown and forgotten. Foreboding, in a way. Picture-perfect in mid-century suburbia that never caught up with modern times. I feel a chill glide down my spine. Suddenly, I understand Tony's reluctance.

I start, "Would you rather – "

"No, I'm coming."

And with a set of his jaw, he hops out of the car before I do. He stalks across the lawn. I hustle to keep up, the grass laps at my ankles. As we climb the porch steps, they sag under our weight. The paintwork around the front door is patchy. A faded dingy beige surrounds the top portion while a brighter, new coat of the identical color lines the sides. An obvious work in progress. It wasn't like that when I last visited a few weeks ago.

Tony jiggles the front door. It isn't locked; it never is. Inside, the air conditioning runs, but it's still uncomfortably warm. Muggy and stuffy as though the house hasn't felt fresh air in years. The scent of fresh coffee wafts. The television plays a black and white western on mute. A stagecoach races across the screen, puffs of dust clouding behind it. Sunlight spills through the now-clean windows, showcasing the tidied interior. I stop in my tracks. Gibbs never opens the blinds, let alone attacks the clutter.

Tony studies the black sectional. "Gibbs has a new couch…"

"He got it right after you left," I offer. "So not exactly new."

"New to me." He bares his teeth in a sort of smile.

We head past the Formica kitchen table with its mismatched chairs. We are silent and reverent as though we are in church. In the kitchen, an open box of cereal sits on the counter. Shredded Wheat. No muss, no fuss, all Gibbs. A bowl and spoon, still dripping, sit in the drying rack.

When we arrive at the basement door, Tony allows me to lead. I open the door and announce myself. After all the bloodshed this basement has seen, Gibbs built a sniper's nest into his work bench.

"Boss, it's McGee."

Even though we don't get a response, Tony and I head down the stairs. The basement is, surprisingly, well-lit and inviting. The last time I was here—only a few weeks ago—I had to squint just to see Gibbs' face in the near dark. Now, new track lighting graces the ceiling. It makes the whole space appear homey and welcoming. I never noticed just how big it is. The work benches are neat, their tools stowed away. Just as always, a partially constructed boat hull takes up most of the available space. A half-full coffee mug rests on the floor beside it.

Dumbfounded, I pause on the landing. Tony stops short, nearly knocking us both down the stairs. He is as rigid as a statue and as pale as death. I can't hear him breathing; I'm not sure whether he still is. His expression is shock and raw fear as though just awakening from a bad dream.

I try again. "Boss?"

Leroy Jethro Gibbs' head pops out from behind the boat hull. A moment later, the rest of his body appears. He in at ease in his NIS shirt and his worn to death jeans. Behind his right ear is a pencil stub, a piece of sandpaper clutched in his hands. He brushes his bare arms, knocking a fine dusting of wood particles loose. He looks nothing like I expected. He is relaxed and calm and sober.

"Gibbs?" I whisper.

"Hey McGee." His eyes flit to Tony. "Hey DiNozzo."

I expect to share a curious glance with Tony, but he doesn't look at me. Instead, his shocked expression slowly morphs into one of anger. His glare is fixed on Gibbs, who calmly removes his safety glasses.

"Tony." Gibbs' voice is as careful as a hostage negotiator.

"Is that it, Gibbs?" Tony growls. "Is that all you have to say to me? 'Hey DiNozzo.' You ignore me for three years and now….now, you want to act like nothing happened?"

Gibbs deliberately presses his lips together. A swallow, a tasting of some words on his tongue. It is the only insight he offers. The action makes Tony ball his hands into fists before scrubbing them across his face. He almost knocks his glasses clean off. He pulls a breath through his teeth.

"How many e-mails did I send?" Tony continues. "How often did I write you? Did you even read them?"

Gibbs remains stone-faced.

"Two hundred and eighty-six." Tony sighs as though Gibbs is a lost cause. "Two. Hundred. And. Eighty. Six. I told you everything that happened with me. With Tali. It was like writing a letter to the void, but I kept doing it because I thought maybe, just maybe, you might respond. Even once."

By now, I feel more awkward than I ever have. I'm desperately trying not to eavesdrop. Yet with Tony beside me, I can't escape without trying attention to myself. So I study the wood stairs and ponder the age old question of just how Gibbs gets those boats out of his basement.

Tony is still going. His face turns red; his body rigid. "You couldn't write a single e-mail. You never called. You didn't even send a Christmas card. It was like I stopped existing after I left the team."

If I didn't know better, I might say Gibbs appears humbled. Perhaps even slightly sad. I think I have seen him express those emotions, but I've never really been sure.

Tony takes a deep breath. Gibbs' continued silence only enrages Tony more.

"And maybe I did before I even left," he says. "I stopped being useful to you. Then when you didn't need me anymore, you just – " he wipes his hands together " – let me go. That was it. Fifteen years, Gibbs. I did everything you asked—and a lot you didn't—for fifteen years. I trusted you with my career, my life. Everything. I trusted you with everything. And once we were done, that was it." He wipes his hands together as though shucking imaginary dirt away.

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "What did you want, DiNozzo? A pen-pal?"

"Something, Gibbs. I would have taken anything." Tony's laugh is dry and humorless. "Hell, even a goodbye and good luck would have been nice. I got nothing from you. Nothing."

"I don't say goodbye, Tony." Gibbs turns back to the boat.

"More like you can't be bothered." Tony starts up the stairs. Over his shoulder, he throws to me, "I'll be in the car, Tim. Take your time."

Tony is nearly at the top of the stairs when Gibbs slams his fists against the boat hull. The sound resonates through us like a gunshot. Tony stops mid-stride, I nearly jump out of my skin.

"I say goodbye to the dead!" Gibbs yells.

Tony swivels around, hand on the railing and eyes on Gibbs. His expression is impassive and angry. He tilts his head just enough to show Gibbs he is listening. I don't dare to breathe so I don't get roped into this conversation. I pretend to be part of the wall. They seem to have forgotten that I'm even here.

"Everyone I said goodbye to is dead. Shannon and Kelly." Gibbs is counting on his fingers now. "Kate. Paula Cassidy. Mike. Dornegat. Diane. Ziva. I said goodbye and look at them! They're dead! They're all dead!" He whirls around, his eyes wild. "Do you think I wanted that for you?"

Tony closes his eyes. "I don't know anymore."

The moment of silence seems to stretch forever. I fiddle with my wedding ring, trying my best not to stare at Gibbs and Tony. I feel like a voyeur, stumbling into the most intimate moment of their lives.

"Jesus, no." Gibbs heaves a sigh. "Everyone I care about dies. You escaped, Tony. I can still protect McGee, but I didn't want it to remember you. I didn't want it to find you. You deserve to live…"

And that's the moment, I learn Gibbs is a superstitious man. With his rules and his gut, he attempts to abide by some unseen code I can't fathom. As though there could be some cosmic score to settle. Catch enough murderers and it'll keep the people he loves about safe. I just don't understand. I can't…

Tony starts, "Gibbs…"

"You and McGee are like my sons, Tony. You're my family." His glistening eyes search our faces before wandering away. "I didn't say anything when you left because I didn't know what to say. I made a mistake by not saying, 'see you around.'" He rakes his hand through his hair. Wood dust falls like a blizzard. "I shouldn't have kept you on the team for long. I never knew how to tell you."

Tony's brow pinches. "What?"

"Look at everything you've accomplished since you left." Gibbs smiles sadly. "You're a damned good father. A great agent. Assistant Director."

"Of European Operations," Tony clarifies modestly. "It's not that – "

"It's exciting," Gibbs finishes for him. "It's great. I held you back. I'm sorry."

Tony holds his hands up, seemingly too flabbergasted to follow the sudden turn in conversation.

"Am I hallucinating?" he gasps. "Or did you just apologize?"

Gibbs chuckles. "I'm trying something new. Therapist's orders."

"How's it working out for you?"

"I don't know, Tony. You tell me."

Tony presses his lips together. "Too little, too late. But…"

The entire world hangs onto that moment. It feels as though the room holds its breath and I barely notice that I am too. Gibbs attempts a smile, but it comes as a grimace.

"Can we try?" he asks.

Tony half-nods. "We can."

With that, Tony heads down the stairs. On his way, he claps his hand against my shoulder as though to thank me for being there. Thank me for the moral support. I smile at him. He matches it, hesitant and cautious. Like he has no idea what he is walking into it. At first, he offers Gibbs a handshake. Instead, Gibbs pulls Tony into a giant bear hug. There is whispering between them, words I can't make out because they are not meant for me. When they move apart, Tony's exquisite suit is covered in a fine sheen of wood dust. He doesn't bother to sweep it away.

"I know why you two are here," Gibbs says flatly.

That's my cue to spring to life. "I have an update on our case. Apparently, our serial killer had ties to Marseille and Tony…" When I gesture at him, he holds his hands in a Ta-da motion. "Then, Bishop and Torres picked up our suspect last night. He had his bag and next vic in the car. I think they're waiting on us to start the interrogation. It sounds open and shut though."

After I finish, Gibbs stares at me expectantly.

"And?" he asks.

"That's it, I think." I check with Tony, who just shrugs. "Yeah, that's it. We're pretty sure."

"Vance told me you had a job offer, Tim." He keeps his eyes locked on mine. "In Marseille."

I feel the color drain from my cheeks. At that moment, I wish the world would stop long enough for me to formulate a response. Even if I knew what to say, my voice is lodged in my throat. Tony's lips are moving, likely struggling to produce some obscure movie quote. He loosens his tie, grimacing.

"It's not like that, Gibbs." He is tripping over his words. "I'm not poaching your people. I need an SSA and I asked Tim if he knew someone because – "

"You have my blessing," Gibbs interrupts, eyes jumping to Tony. "Both of you."

Tony and I blurt out, 'What?!' in unison.

Gibbs faces me. "You proved you can handle a team, Tim. Do it."

Suddenly, the room is spinning. I sink onto the closest step and press my hand against my temple.

"Are you firing me, Boss?" My voice is weak.

"No, McGee. Still your choice, but I won't hold you back." Gibbs tilts his head at Tony. "I've been trying to show you it's time, but you're like DiNozzo. You didn't really get the message."

My frown deepens as my gut sinks. Everything I have been feeling for the past few months was a sign. A way to tell me that it was time to move on with my life, my career. Even if I don't want to admit it, maybe Gibbs is right. Maybe Delilah is right. It is time.

"Just don't ask me to say goodbye, Tim," Gibbs says.

I half-smile. "What about 'see you around'?"

"That I can do."

I look up at Tony. His expression is as excited as I feel.

"When do I start?"

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

Author's Note: Thanks again for all the favs, follows and reviews. I still get excited to see readers get excited about my stories. This one likely get an epilogue eventually. I'm still trying to figure out exactly how I'd like to bring everyone back together again.