Chapter 162: Monday?
He's guessing it's Monday (though it's dark out, so it could
be late Sunday) when Abby says to him, "Tim, we've got a case. I've got to
go into work. You going to be okay on your own?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be home soon as I can. You've still got a fever
so you need to keep taking Tylenol every four hours."
"Okay." He's feeling really sleepy and doesn't
want to do anything besides nap. He doesn't cough, hurt, or shiver when he's
asleep, or if he does, he's not aware of it, so asleep is currently his
favorite thing.
"Your phone is going to buzz every four hours; that's
why it's doing it. There's Tylenol and a six pack of water on your
nightstand." He looks over and, yes, there is.
"Okay."
"You want me to call and remind you?"
The crabby part of his mind is pretty much ready to snap at
her to leave him alone and just let him sleep. The rational part of his mind is
realizing that he's likely to forget why his phone is buzzing or sleep through
it, so yeah, reminders might be a good plan.
"Yeah."
"Okay. You start to feel worse, you call me,
okay?"
"Sure."
It was light, so it had to be Monday now.
Tim was firmly convinced that if Hell does exist, and if he
ends up there, it'll be cold. He hates cold. Cold is the enemy to be fought at
every and any opportunity and as soon as he's feeling better they're both
resigning and moving to Savannah where, on a really brutal day, it gets into
the low 50s.
And then they're never leaving again.
He might be a bit on the delirious side again, because it's
possible he was telling Abby about their new place in Savannah, he was
definitely thinking about it, laying out on a recliner in the backyard, letting
hot, humid air and sunshine beat down on him, when Ziva came in with something
that smelled good and said, "McGee?"
"Ziva?"
"Abby wanted me to check in on you. I brought you some
food. Chicken soup. Who were you talking to?"
"Abby isn't here?"
"No…" She's got a very concerned look on her face,
and rests a hand on his forehead to see how high his fever is, and then
actually takes his temperature, and from there seems to decide he's still on
the right side of 103. (He has managed to drag himself awake enough to take his
Tylenol every time Abby's called.) So she says, "Abby went to work ten
hours ago. She's running trace. I was on my way to question a suspect, and she
asked me to check in on you. Are you okay?"
"Apparently not." He thought about sitting up, but
that seemed like way too much effort.
"Do you need anything?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay. The soup is on your bedside table. Try to eat
some."
"Is it hot?"
"Yes. Very."
The encouraged him to sit up, because you can't eat chicken
soup through a straw, and he decided very, very quickly that sitting up was the
most intensely stupid thing he's ever done because parts of his body that had
been under the blankets had to get out from under those blankets to get to the
soup.
Ziva saw him looking miserable, shaking, shoulders, arms,
and chest flushed and covered in goosebumps.
"Would you like a sweatshirt or sweater?"
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
He pointed to his dresser. "Bottom drawer."
She grabbed him a MIT t-shirt and a NCIS sweatshirt and
helped him get both of them on. The shock of cold clothing on his skin was
worse than coming out from under the blankets, and he winced and cursed quietly
as she got him dressed. Once dressed, he pulled the blankets up further, over
his right arm and shoulder, and began to slowly eat the soup, being extra
careful not to spill it. (A good ninety percent of it ended up in his mouth,
but he's still pretty shivery, so some of it isn't quite getting to his mouth.)
"It's really good." By which he means it's really
hot. He's honestly not with it enough to have much of an opinion on how it
tastes.
"I'm glad you like it, McGee."
He nodded and took another spoonful.
Ziva petted his hair affectionately. "Abby will be home
soon. I will tell her you're sitting up and taking nourishment."
Gibbs headed up the stairs quietly. Everyone else was taking
a dinner break. Abby asked him to check in on Tim, because if she worked
through dinner she'd get home that much sooner, and until she did her magic,
they were stuck at square two.
So she was in the lab.
And Gibbs was walking up the steps, bag with more chicken
soup, some crackers, and a toasted bagel in his hand.
Sunset meant there was still enough light to see in Tim's
room, so he could see him lying, curled into a ball, shivering, but dead-to-the-world
asleep.
He put the bag on the table, picked up the empty bowl from
Ziva's delivery, and tossed it out. The water bottles were empty, so he took
them downstairs and refilled them, bringing more water up for him. The Tylenol
bottle looked to be three quarters full, so that was fine.
Gibbs sat on the edge of the bed, stroked Tim's hair, and
fought the urge to go get some more blankets for him. It was obvious the poor
boy was frozen, but it was also obvious that his fever still hadn't broken. And
from what Abby had told him, wrapping Tim in every blanket in the house had
almost cooked him once, so no matter how much Gibbs wanted to tuck him in
further, it wasn't going to happen.
"Hey, Tim."
He grunted and tried to curl into an even tighter ball.
"Wake up." He was gently petting Tim's shoulder.
"You need to take more meds."
Tim jerked a little at that, and uncurled some.
"Jethro?" He looked really confused, like he wasn't entirely sure
Gibbs was real or not.
"Yeah. Abby's still working; she sent me to check in on
you."
"Mmm…"
"Take your pills and you can go back to sleep."
Tim felt around, grabbed two more Tylenol, and dry swallowed
them. Gibbs handed him a bottle of water. "Drink some, too."
He had to sit up for that. So he did, with a little help
from Gibbs, draining the bottle fast, and flopped back onto the mattress and
into a tight ball. It was amazing how tiny of a ball a guy as tall as Tim could
make.
There was no point to trying to tuck Tim in, he had the
blankets wrapped around him as tightly as possible. So Gibbs just leaned down,
kissed Tim on the forehead, ruffled his hair, and said, "Get some
sleep."
Tim opened one eye and looked up at him, pretty bleary.
"Did you really just" cough "do that?"
Gibbs smiled and did it again. "Don't talk. Go to sleep."
Tim squeezed Gibbs' hand, and went back to sleep.
Running trace went way longer than Abby was expecting. Of
course, when your crime scene was a garbage dump, and your team was one man
down, you end up with multiple vast piles of crap to sort through, and one less
person to help sort. So, while it is true that her general rule is to not
actually engage in the sorting through crap, she broke that rule today in an
effort to help get things done faster. (Hell, once the Autopsy was done, even
Jimmy pitched in on the sorting.) And done faster it was. Given the pile of
trace she had to deal with, she set records far above and beyond her own
already Olympic-level standards. And now, she was done, and with any luck done
for at least the next day or two, as well.
Which was why it was well past midnight when Gibbs dropped
her off (He took one look at her closing up the lab, snagged her keys and
steered her toward his car, the expression on his face indicating that if he
let her drive that tired Tim would get up out of bed and beat the snot out of
him, and he'd deserve it.) at home, i.e. twenty hours since she got the call
out.
She's tired, sore from all the bending down to sort through
stuff, and awfully smelly.
So, first stop, the laundry room to deposit her clothing.
Yes, she wore coveralls for the sorting, but the smell clung to her skin, and
from her skin to her clothing, and honestly, at this point she's about two
minutes from cutting her hair off and burning the clothing in an effort to get
free of the smell.
Next stop, shower.
A long, thorough scrubbing took care of the smell issue (and
the desire to chop her hair off.)
Next step, check on sleeping husband. He was still way
hotter than he should be, but he didn't jerk away when she touched him, so he's
probably getting better. From what she can feel, he didn't even wake up when
her hand rested on his forehead. He certainly didn't say anything.
Next: food. And while it's true Abby isn't a big midnight
snacker, between pregnant and dinner seven hours ago, she's ravenous right now.
Once she had some food in her, she began to feel human
again. Well, fairly human. Mostly tired. Not the
bone-deep-I-cannot-possibly-move-a-muscle-just-let -me-lie-here-and-die tired
of the first trimester, this is just the basic too many hours and no caffeine
tired, but right now sleep sounds like a really good idea.
So, back up to bed she went, hanging her kimono on the back
of the bedroom door, and very carefully slipped into the bed next to Tim.
He shrieked when she spooned him. She'd been so careful to
get in without raising a draft, and he hadn't stirred at all when she slipped
under the covers, but as she pressed her body to his, he shrieked and
practically levitated off the bed.
This was when it occurred to her, that while it's true that
her internal temperature is 98ish, she's been up and about and moving all
around, wearing only a light silk robe, so her skin temperature, especially her
on her legs and feet, is probably in the mid-eighties and must feel like being
hugged by an ice cube on his fever-flushed skin.
This is when it also occurred to her that when she checked
his temperature, she was right out of a hot shower, so her body's sense of hot
was off.
She jumped back fast, got out of the bed, put a pair of
pajama bottoms on along with socks and one of his long sleeve t-shirts, got the
thermometer, checked, he's at 102.3, better, but still hot, snagged a blanket
for her, and then spooned up behind him, on top of the other blankets with one
over just her.
Fortunately none of that seemed to actually wake him up. He
muttered something, grumbled a bit, coughed some, and settled back into what looked
like deep sleep.
This time when she spooned him, giving him something solid,
and maybe not warm, but not icy cold either, to snuggle into, he did, sighing,
sounding fairly content. He even unclenched from the little ball he had been
in. Not a whole lot, he's still curled in on himself, but his knees aren't
right under his chin anymore.
She kissed his shoulder, noticing that somewhere along the
line he got a t-shirt and sweatshirt on, and held him close.
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