Monday, June 24, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 130

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 130: Saturday Afternoon

Occasionally, Tim does believe in God, and when he does he often finds himself thinking that He’s got a pretty perverse sense of humor.

The reason he’s thinking this is Abby’s breasts.

Tim really approved of this translucent
outfit. It wasn't until she saw the photo
and how see-through the dress was
that Abby understood why.
He’s always appreciated them. Okay, that’s an understatement. He loves them. Loves the way they look, feel, smell, respond when he touches them. Everything there is to love about a pair of breasts, he loves about hers.

And right now, Pregnant Abby breasts are even better than Regular Abby breasts. They’re so soft and round and big and sensitive and he would very happily spend hours playing with them.

Which is where God’s perverse sense of humor comes in. Nine weeks pregnant Abby is, without a doubt, the most beautiful, sexy, hits all of his buttons so hard he’d be walking around with an erection all the time if he was still sixteen, (And honestly, at less than a week past thirty-seven, he’s adjusting himself a lot more than he used to, and appreciating the fact that his jeans just don’t allow enough movement for him to really embarrass himself when, say, Abby’s at work in a short skirt and one of his button downs, gaping just a bit, and she sort of bends a little.) incarnation of Abby he’s ever seen. So, of course, nine-weeks pregnant Abby also sleeps eighteen hours a day.

So, in addition to having to live with, sleep next to, and work with the hottest woman in creation, the amount of sex in his life has dropped significantly.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and they’re on the sofa, watching Supernatural. (How they didn’t run into it sooner, he has no idea, but on the upside they’ve still got five seasons to go through before they catch up.) And while he’s happily watching Sam and Dean snark their way through middle America killing demons right and left, her head lands on his lap and ten seconds later she’s asleep.

The episode was over, and now there’s this soft, pleasant weight in his lap, and for a moment he was just gently petting her hair, (Which is also fabulous these days. She had the extensions taken out a few weeks ago, but it’s still longer, fuller, glossier, wavier, and softer than ever before.) looking at her, thinking about how beautiful she is, mostly in an innocent, look-how-pretty sort of way, when he notices that the t-shirt she’s wearing (one of the new ones) is cut kind of low, so he can see the tops of her breasts, and it’s pretty tight, and kind of thin, so he can see her nipples through the fabric, too.

Soft, round, full breasts, pressed up gently against each other, and big enough that he could rub between them, which is something they can’t really do normally, and the idea of what all that beautiful soft skin wrapped around him would look like, let alone feel like, settles in his dick, making it harden.

But she’s asleep. Warm breath easing in and out against his thigh. He pets her hair again, watches his left hand ease down her throat, and he diverts it and makes it rest on her shoulder. He’s not sixteen, and no matter how horny he is, and how much he wants to suck each nipple, see if he can get her off by doing it, (she’s more sensitive now than she was on their honeymoon) and then lube himself up, straddle her, and rub off between her breasts, he’s not the guy who molests his pregnant wife while she’s sleeping. He’s especially not the guy who does it after being flat out told not to wake her up.

He hits the play button, tearing his eyes away from her breasts, and of course, there’s like one sex scene per season on Supernatural, so somehow he ends up watching the two episodes with back to back sex scenes. And Sam and Dean each get a girl (okay, technically one of them is a demon) and the girl with the red hair and the white bra sliding all over Dean in the Impala is not helping at all with the whole so-horny-I-want-to-explode issue.

And Abby just sighs a little and snuggles into his lap closer, rubbing her head gently against his erection, killing him slowly, and settles deeper into sleep.

He’s wishing he was wearing the kilt, because if he was, he could just scoot like an inch to the right, jerk off, and take care of the issue without waking her up. And yeah, it’d have to be pretty slow, because her head is on his left leg, and he’d have to do it with his right hand, and, well, okay, they don’t have any tissues nearby, but he’s got socks on so that could take care of the mess, but it doesn’t matter because he’s in pajama pants and the way she’s laying on them is keeping them pretty tight, and it just isn’t going to work.

She rolls over, facing him and not the TV, somehow finding a position where her breasts are pushed together even more firmly, and she’s twisted so the flannel pajama pants she has on are pulled tight over her ass, dipping low so he can see the small of her back, and she’s got it stuck out just a little, and, like her breasts it’s so soft and full and curvy and warm and somehow her head’s turned and he can feel her breathing on his dick through the soft cotton of his jammie pants, and he is biting his lip, cursing that the single hottest woman in the history of womanhood is on his lap, exhaling moist, hot air against his very hard, very sensitive dick and sound asleep.

He’s clutching the remote like he’s about to beat it to death for mortally offending each and every single member of his entire family, staring at the TV with grim resolve that he will not reach down, slip his hand under her shirt, and begin to stroke her nipples. He’s thirty-seven, he can control himself. And she needs her sleep. She’s made it very clear that unless the world is about to end, she does not want to be woken up.

So he’s not going to do it.

He’s going to sit there and be the most sexually frustrated pillow ever.

She shifts a little more, and now her mouth is pressed against his dick.

He closed his eyes, refusing to look, because if he looks, he’s going to touch, and if he touches he’s going to wake her up.

“God, Tim, what am I going to have to do to get you to touch me? Pull it out and suck it?”

“You’re awake?”

“Ish.” Her eyes haven’t opened, but she’s definitely lipping his dick through his pants.

It takes about thirty seconds, but he’s out of his pants and lying on the sofa spooned up behind her, nuzzling her neck and cupping her breast in his hand. “All you have to do is let me know you aren’t sleeping.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Thank God!”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“Then thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Help me get out of these pants.”


About another thirty seconds later she’s kicking them off as his hand snakes under her shirt to stroke her breasts.

“Been staring at them for hours,” he says, whole hand lightly circling over her breast. “Been thinking about licking them, sucking on them, just grazing my teeth over them.”


“Yeah, you’ve been snuggled up in my lap for three Supernatural episodes, and I don’t know what this shirt’s made out of, but it just clings to you,” he’s tugging on it, trying to pull it up, but the fact that she’s laying down makes that a little less effective than he’d like. If he had a knife anywhere nearby he’d be really tempted to cut if off of her, one of her few decent fitting t-shirts or not.

But he didn’t. She rolls him onto his back, then sits up, straddling his hips, and pulls it over her head.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” His hands land on her hips and he holds her in place while he sits up, twists around, and gets them sitting with his back against the sofa. “Perfect.” Like this her breasts are right at mouth level on him, and she can ride him at whatever pace and depth she likes.

As they found out last week, at an especially inopportune moment, these days too deep really hurts. Which means these days he’s pretty nervous about any position where he controls the depth.

She slips down onto him, and he hisses at how good it feels. Tight, wet, hot, and wrapped around him, so so good.

She’s moving slowly, not much up and down, mostly just rolling her hips, but with every roll her breasts jiggle a little, and he’s watching them, mesmerized, fingers very gently feathering over her nipples, tracing the newly visible veins along her chest.

He takes her nipple into his mouth, alternating soft, light sucks with pulling gently with his teeth. Her hands clench in his hair as she throws her head back and moans, so he figures she likes that.


“God, Tim, don’t stop!”

He rolls his tongue over her nipple as he lightly strokes down both sides of her breast with his fingers. “How about this?”

A long, deep moan is his answer.

He uses his fingernails to scrape, lightly, on one nipple while he went back to the soft, wet sucks on the other. He’s settling into what he considered a nice, steady rhythm, alternating soft and sharp sensations when Abby suddenly tightens on him, holding his head against her chest, high-pitched moans coming faster and breathier, and then she sort of lightly twitched all over, her pussy softly rippling against him.

She relaxes against him, catching her breath, and he kisses her shoulder.

“Ummm… was that?” Not that he’s unfamiliar with what Abby getting off looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells like, but that was a whole lot faster and gentler than normal.

She gives him a sort of sleepy, satisfied smile. “Oh yeah.”

“Wow.” Sure, they’ve done quickies before, but that was like, three minutes, and he wasn’t touching her clit.

“Increased blood flow to the pelvis is pretty nice.”

“So it seems.”

“Everything is a whole lot more sensitive.”

He nods. “So, sensitive like, stop touching me, or sensitive like, two or three more rounds seems like a really good idea?”

Her smile widens. “At least one more round.” She squeezes against him. “Can’t be done yet, you haven’t gotten off.”

“There is that.” He grinds against her, and she sighs, pleased. “So, would you like it if I got down on the floor, spread your legs wide, and saw how fast I could get you off by licking your clit?”

She kissed the tip of his nose, looking very pleased. “I could go for that.”

He pulls her face down, and kisses her long and slow, his tongue making explicit promises of what’s to come, then breaks away to say, “What if I wanted to see how long I could lick it before I got you off?”

That got a hot look and a long, hard tongue-trusting kiss from her. “That doesn’t sound bad, either.”

“And after that, I want to go back to your breasts. I want to straddle you and slide between them.”

“That sounds good.” She slips off of him, and scoots down so her hips are even with the edge of the sofa.

Their sofa probably wasn’t designed with sex in mind. Probably. Who knows? But it’s sturdy, offers good back support, (the reason they kept her sofa and not his. His sofa might have been okay for napping, but wasn’t nearly firm enough for anything friskier than spooning.) and is the exact right height for Abby to sit on it while Tim knelt in front of her and slipped in, or stood and she blew him.

What it isn’t great for is oral where he’s on the giving side of the equation. It’s about two inches too low for that. (Well, the seat’s two inches too low. The arm’s about three inches too high, and doesn’t offer good leg support for her. And the back… well… yeah… let’s just say that while this sofa is sturdy, it wasn’t designed to handle a large load on the back vigorously bouncing around, and that if you do something like that it tips over, and well, that just wasn’t much fun, at all.)

But, well, the occasional sore neck is a minor price to pay for the sublime joy of Abby coming on his tongue. And after all, if you aren’t willing to sacrifice for your art, what kind of man are you? (Writing? Writing is his hobby; it’s a craft. He bangs out solid, satisfactory mysteries with an occasional really great line or scene. But fucking Abby, that’s his art. The feeling that gives him, the passion going into doing it, that’s the reason art exists. If he were a painter, her body would be his favorite canvas. If he was a musician, she’d be his favorite instrument. And as a poet, her moans and cries are his favorite verse.)

And even with the idea of slow, she’s on enough of a hair trigger right now that he was only able to spin her out for ten minutes.

Ten very good minutes. Ten minutes of light, slow, gentle licks, just bare hints of the tip of his tongue ghosting over her, while she squirmed and moaned and cursed, pulling on his hair, begging him for harder or faster.

He didn’t go faster, Abby gently slipping into a slow climax is amazing, and he loves watching it. He did go harder, rolling his tongue over her in focused, firm circles, increasing his pressure as she arched her hips against his mouth.

This time he’s expecting it. He felt her body tighten, heard her moans go higher pitched, felt her clench and twitch, body shaking against him.

He rests his face against her thigh, letting her come down, enjoying hearing her post-orgasmic purring, as she lightly petted his hair.

After a few minutes she says, “So what’s this about my breasts?”

He looks up at her. “I was thinking that if you were to sort of kneel.” She starts to shift, but he keeps her still, his hand on her hips. “Not yet. We’ll need lube for this, and I don’t feel like getting up and going to the bedroom for it, especially not when,” he kisses her pussy, wet and soft lips and tongue slipping along her, “you’re right here and very wet and slippery. Anyway, if you were to sort of kneel, sit with your feet under you, and lean back against the sofa, and if I were to straddle your legs and kneel, I’d be at just the right height to rub off between your breasts.”

“And you want to do that?” He’s never mentioned being interested in that before, so she’s a little surprised at it.

“Been dreaming about it for hours now. You were lying on your side, and they were pressed up against each other, and all I could think about was what it would feel like to slip between them.”

She grins, and then presses her breasts together and up. “Sounds good.”

He leans forward to kiss each one. “So beautiful.” Then he shifts from sitting to kneeling, and thrust into her, reveling in the feel of her body on his, watching himself fuck her. “This is awfully nice, too.”

She sits up and kisses him. “Don’t get distracted.” Then pulls off of him, settles her feet under her, and uses one hand to hold her breasts together.

He takes in the full image of her, kneeling on the sofa, breasts together, waiting for him. “Oh… That looks so good.”

“Bet it feels better.”

He hops onto the sofa, her legs between his, and scoots a little closer, slipping his dick between her breasts. “Oh, FUCK!” And yeah, it looks exactly as good as he thought it would and feels about a thousand times better. “I really hope you like being pregnant because I’m keeping you this way as long as I possibly can.”

She giggles at that, dips her head, and licks the tip of him as he thrust up.

“Oh…” His teeth clench as he watches her do it. “That’s even better.”

He set a fairly quick pace, grabbing the back of the sofa for balance, not wanting to stretch this out any further. A few strokes in she says, “Bet I can make this better.”

He feels her hand on his balls, rolling them, tugging gently, and yeah, that is better, that is so better, that is all sorts of better, and he actually growls at her when she takes that hand away.

“Hush.” She grazes her teeth over the head of his dick. “You’ll like this.”

He can’t see what she’s doing with that hand, but he has a general idea of where it has to be, between her legs, and he isn’t sure if she’s rubbing herself off or not, because the only thing he’s looking at is his dick slipping between her breasts, plump white flesh wrapped around him, and her tongue lapping at the tip as it pokes out from between them.

But he certainly feels it when a slick finger slips behind his balls and starts to ease its way inside of him. And fuck that was… just… She twists it, finds what she’s looking for, and presses forward.

“Oh, God, shit! Abby!” Fuck, that feels good, and he’s so close that the only thing keeping him from cumming all over her is the fact that she doesn’t like it, and it occurs to him he didn’t think this part through very well, and “Fuck!” she twitches her finger just a little more, rubbing his prostate, and, “Oh God!” she bends her head, takes the tip of him into her mouth, sucks hard, and he’s just gone, riding the pleasure coursing through his body.

When he’s paying attention again, he notices her gently nuzzling his belly. This is also when it occurs to him that he got her naked, but he’s still in his t-shirt and socks.

“You liked that?” she asks.

“Oh yeah!” He sits back on the sofa, next to her and looks at the back of it. “Left grip marks on the sofa.”

It’s made of that microfiber suede-style stuff that shows where and how you touch it. It feels really nice, but if you ever touch it, it leaves marks.

She giggled at that, and got up to wash off. A minute later she was back with a warm, wet washcloth and he took care of himself.

She’s up, doing something, and he’s just sort of laying around, dozing on the sofa.



“C’mere.” He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it. He tugs her back onto the sofa and spoons up behind her.

“I’m going to fall asleep if I lay down again.”

“So? I’m going to fall asleep, too.”

“Be nice to get something done besides sleeping today.”

“We got groceries and had sex. Eventually we’ll make dinner, maybe have more sex. That’s a full day.”

She laughs at that.

“I’ll get cold.”

He reaches behind himself, grabs the blanket from the back of the sofa, and tosses it over them. “I’ll keep you warm. Get a nap with me. Then we can stay up late tonight.”



Shards To A Whole: Chapter 129

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 129: Any Man Who Was Ever Worth A Damn

Tim was prepared for food cravings.

Of all the traditional pregnant dad jobs, being the provider of whatever food has to be eaten right now was something he was ready, willing, and able to do.

He was kind of surprised when there really weren’t all that many of them.

Mostly it was just frozen wild blueberries.

He’s got no idea what’s in frozen wild blueberries that Kelly might want, (Yeah, they call her McSciuto in front of the others. They aren’t planning on asking Gibbs about Kelly until they know for a fact she’s a she, but when they’re alone they call her Kelly.) but whatever it might be, she really, really wants it.

A lot of it. All the time.

They got a Costco membership for one reason and one reason only, they’re the only place nearby that sells five-pound bags of frozen wild blueberries. And yeah, they get some curious stares when they’re in line with only three bags of blueberries in the cart.

And they need them because Abby’s going through about two pounds of blueberries a day.

Which isn’t to say there’s not the occasional I have to have (insert name of food here) right this second or I will go insane. There’s been some of that. (Three days earlier when Abby had a melt-down because there were no candy bars with nougat in the vending machine caused everyone to just sit and stare at her in utter, speechless shock.) But for the most part, as long as Abby has a Caf-Pow cup full of frozen blueberries and a spoon handy, she’s good.

“I’m not helpless!” Abby said, standing next to the trunk of her car, glaring at Tim as he grabbed every single grocery bag in it.

“I know,” Tim said, groceries piled high in his arms.

“Then let me take some of them in,” she said as she slammed the trunk of the roadster shut.

“Nope. Though if you felt like getting the door for me this would be a lot easier.” Yeah, he can carry the whole load in one go, but he can’t do that and open the door to their home.

“You look like an idiot trying to get all of them in one trip.”

“Then I’ll look like an idiot. If I don’t grab them all, you grab them.”

“Because I can get them. Carrying a few grocery bags is not an issue.”

“Do you want to stand out here in the cold and argue with me about this, or do you want to open the door so we can argue about it inside where it’s nice and warm?”

Abby glared at Tim, again, but did head over and open the door, because honestly it’s pretty damn cold out there. Rumor has it that the thermometer might get to the low 30s today, but he’s fairly sure that isn’t going to happen.

“Thank you,” Tim said, stomping snow off his boots on the porch and heading into the kitchen, relieved to be able to put the groceries down, because honestly, it was too much to take in one trip.

“You pull your back doing that, and I’m not rubbing it.”

“I can hold you up for a half hour, the groceries aren’t going to be a problem.” And they aren’t from a too heavy perspective; it’s just awkward to try and hold a whole cart’s worth at one time.

He headed back to the foyer, hung his coat up, and put his boots away.

“I don’t like being treated like I’m made of glass.” Abby sat on the bottom step and unzipped her boots.

“I know.”

“So why are you doing it?” She took her coat off and handed it to him. He hung it up.

Tim shrugged. “Because I can. Because you’re the mother of my child and I want to protect, pamper, and baby you. Because this is the only time I’ll get to do this. Next time you’re pregnant, we’ll have an actual baby to baby. And because, if you slip on the damn ice because you were carrying a grocery bag and couldn’t see the path or something, not only will Jethro slap me upside the back of the head with a two by four, a two by four that Jimmy will go out and buy for him for precisely that purpose, I’ll deserve it because there’s only one job a pregnant father has and that’s keeping his wife in good shape.”

“And if I slip on the ice and fall and you can’t catch me because you’re carrying every grocery bag all at once?”

Tim stared her right in the eye and said, voice dead serious, “I’ll catch you. Eggs’ll get broken, but you won’t hit the ground.”

It’s possible that Abby could have rolled her eyes harder, but it’s not likely.

He shrugged and sighed at that. “Look, just chalk it up to insane pregnant daddy stuff, and leave it there. Jimmy did it for Breena. Jethro did it for Shannon. Tony’s going to do it for Ziva until she pulls a knife on him. It’s what we’re designed to do. Seriously, there’s only one reason men exist and that’s to keep their women and kids alive and well. If we were hunter-gathers, it’d be my job to kill the wooly mammoths, bring their bodies to you, and then fight off the wolves. The least I can do is drag some groceries in from the car.”

“Uh huh.” This line of argument was not impressing her. “Do I need to pull a knife on you?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.” He’s leaning back against the door to the coat closet. “Is it that annoying?”

She’s sitting on the bottom step, arms crossed over her chest, looking angry and defensive. “It’s pretty damn annoying! I’m a grown woman. I’ve run my own lab for over a decade. And as Chip found out, I can handle myself. And it’s not just you. Suddenly Gibbs has also decided that anything involving any physical effort is just too much for me and I can’t be allowed to do it.”

“Gibbs failed the first time!” His voice was quiet, but very intense as he said it.

“What?” That completely derailed Abby’s anger, and confusion replaced it. She wasn’t following where he was taking this.

“His woman and child didn’t make it, and if you ever pump enough alcohol into him to shut down his defenses, like I have, he’ll tell you that. He failed at the job that mattered the most to him. He ran into your lab, in front of a bomb, to get to you because either both of you were going to die or neither of you, but he wasn’t going to bury you. He can take grief. Jenny, Mike, Kate, that was grief. But if he fails another daughter, and these days that’s you and Ziva, or another child, that’s our Kelly, and it’ll break him for good. He’ll crawl into that basement and eat his gun. So, no, he’s not about to let you do anything that might carry even the slightest risk of anything happening to you when he’s around. And God have mercy on all of us when Ziva gets pregnant because her on anything other than desk duty will drive him insane. He’s failed as many times as he can take; he’s not going to do it again!”

“He didn’t fail. No one could have… He didn’t fail!” Abby looked utterly horrified at not just that idea but that Tim would say it.

Heartbreakingly earnest.
He knelt in front of Abby, his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye, sounding heartbreakingly earnest. “We’re designed for one job and one job only: protect your woman and kids or die trying. Rule Number 44. You’re supposed to outlive us; that’s the point of it; that’s the goal. And if your wife and kids are dead, and you’re still breathing, you failed. And no, it wasn’t his fault. No, there was nothing he could have done to change it. It was completely out of his control. But he still failed. I know it, Jimmy knows it, Tony knows it, any man who was ever worth a damn knows it. And Gibbs knows it, feels it every single day.

“I’ve been with him for twelve years now. I sat in his basement and actually got him to talk. I’ve seen some of the pictures of Kelly and Shannon. And I know exactly how broken he is, and have a good idea of how broken he was, and the idea of being him scares the living hell out of me. So, look, I’m sorry this bugs you, but, just, please, take pity on me and let me do this.” She was softening, but wasn’t entirely convinced. And he was staring at her eyes wide, breath coming fast, sounding anything but calm or collected. “Okay, on a rational level, I know that you carrying in the groceries, or putting up the Christmas tree, or driving us home at night isn’t a problem. Yeah, the sane part of me knows that. But I’m still scared, and doing things for you gives me something I can control, because there’s seventy million things out there I can’t control.” His eyes close at that and he remembers everything he read in the high risk pregnancy pamphlets. Usually he’s pretty good at not thinking about it, but right now it’s very fresh in his mind. “I can’t make sure she doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome. I can’t make sure she’s healthy. I can’t keep your or her heart beating. But I can carry in the fucking groceries, I can shovel the snow, I can get up on the ladder to put the Christmas lights up, and I can drive us home from work, so, just, let me, okay?”

She wrapped him in her arms and held onto him for a long time, until his breathing went back to normal and he felt calm to her. Her head rested on his shoulder, lips against his throat, feeling his heart slow back down to normal. “Okay.” She pulled back and kissed his forehead, then smiled, trying to lighten things. “So, does carrying in the groceries extend to putting them away?”

He caught her desire to shift the mood and played back with her. “Nope. That’s totally your job.” He winked at her. “I just lugged the damn things in. You can put them away.” She snorted a laugh, and he kissed her quickly on the lips. “Come on, let’s get them put away.”

“Sounds good. Lunch after?” she asked as they headed into the kitchen.

“Sure, maybe some Supernatural after that?”

“For you,” Abby began taking food out of the bags. “I’ll be asleep before the first person gets murdered. Is it murder when a monster or spirit does it?”

“Probably not. It’s got to be illegal to be a murder, and the law doesn’t cover monster and spirits.” Tim held up the package of chicken breasts. “For dinner?”

“Sure. Stir fry ‘em with the broccoli?”

He nodded and located the broccoli, setting them aside.

“Okay, I’ll be asleep before the first person gets killed.”

“Then you can nap on me, and I’ll watch Supernatural.”


Friday, June 21, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 128

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 128: McSciuto

The OB’s appointment was the first Friday in December. Abby was irked at the getting it set up thing; the different people at the doctor’s office kept asking for the first day of Abby’s last period. But that was in August, and unlikely to be of any help.

Abby kept telling them she knew what day she ovulated on, and likely conceived, but they didn’t want that date.

Finally, she just made one up. Officially the first day of her last period was October 9, fourteen days before she ovulated, and about when it should have been.

Their doctor, Andrea Draz, wanted to see them at six weeks. Which was the end of November, and the middle of a hot case, and neither of them could make it.

Which meant December 6, 2014, they were both sitting in a pleasant office, filling out forms about their insurance and Abby’s health, waiting for the first baby checkup.

It blows Tim’s mind how different this is in real life.

He’s heard about it. Go down to Autopsy and not only is there a rather large collection of photos of Molly pinned up behind the computers but there’s six shots of the new baby (who Jimmy and Breena are calling Sammy, not because they intend to name him/her that, but because it’s pretty gender neutral and they know they aren’t going to call the baby any variation of Sam, so it’ll be easy to drop once they do have a name.) at six weeks along, and shortly after New Year’s there’ll be a new collection of shots of Sammy at 20 weeks.

And Jimmy is more than happy to talk anyone-who-might-ask’s ear off about the whole thing.

He wrote about it. McGregor and Amy had been friends with benefits until about halfway through The Traitor Within, when things got more serious, and Most Precious started with them seeing the ultrasound of their baby. (The need for said ultrasound being what kicked them from friends with benefits to real lovers. Little known fact, yes, Tim bases all of his characters on people he knows, but that doesn’t mean they lead the same lives. He likes to take the core people and then imagine what they’d do in different situations. Let all of them live somewhat different lives.)

But actually standing there, holding Abby’s hand, looking at the small, grainy, white on black read out, watching that tiny heart thrum, hearing the fast woosh, woosh, woosh, just… blows his mind.

The ultrasound tech is pointing out leg buds and the tiny little beginnings of hands, and how the baby has a tail right now, but that’ll go away soon, and all of the details she’s talking about are sort of washing over him, blurring into a drone of white noise centered on that image of their child.

Their baby, about half an inch long, the size and shape of a small shrimp really, but theirs, and alive, and real.

And there aren’t words for it. He thought there were. Thought he could find them, thought he had found them, but like how he feels about Abby, there’s just… an approximation. It’s the difference between reading about the sun setting over the ocean through storm clouds, gleams of red, amber, and fire orange through black and silver, and actually seeing it first hand, feeling the wind on your skin and the cool of the water between your toes as the sun vanishes.

In general, Tim and Abby are both fairly positive people. And part of that comes from the fact that both of them have a certain coping mechanism that allows them to sort of shut out/gloss over/ignore unpleasant facts.

So, while it’s true it wasn’t a shock that Abby automatically gets considered a high risk pregnancy just because of her age, it also wasn’t the sort of thing either of them had been dwelling on. (Beyond both of them being very aware of Abby taking very good care of herself.)

And, it’s also not a shock that the risks for just about every possible thing that could go wrong with a baby get higher when you start out older, but that’s also something they haven’t been thinking about.

But, armed with a huge stack of information, and their OB suggesting that it would be a very good idea to see about having every sort of genetic testing available done soon, it’s kind of hard to shut that away. So they made an appointment for Nuchal Fold testing (see if the baby had Down’s Symdrome or a host of other issues) promised to read up, and pretty much stuffed the pamphlets not directly related to the care and feeding of a pregnant woman/baby in to Abby’s purse, and tried to ignore them.

It was much easier to look at the ultrasound pictures again than it was to think about what might be wrong.

They went straight from the OB appointment to Shabbat at Tony and Ziva’s place.  Fridays when they aren’t on call that weekend and haven’t caught a case tend to end pretty early for Team Gibbs these days. (Though it’ll even out again in the summer when the sun stays high until after eight.)

Gibbs pulled into the parking space next to theirs just as they were shutting the doors to Abby’s car.

“Gibbs! Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!” Abby bounded over to him, wrapping him in a huge hug, almost before he’s all the way out of the car. He’s looking at Tim over her shoulder with a it’s great that you’re glad to see me, but we just saw each other two hours ago sort of look, but Tim’s grinning and pretty bouncy right now, too.

Abby finally pulls back and whips the copies of the ultrasound out of her purse. “Here, you have to see them! Look!”

Gibbs had his arm around Abby as she holds up the first of the shots, and Tim watched as a very deep, very satisfied smile spreads across Gibbs’ face.

He closed on both of them, pressing up against Abby’s other side, as she pointed out arm and leg buds and how the baby’s the size of her thumbnail.

Gibbs kissed Abby’s temple, not taking his eyes off the picture. “She’s beautiful Abbs.”

“We don’t know if she’s a she yet.”

Gibbs just smiled and squeezed Tim’s shoulder.

The rest of the crew cooed appreciatively over the scans once they got up to Tony and Ziva’s place.

“So, what are you going to call her, you know, until you know for sure she’s a she?” Breena asked.

The tradition of a temporary name took hold when Molly was still on the inside and it turned out that no one in their family liked calling a baby it. Tony had actually started it by calling her Golf Ball after Jimmy said that was about how big she was.

Which resulted in Jimmy declaring no kid of his was going by Golf Ball (so Tony kept calling her that for roughly the next four months, though Autopsy Baby, Baby Gremlin, Little Gremlin, and Palmlette, all got rotated through, as well). Breena came up with Gabe, which they both liked as a placeholder for until they knew more about their baby. (Like, for example, Gabe was a girl. In the two months between finding out Gabe was a girl and finally settling on Molly, Gabe became Gabrielle.)

Abby looked at Tim for a good tenth of a second, just long enough for him to nod. “McSciuto. After that, probably a family name. Got to make sure she’s really a girl first.”

“Family name, like, Gloria, right?” Breena asked.

“Glory McGee…” Tim cringed while Abby said it. “Wow… um… no. I mean, yes, that’s my mom’s name, but no… Don’t like that at all.”

“We’ll pick this up later. It’s time to light the candles,” Ziva broke in. They gathered around the dinner table. It’s traditional to have at least one candle per person at the gathering. The two main ones were on the table, the others scattered around the dining room. And while Ziva lit the two main candles, Tony turned off the lights, and lit the others.

Ziva said the first of the blessings, and then turned it over to Jimmy and Breena.

The Shabbat celebration starts with a general prayer of thanksgiving. Thanks for this day of rest. It’s followed by a blessing for each child present, given by their parents.

Jimmy held Molly as Breena laid her hands on Molly’s head, saying:

“Y'simcha elohim ksarah rivkah rahel v'lei'ah
Y'varech'cha adonai v'yishm'recha
Ya'eir adonai panav eilecha vihuneka
Yisa adonai panav eilecha v'yaseim l'cha shalom.”*

Tim watched, standing just behind Abby, his chin on her shoulder, hands on her hips, fingers lightly rubbing over her belly. This time next year, they’ll be doing this, too. And he knows he’s smiling, knows it probably looks stupid, but he doesn’t care. He kissed Abby’s neck, holding her close to him, thinking the blessing along with Breena, and it doesn’t matter that he’s not sure about the whole God thing, let alone Jewish, he deeply appreciates the value of this, and the vast respect visible in the idea of taking time out each and every week to tell your children you want the best for them and appreciate them.

He wonders idly if things could have been different with his dad if he had grown up in a culture that made time every week to bless your children, if his dad had grown up with that idea and been expected to pass it on. Hell, if he had grown up in a culture that expected you to put the working world aside one day a week and spend it resting with the people you loved. He catches Tony’s eye and has the feeling that Tony’s thought the same thing, maybe not right this second, but he’s wondered it.

Probably wouldn’t have mattered. Theoretically Catholics take Sundays off. His dad didn’t. Tony’s didn’t either. Eli David did grow up in this culture; it didn’t seem to do much for him. Not that John McGee or Tony DiNozzo Sr. were any prizes when it came to the dad lottery, but Eli David wasn’t so much a different level of bad dad, as an entirely different category. Though, in trying to be fair, Tim doesn’t know what Eli was like before Tali died, his family shattered, or Ari turned on him. Ziva doesn’t talk about that much.

But as he pets Abby’s stomach, he knows he will be a man who makes the time to be with his kids. And that the tiny person growing inside Abby is going to know that every single day of her life, she’s been loved.

*May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah/May God bless you and keep you/May God’s presence radiate upon you and grant you graciousness/May God’s presence be with you and grant you peace.


Thursday, June 20, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 127

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 127: Holiday Spirit

If you were to ask him, Tim would tell you that Abby is one of the most capable people he knows. You need something done, Abby will shift heaven and earth to get it done.

That this is true has in no way negated the fact that he took one look at her with several hundred feet of Christmas lights, a lighting schematic, seven wreathes, (six little ones for the front windows, one big one for the door) a twenty foot ladder, and the tools necessary to attach said items to the house, and immediately took all of those things away from her and declared that he'd decorate the outside of the house.

It's not that he's feeling any burning need for a decorated house, let alone one bright enough to be seen from space. (First Christmas in the new house, and Abby's pulling out all the stops.) But there is no way in hell his pregnant wife is getting up on a ladder to drape lights all over their snow and ice encrusted house.

No fucking way!

Which is also not to say he's particularly enjoying the experience. It snowed twice last winter and twice the winter before that, so to make up for 2012 and 2013, 2014 was steadily dumping inch after inch of snow on them.

And in specific it's dumping inch after inch on him as he hangs more and more lights on the house.

And, though he wouldn't say it, while he was putting them up, he was sure this was going to be tacky as hell. The newest addition to the 'let's ogle homes decorated by people with too much free time and no taste' tour. (Okay, sure, they don't call it that, but every year Tony goes on the tour and brings back photos of the most incredibly tasteless Christmas decorations in the DC area.)

The "McGee" House
But once it was actually up, and he walked back to the edge of their property, it looked pretty good.

In fact, the house outlined in small white lights, wreaths in all the windows, circling a glowing candle (on the inside, Abby must have gotten them up while he was on the roof), more lights circling porch railing and posts, and, well, yeah, that looked really good.

He shot some photos of it, and, softly glowing house through a haze of thick, downy snowflakes was pretty damn close to a Hallmark Christmas Card house.

Abby came out a minute later, SLR in hand. (Yeah she takes a lot of photos on her phone, but her art shots are done on an old SLR, film, camera. If you've got three hours, she'll tell you all about how she did the artwork in her lab.)

"It's perfect!" She sounded a little breathless as she said it, rapidly shooting pics.

"Thanks." He smiled a little. Not moving anymore means the cold is staring to really settle into him, and he knows in a minute his teeth'll be chattering.

"I've got hot chocolate on the stove."

"Thank you!" That sounded significantly more heartfelt than the previous thanks. "I'm frozen!"

"Thought you would be." She took half a dozen more shots. "It's really beautiful." She kissed him, pressing in as close as she could with both of them fully bundled for winter.

"You designed it. I just put it up."

She smiled at that. "Still, I want you to know I appreciate you spending two hours in the snow, which I know you don't like, putting them up for me."

He nodded, and they headed in.

He was laying on the sofa, savoring the hot chocolate and reading.

"How is it?" Abby asks, basket of holly in her arms.

"So good!" It's super dark chocolate, laced with chocolate liquor, rich with lots of milk, spiced with cinnamon, and piled high with whipped cream. He hasn't had any chocolate since their honeymoon, and this is so good it hurts. He's pretty good about the no sugar stuff, but occasional treats make life worth living.

Abby was decorating the living room, literally decking the hall with boughs of holly.

Tim put down What To Expect When You're Expecting, took another sip, and said, "Books says this is about when morning sickness usually starts."

"Not gonna happen," she said as she draped holly over their mantle.

His eyebrows rise. He was mentioning it because maybe adding saltines or something like that to the grocery list might be a good plan, but she's sounding awfully certain. "Abby?"

"Kelly and I had a chat, and I explained that I save people's lives and put killers away, and being tired all the time was already slowing me down, so I can't be tossing my cookies on top of that. She told me she understood, and thus, there will be no morning sickness."

"Okay." A few thoughts hit Tim, but he figured he could wrap most of them into a one word question. "Kelly?"

She turned toward him and grinned. "Kelly McGee. She's gonna have dark blond hair, green eyes, and love games."

That was a mental image he could get behind. (Okay, that was a mental image that made him ridiculously happy.) Then one more thought hit him. "Is Jethro going to be okay with that?"

Abby looked perplexed. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"I don't know, salt in an old wound? Every time he sees her, she won't be his Kelly."

"Oh." Abby thought about it. "Then we'll ask him first."



Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 126

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 126: A Rocking Chair

As Abby’s style changed, and she kept coming into work in Tim’s button downs or her 1950s dresses more and more anonymous baby gifts kept appearing.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that the handwriting and the messages kept changing, he’d be thinking that maybe Ziva was just going a little bonkers on the getting ready to be an Aunt thing. But the handwriting does keep changing, and the messages keep shifting, and apparently Abby is the single most popular person at NCIS because everyone wants to drop off little gifts for them.

And, of course, some not so anonymous gifts from the family showed up, as well.

Gibbs had kept Kelly’s high chair. So as the team gathered at their house for Thanksgiving, (Thanksgiving used to be at Ducky’s but since his mother died, Abby took over hosting, and now it’s at the McGees' house. Christmas is at Gibbs’ place. Fourth of July/Labor Day (depending on if they’re on) is hosted by the Palmers. Shabbat is at Tony and Ziva’s.) Gibbs brought with him her highchair, and a few of the toys he had made for her. Nothing very complicated, they’re baby toys, old baby toys. But a set of well-loved blocks, a top, and a small rocking horse, all joined the collection of presents.

After dinner, as Tim was taking the high chair up, Gibbs grabbed the other presents (By mutual accord, they would rather cut their own throats than allow Abby to lift anything heavier than an evidence sample while pregnant, and both of them will go far out of their way to accommodate that.) and followed him upstairs.

“We’re thinking this room for the nursery,” Abby says, having gone ahead of them and flicking on the lights. “It gets good light, and is close enough to our room we’ll be able to hear everything easily.”

They have four bedrooms, one of which is mostly just sitting around waiting for new occupants. One’s set up as a guest room, ready for anyone who might want to crash at their place to do so. This one is empty save for the collection of presents on the floor, and now a high chair, rocking horse, blocks and top.

Gibbs looked around at the room as he put the rocking horse down. “Gonna keep it like this?”

It had been a child’s room before they moved in. The walls were a light, bright blue, somewhere between robin’s egg and sky. The trim was white. And, like the rest of the house, the carpet was new, light gray.

“Sort of,” Abby said. “Trees. I’m going to paint trees on the walls, and grass near the baseboard. And maybe some fairies or dragons. At least a few butterflies. Maybe some clouds and more sky on the ceiling if I can get a good match on the wall paint. Our little elf is getting her own forest.”

Gibbs smiles at that, and Tim does as well. They hadn’t talked about what they were doing with the nursery yet. But he likes that idea.

“Dragons between the trees?” Tim asks.

“Yeah. I mean, if I can do one that looks decent.”

“You’ve done cartoon version of me easily enough.”

“I think I can do dragons, too, but if it looks dumb, I might just settle for trees and butterflies. I know I can do that.”


Gibbs looked around the room. “Abbs, dragons and trees is…” and he’s not entirely sure how to finish that sentence, because while it’s true it’s something he’d never do, it’s also very in tune with the family McGee. “It’ll take forever, and unless this is going to be your only child, come baby number two, he’ll be sitting in a plain room with a few coats of paint, and baby one will have a hand-painted mural.”

“Oh. Good point.” Tim gets that in a heartbeat. Mostly because of decades of his dad playing favorites, and he doesn’t want that for his children.

“I’ve been thinking about the crib.” And Gibbs had. He’d been playing with ideas, not getting too set on anything. Just because his gut says Baby McGee is a girl doesn’t mean she actually is. “And that could have a place for a smaller mural. If the top of the back was fairly high and wide, that’d give you room. The dragons and trees could go there.”

Tim nodded along at that idea, and added. “I bet we could find or make a mobile with the fairies on it.”

Gibbs isn’t sure if Tim is so set on the idea that the baby is a girl that fairies sound great for to him, or if he’s just so gender neutral he doesn’t mind the idea of fairies in his son’s room, but he decides he doesn’t need to know the answer to that.

"Shannon's Chair"
Gibbs looked around the room one more time. “I still have Shannon’s rocking chair. It’s not fancy. But you’ll want one... Abbs!”

She flung herself into his arms, sobbing.

Gibbs gently patted her back, staring at Tim in horror, no idea what set Abby off. Tim’s looking back at him with a pretty similar expression on his face.

Meanwhile Abby snuffled and sobbed, saying something that neither of them could make out.

Finally, Gibbs caught, “Shannon’s chair! The one you made her, and she nursed Kelly on!”

“Yeah, Abbs. That chair.” He said, patting her back some more. What he doesn’t say, but Abby appears to instinctively get, is that when he made that chair he had images of his children, grandchildren, and great grandkids in that chair. He built it to last forever and to be passed down.

And damn if that didn’t make Tim’s eyes water, too. Though he kept control of his voice, so he sounded fairly steady when he stepped over to Abby, rubbed her back a little, and said to Gibbs, “Don’t you want it?”

“I don’t use it, Tim. It just sits in Kelly’s room. Though, it’s got some strings attached. It goes to Tony and Ziva when they have their first baby.”

Tim smiled at that. “No playing favorites between your girls?”

Gibbs rubbed the back of Tim’s head. “No playing favorites between my kids.”

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 125

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 125: Things Get Tight

“How is it even possible for t-shirts to not fit?” Tim just shrugs at Abby as she keeps tossing her shirts out of the closet. It’s the last Monday in November and they’re getting dressed for work. “None of them fit! How can they not fit? How, Tim, how?”

“I assume you want something beyond, your breasts are bigger than they used to be?”

“I’ve only gained three pounds.”

Tim’s staring at her chest, and it’s entirely possible that she has indeed only gained three pounds. But if that’s true about three more have migrated from somewhere else up to her bosom.

She pulls another one on over her head. “They’re supposed to stretch.”

He’s sitting on their bed, his own socks forgotten as he stares, smiling, and licks his lips. “That one looks nicely stretchy.”

She turns and glares at him. “You are not helping.”

His smile spreads wider. “Your bras don’t really fit anymore, either. Is that helpful?”


He pulled her to sit next to him on the bed and kissed her shoulder. “I have a credit card, an internet connection, and in less than five minutes we can be buying you new t-shirts and bras.”

“Better.” She turned to stare at the pile of t-shirts on their bed. “But we still have to get to work and no one delivers that fast.”

“You’re welcome to any of my t-shirts that you like.”

“Too big.”

He looked at her with an irked expression. “You wear them around the house all the time.”

“Yeah, they aren’t too big for lounging. They’re perfect for lounging. I love them for lounging because they’re soft and comfy and smell like you. They’re like a hug I can just wear around all day. But they’re too big to go with anything else I own that’s even vaguely work appropriate. I can’t just show up in one of your t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants.”

That was probably a salient point. Sure, she wears t-shirt, but they’re all sort of snug and she tucks them into her skirts, and his won’t look right, they’re too… And then he remembered. “I’ve got a few t-shirts left from when I was really skinny.”

That made Abby smile. “That’s useful. Why do you still have them?”

He stood up, heading to his dresser. “I have no idea. They aren’t cool or anything. Just basic cotton.”

“As long as they don’t make me look like I’m trying to see if it’s possible to make a shirt rip by stuffing too much breast into it, they’ll be fine.”

Tim went hunting through his t-shirt drawer. “Here you go: gray, blue, and blue-gray.”

“Wow, you really went above and beyond the call of duty on these.”

“You mean my three for six bucks pack of t-shirts is less than the level of fashion you like.”

She pulls the gray one on. It’s still too big, but it’s not nearly as too big as his other shirts are. “Normally, I’d say yes, but right now this is so comfortable I don’t care. Okay, I can take a deep breath without fear of ripping my clothing again. So, yeah, shopping. Can’t do the bras online, not until I’ve been measured, no idea what I’m wearing now.”

Tim sits back on the bed and returns to putting on his socks. “34 D.”

Abby just stares at Tim for a long minute. “And you know that how?”

He looked up at her, surprised she’s finding this surprising. “I’m really good with spatial relationships and 3D images. And it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with your breasts. Just trust me on this.”

She kept staring at him.

He gave her an of course I know this look. “Have I ever gotten you the wrong sized underwear?”


“Have I ever asked you what size you wear?”


The expression on his face says, Well…

“I always figured you just looked in my drawer and checked.”

“I did, originally, but as you’ve mentioned, every single women’s clothing line sizes their clothing slightly differently, and you’ll notice, I’ve still never gotten you the wrong sized undies. Even if that does mean that I have had to send some of them back before you saw them.”

“Really?” She’s looking puzzled by this. Wondering where he gets these packages sent, because she hasn’t seen any of them.

“Yeah. I buy them online. But I can’t tell what size they really are until I see them. I’ve taken good advantage of Amazon’s return policy.”

“Huh. In that case, why haven’t you ordered me new bras?”

He smiles again. “Who says I haven’t?”

“Have you?”

The look on his face is pure mischief. “You’ll find out soon enough.” The he looks at the pile of shirts on the bed. “You know, none of your dresses fit anymore, either.”

Abby sighs. “Yeah. I know. I thought the idea was you grew out of your pants first.”

“Apparently not.” Tim, now fully dressed, stood up and very gently kissed the top of each bosom, through the t-shirt. “I’ll admit, I’m not minding this at all.”

She rolled her eyes, shoved him a little, and went hunting through her skirts for something to wear to work.

For all the Goth-oriented baby gear they were accumulating, you’d think there would be Goth oriented pregnancy wear.

But apparently Goths reproduce via adoption.

Second Life Goth Maternity Clothing
You thought I was kidding, didn't you?
It’s not that there’s nothing out there, it’s just that... there’s not a whole lot of it, (And though this is utterly bizarre, there’s more goth pregnancy gear for Second Life characters than there is for actual real-life women.) and it seems to be primarily aimed at women who are a whole lot more pregnant than Abby.

T-shirts for big girls, that they could find pretty easy.  But that’s the same issue with wearing Tim’s t-shirts. She wants shirts that are cool, have the right aesthetics, and fit, which means they need to be clingy in the right sort of way, snug along the chest and stomach. And right now snug along the stomach translates into way too tight over the chest.

And don’t get her started on pants. Five days of searching online has convinced Abby that once she grows out of her pants until she gives birth and probably a bit after that, she will not be wearing pants. There is not a single pair of decent maternity pants in existence.

There were (thank God) some cute dresses that would do for both now and later.  And she noticed that there were a fairly good selection of sort of modified vintage early 60s late 50s Donna Reed style dresses that actually fit really nicely. (Apparently large breasts and a small waist was the go to look back then.) And sure, that’s not precisely her look, but the shaping works, and she’s got a sewing machine so shortening the skirts isn’t an issue. And she’s not adverse to the application of dye, so though some of those dresses stayed their original pastel colors, most of them suddenly got a new coat of significantly more vibrant colors or black.

Finally, for the days when nothing fit right, (which seemed to be happening more and more often) there was what became her fall back outfit. Skirt, leggings, and one of Tim’s button downs rolled up at the sleeves, top two buttons undone.


Shards To A Whole: Chapter 124

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 124: Sleepy

The pregnant sleeping thing was kind of scary, at first. They’d been home from their honeymoon for three days, and caught the first case back at work.

So, long day. It was well past two when they got home. They were both dragging by that point, but she got in the door, stood in front of the of the stairs, stared at them, and then just sat down.


“Got to rest a little.” He was giving her his you’re worrying me look. “I’m okay, just really tired, and those are a whole lot of stairs.”

He eyeballed them, and sure he’s not planning on bounding up them or anything, but there’s only twelve, not like they’ve got more than two floors. “All right. Let me get your coat.” So he took both of their coats, turned his back to her to hang them up, and turned around and found her slumped against the banister, asleep.

This left Tim in something of a quandary. Wake her up? Let her sleep on the steps? (That can’t be comfortable.) Pick her up? Okay, that worked, so he carefully picked her up and took her to bed, becoming more disturbed by the fact that she didn’t wake up when he did it, or when he put her on the bed, or unzipped her boots and took them off. By that point he was starting to get really worried, so he put the blanket over her, and raced down the stairs to call Jimmy.

“Tim?” Jimmy didn’t sound very awake.

“She didn’t wake up.”

He could hear Jimmy rubbing his eyes. “I’m gonna need more than that. What is going on?”

“We got home, she fell asleep on the stairs, I picked her up, put her in bed, took off her boots, and she didn’t wake up!”

He can’t see Jimmy’s expression, but he’s fairly sure it’s screaming, I can’t believe you woke me up for this! “It’s normal, Tim. She’s pregnant, coming off a massive caffeine addiction, and been awake for nineteen hours. Even without that last one, she’s going to sleep hard, for at least the next three months. Sometimes Breena would fall asleep in the middle of conversations at the end of a long day. I’m surprised she didn’t drop off in the car on the ride home.”

“She was driving.” The silence on the other side stretched for a good thirty seconds until Tim said, “You’d be headslapping me if I was in range, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. From now until the baby shows up, you drive home from work, got it? And get used to her being sleepy.”

“She’s okay?”

“She’s breathing, color looks good, heart beating, all the rest of that?”


“She’s just tired. It’ll get better around Valentine’s.”


“No problem.” Jimmy hung up, and Tim headed to bed.

Then it got kind of cute. Up until this point, Abby’s needed about thirty-five minutes of sleep for every hour he needed, so he almost never got to watch her sleep. Yes, they went to bed together, and they fall asleep together, but sometime in the middle of the night she’d usually get up, do stuff, and come back to bed later, and then, in the morning, they’d get up together.

But now, with Thanksgiving looming, Abby falls asleep pretty much every time she stops moving, and he actually likes the fact that he can just watch her.

He finds it especially cute when they settle down to watch TV, and she falls asleep in his lap.

She’ll be laying there, and he can watch and pet her to his heart’s content.

He just has to be gentle about it, because one time he did pet her a bit too hard, and woke her up, and okay, this isn’t literally true, but it’s true enough, she almost bit his hand off and made it exceptionally clear that “unless the fucking house is on fire and you are pinned under a beam and cannot carry me out” she is not to be woken up.

From there it got even cuter. Abby kept falling asleep at work. And well, if you’re known for being high-beam perky, bounding about with endless energy, and suddenly, less than a month after your honeymoon, you start falling asleep in your lab, and well, even with a lab coat on it was kind of obvious that Abby’s shirts were a whole lot tighter than they used to be, anyway, the scuttlebutt that raises is awfully accurate.

And the anonymous presents of goth-oriented baby gear are awfully cute, too. Apparently just the rumor of pregnant Abby flipped some sort of chemical switch among the assorted employees at NCIS, rendering them incapable of not buying little onesies, shoes, pacifiers, and hair bows all decked out in black with tiny little skulls on them.  (Official NCIS consensus: judging from the number of pink skulls/skulls with hair bows/hair bows with skulls Baby McGee is a girl.)

But since she isn’t “officially” pregnant yet, these present just appear on either his or her desk, usually with no note beyond a, “Thought this was so cute, had to buy it for you, hope you need it.”

They still weren’t telling anyone outside of Team Gibbs, and Team Gibbs played along, providing No-Caf-Pow in Caf-Pow cups, and no one outside the team knew Tim had switched to decaf for his coffee, though the three days he was biting the heads off of anyone who got too close to him caused some eyebrows to rise, but the rumors kept flying around.

However, no matter how cute Tim though napping Abby was, or how many baby presents mysteriously showed up, to anyone else who say, wanted to get the results back from some sort of trace, it was… less welcome.

“Talk to me Abbs,” Gibbs said, strolling into the lab on the last Tuesday in November, and stopped short, seeing only Tim down there. “Tim?”

Tim took the No-Caf-Pow out of Gibbs’ hand, sipped it, and then shuddered. “This stuff is nasty. I don’t know why you’d drink it if it didn’t have any caffeine in it.”

Gibbs stared at the decaf coffee next to Tim, his expression saying exactly the same thing about what Tim was drinking these days. “Where’s Abby?”

He nodded at Abby’s office, and Gibbs took two steps to the right, and saw her curled up on those fuzzy rugs she keeps in there, fast asleep.

“What do you need?” Tim asked.

“A functional forensics lab.”

“’Round about Valentine’s she’ll stop sleeping eighteen hours a day. Meanwhile, Major Mass Spec doesn’t like me setting him up, but I can read his print outs as well as anyone else. And he’ll be done in—” And Major Mass Spec beeped. “Now.”

Tim grabbed the print out and read over it. “Anti-freeze.”


Ducky and Palmer had been able to ascertain the vic had been poisoned and sent the samples to Abby. Abby had set them up with Major Mass Spec and set it running. A bit after that Tim wandered down to use the downstairs computers to run down financials and phone records, noticed Abby drooping, and told her to get a nap, he could keep an eye on Major Mass Spec.

“I guess it makes sense. It’s green and sweet and if you mix it with alcohol and put it in a glass, a drunk person would probably drink it without noticing anything was up.”

“Anything else?”

Tim shrugged. “If we can find the bottle it came from, we can link it to the stuff in the victim.”

Gibbs looked significantly less than thrilled. “Great. How many millions of bottles of anti-freeze do you think are in the greater DC area?”

Tim stared at the print out a little longer. His chemistry was a bit rougher than Abby’s but he thinks he’s on the right track. “Forget about the bottle. This came out of a car. If we can find the car, we can match it to the victim.”


“I’ve also got the vic’s phone records and financials done. Nothing interesting in there. I’m about a third of the way through his emails, might have something there, but still got to sift through a lot of data.”

The door to the office opened, and Abby walked into the lab, rubbing her eyes. She held out a hand, and Tim gave her the print out. She glanced at it. “Anti-freeze from a car. Older model. High-end European brand, probably a BMW or Audi. They use that pink stuff, which is pretty rare in this country.”

Abby got a kiss on the cheek from Gibbs. “Good work. Find anything else before your nap?”

She stretched, looking sleepy. “Nope. Looks like a pretty straight forward poisoning. The stuff under the vic’s nails was grease from his job. No interesting fibers on his clothing. The only finger prints on the glass were his and the bartender’s.”

“Bartender’s got an Audi, Boss.” Gibbs notices interesting antique cars; Tim notices high-end European ones.

Gibbs smiled, turned, and headed up. Tim looked at Abby and shook his head, “Not the bartender. Our cases never get wrapped up that fast. Someone siphoned it out of his car.”

She nodded. “Probably. So, go clear the bartender.”

He winked at her. “On it, Boss.”