6. The Next Morning
Moving from, I-love-you, you're-my-best-friend to
I-love-you-let's-spend-forever-together is a somewhat more daunting task in the
light of day.
Abby's gone by the time he's up and moving.
It takes him longer than usual to get showered and
dressed. Just finding plastic wrap, and
getting his midsection wrapped up so he can get a shower without getting his
bandage wet is an adventure that slows him down by ten minutes.
In the shower, gingerly soaping up, he thinks about how he
should actually go about doing this, because showing up with flowers and asking
her to dinner tonight just isn't his style. Deliberation, planning, knowing
what he's going to do, how he's going to do it, and making sure he's explored
all possible variations of how he might do this before settling on a plan is
his style.
For the last nine years, he and Abby have been coasting
along. They're in a safe, comfortable space. And since they work together, and
since everyone around them also depends on their ability to work together, a
warm friendship makes a lot of sense.
After all, a disastrous break up for two people who spend no
professional time together isn't a huge deal. Yes, it's personally painful, but
it's not like people will die.
He and Abby have a flaming break-up, and people might die.
Anything that slows down their efficiency at catching the bad guys can result
in more dead people. And, on a personal level, he might die. If he screws this
up and hurts her, Gibbs will kill him, and not in the traditional pissed-off-dad
sort of way, but in the literally-dead-and-never-seen-again sort of way.
For Tim McGee, rule number twelve isn't just a matter of keeping
his work life functional; it's also about not pissing off the scariest man he
knows.
So, this is going to take planning.
Fortunately, Tim is good at planning.
Tim is also cautious, much to the eternal chagrin of both
his father and grandfather. Both of
whom, by his age, ran their own ships. Both of whom eventually made Admiral.
And both of whom were deeply confused by a small boy who enjoyed make believe
games and then video games, and didn't appear to have any killer instinct or
interest in the Navy, at all.
So, rinsing off, he's not planning on admitting his undying
love to Abby tonight, or tomorrow night, or for that matter, any time this week
and possibly month.
He is thinking a good first step is making sure he's ready
to be in a real relationship. Because if
this is going to crash and burn, and he's aware it might, it isn't going to
happen because he's pulled some sort of Tony-esque fear-of-commitment,
run-away-from-an-adult-relationship-like-a-little-boy routine.
That in mind, he goes back to work, brushes off his
co-workers' concern for him, making light of the injury that's still throbs
whenever he moves, and immerses himself in Mission: Get Harper Deering.
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