Lost And Found by ceilidh

A/N: Hello again, all, and welcome to my latest story. Yes, it's a missing scene - no surprise there, of course!

This is rather more serious than my last fic. I don't know about you, but the ending to season six's Hide And Seek really bugged me. I thought Ducky's reaction to hearing about his golf clubs, however justified his anger, was still out of character. The way he left Tim hanging over the fate of his treasured record just seemed a bit malicious to me.

But it was Tim's reaction that really gave me the idea for this story. He looked so upset that I couldn't help thinking - why could that record be so special to him? So with reference to my previous story, Between Genius And Insanity, here's my take on why losing that record might have been more devastating for Tim than anyone (well, almost anyone) realizes.

The story takes place immediately after that final scene. Spoilers for Hide And Seek, and references also to Broken Bird and Twisted Sister. As always, I hope you enjoy!!

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Lost And Found

As he studied three strikingly different expressions, the frown on Jethro Gibbs' face grew deeper. DiNozzo's, of course, held a smirking grin, while Ziva's, at least, expressed a degree of sympathy. But it was his junior agent's face, its silent horror, that now caused Gibbs the greater concern.

Tim McGee was naturally pale at the best of times, but for his face to drain of all colour like this – no, for anyone, like him, who knew the reason behind it, this was a poignantly devastating moment.

Yes, that autographed album was unique - but not in the way that Ducky had meant, or could ever imagine.

So when DiNozzo's grin widened, as only that grin could, Gibbs almost felt himself cringe – wincing outright at the teasing that, however well-intended, turned that moment into total hell.

"Hey, never mind, probie! You can always get another one, right?"

Blinking back at him, warningly quickly, Tim then shook his head and turned to pick up his coat – draping it over his arm, then picking up his rucksack, with the same mechanized, robotic movement.

If this reaction had thrown DiNozzo for a loop, then what happened next left him completely floored.

Still in complete silence, Tim strode past him towards the elevators, but then stopped, breathing hard. If he went down this way, he'd surely run across Ducky, and… no, he just couldn't face that right now. Instead, he turned on his heel and half-walked, half-ran past his desk to the other elevators behind it.

Without a word of explanation, or even permission to leave, Tim McGee swept out of the bullpen – Tony's innocently crass wisecrack stopped, before it had even started, by a quiet, unmistakeable voice.

"No, Tony, let him go-"

Even without that quiet terseness in Gibbs' voice, DiNozzo's smirk had now faded considerably. Whatever had caused his probie to leave like that, without the bossman's permission, had to be serious.

More puzzlingly still, Gibbs clearly knew what that something was, something that he didn't – his next words confirming a rising realization that his kid, his probie, was still in serious trouble.

"Tony, Ziva, get going. Follow him, but don't stop him to talk. Just make sure he gets home-"

Even as he nodded agreement, Tony could feel those big brother instincts hit protective overdrive – his inevitable question waved away, in mounting irritation, as Gibbs pointed towards the elevator.

"I'll explain on the way. Now, go!"

Knowing better than to argue, Tony just nodded, following Ziva to the elevator that Tim had taken – Ziva taking the lead for their own, speculative theories as they rode down to the main parking lot.

"I have never seen McGee react like that. For something so trivial, he seemed almost in shock-"

"Yeah, that album must really have meant something special to him," Tony agreed just as quietly – whatever he'd planned to say next interrupted by the trill of his cellphone as the doors re-opened.

From its caller ID alone, he answered it before the third ring, listening in silence for several moments. By the time he broke the connection, Ziva didn't even need to ask who'd made that call, or why. Tony's expression, his voice, as he relayed the explanation that Gibbs had passed on to him, said it all.

"McGee's room-mate at MIT gave him that album. And Ducky was right, it is irreplaceable-"

Pausing to compose himself, Tony then glanced down into his partner's equally concerned eyes – knowing, from the dismay he found there, that Ziva had already guessed what was coming next.

"Just before they were due to take them, he shot himself. McGee found him-"

Staring up at him, Ziva just nodded, but said nothing – her expression alone mirroring his concern. There was anger, too, that everything he'd done to replace Ducky's clubs had counted for nothing.

Gibbs, no doubt, would put him straight on that. Right now, though, they had their own job to do. And at least the start of rush hour traffic gave them plenty of cover to tail that distinctive Porsche.

An even greater comfort was that re-woken grief hadn't dangerously clouded Tim McGee's judgement. Yes, he was driving even slower than usual. He took slightly longer to go through on the green lights than anyone else. But to the relief of two anxiously following friends, he reached his apartment building unscathed.

Even with their official mission complete, neither of them was prepared to just leave it there – years of training enabling them to follow Tim, unseen, unsensed, and undetected, right to his door.

Only when chinks of light appeared under its frame did they emerge from their hiding place – a salvo of excited barks in stark contrast to the concerned glance which then passed between them.

Yes, they'd done their duty. Tim McGee was safely home – flattened, no doubt, by his ecstatic dog. But as welcoming barks turned to anxious whimpers, they were joined by sobs of unstoppable grief.

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"He's home, boss-"

Three words that, even if he'd never openly show it, still filled Gibbs with 'thank God…' gratitude. He even managed to crack a smile as Tony quietly told him what he'd already known he'd hear.

"We're, uh, just gonna stay on a while, boss. Just, you know, make sure he's okay-"

Seeing that for the big brother concern that it truly was, Gibbs then gave it his own, fatherly twist.

"Good job, Tony. I'll be over later, as soon as I've finished here-"

Dryly imagining how that would be interpreted, Gibbs sighed, more soberly, as he closed the call. Tony had sounded worried, and angry. Gibbs didn't blame him. If truth be told, he felt the same.

Tim McGee was the last person in the world who deserved to be going through this. There wasn't a malicious or malevolent bone in that boy's body, and – damn it, this just wasn't fair. How could a genuine accident, a stroke of cruellest luck against him, cause so much upset?

Yes, Ducky had lost his precious golf clubs – but Tim McGee had lost so much more.

Uncomprehending anger now threatened to drive a further wedge between them, and – well, it was going to take a calm head, and quiet words of mutual explanation, to stop it.

Usually, of course, Ducky would provide that voice of healing reason, but – well, not this time. In perverse irony, he was the one who now needed to be put, very gently, straight on the facts – something that Gibbs silently dreaded as he strode up to the mansion in front of him.

For company, comfort, just sheer entertainment, he'd always loved coming to Ducky's, but – no, as the door in front of him finally opened, Gibbs wished that he was anywhere but here.

Telling one of his oldest friends about the tragic secret of another would be hard enough – but telling him about the anguish that he'd unwittingly caused would be even harder.

Maybe that was why the smiling face that had greeted him now frowned in wary puzzlement – the wisdom of experience, and such familiar seriousness, warning him this wasn't a social call.

Its most obvious cause, of course, would be the news that both of them silently dreaded – hence the nervous quietness in Ducky's voice as he led Gibbs inside into the sitting room.

"Jethro? Has – Has something happened?"

A gentle smile and head-shake was a reassuring sign – a quiet reply somewhat less so.

"No, Duck, everyone's okay, but… well, we need to talk. About today. And McGee-"

"…and my golf clubs-" Ducky reminded him through a suddenly tighter smile – the latent anger beyond it pushed back, into a puzzled frown, by what Gibbs said next.

"Actually, Duck, we need to talk about that record album, and the story behind it-"

Ducky's eyebrows rose at that, both in surprise at what he'd said, and the way he'd said it – the regret in Gibbs' eyes pricking at his conscience long before he softly answered him.

"I – I take it that album means… meant… a lot to him, Jethro?"

The moment that Jethro Gibbs had dreaded. Still, the sooner he got this over with, the better.

"His room-mate at MIT gave him that album, just before they took their finals-" he said at last – pausing for a moment, thinking out his next words with the same care, before gently breaking the rest.

"Jeff had a breakdown, Duck. The pressure just got too much for him, and… well, he shot himself-"

Horrified eyes told him he'd made his point – a hushed whisper asking the next, inevitable question.

"Oh, dear God! And did Timo-? I – I mean, did Timothy find him?"

Silence had rarely been so eloquent. Its significance had rarely been met with such dismay.

And for Ducky, the full realization of what he'd done now hit him, with brutal force.

"Timothy lent me that album, knowing I'd take immaculate care of it, and… dear God, Jethro! I've lost an album that was priceless to him, unique, and… and he'll never be able to replace it!"

Now it was Gibbs' turn to stare, as a seemingly hopeless situation found the merest hint of light. Mentally crossing fingers, toes, and everything else that was physically crossable, he then smiled.

"You've lost it? So you haven't broken it?"

"Of course I haven't broken it! It's just wrapped up safe somewhere in… well, one of those!"

That protest had been a reassuringly familiar sign. But, Gibbs ruefully noted, it wasn't all good news. Following Ducky's rather sheepish nod, to stacks of storage boxes behind them, he then winced too.

Clearing the house after his mother had moved out, while keeping what he still wanted, had been a huge task. And finding a sliver of vinyl inside one of those boxes would be like finding that proverbial needle.

But for the sake of two very special friendships, Gibbs now rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

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If he hadn't been so thoroughly drained, Tim McGee might have taken more notice of his instincts. He'd already sensed that someone was stealthily following him, but… hell, right now, he didn't care. He just wanted this walk in the crisp evening air to clear his head, to somehow just calm him down. And even if some parkland mugger had targeted him, he knew Jethro would soon change their mind.

That protection was a reassuring comfort. Everything else, though, was still a muzzy-sensed blur.

He remembered stepping through his door. He could remember Jethro bounding up to greet him. Somewhere during this ecstatic welcome, he'd sunk to his knees, pulling Jethro against him – soft fur soaking up a torrent of tears that, once they'd started, had felt like they'd never stop.

They must have stopped eventually, though, because… well, he'd then found himself outside. Driven by an inexplicable need for movement, and with Jethro at his heels, he'd then started to walk.

Now Tim stared dazedly around the clusters of trees that took several seconds for him to recognize.

He'd found this small park the previous week, during one of Jethro's especially long 'walkies'. And now that he'd gotten here, of course, Tim knew he faced the same bracing trek back again.

Not just yet, though. For the sake of his feet, and Jethro's paws, he'd just sit here for a while – taking advantage of the peaceful quiet around him to get his breath back, to re-gather his thoughts. And as he'd always found, nothing kept you so sweetly warm as a lapful of German Shepherd.

In the absence of your gun, he'd protect you, too, so this sense that he was being covertly watched – well, he'd only start worrying when those furry radar towers picked up something they didn't like.

Until then, he'd just sit quietly on this bench, and reflect on what had been one hell of a day.

The grief he'd felt had poured out of him. Now he just felt helplessly, increasingly, angry.

He'd tried so hard, so honestly hard, to replace those damn clubs, and… damn it, DiNozzo! Why couldn't you have kept your big mouth shut, and let me tell Ducky about them myself? At least then, he wouldn't have thought that I was trying to avoid him, or con him, and… uh-oh.

Jethro's head had lifted from his chest now, his ears swivelling, and that meant only one thing – a soft whine, as he instinctively tensed, causing Tim to smile now, in sheepish realization. He'd forgotten, of course, that Jethro could sense his emotions, so all this simmering anger, all this furious resentment – hell, Tim now ruefully noted, no wonder those ears had now twitched up to Doggy DefCon One.

Jethro was picking up on his anger, and getting increasingly agitated because of it, and – no. Just because he felt like hell right now, it wasn't fair that Jethro should suffer it too.

"Sorry, boy. I'm okay, just had a really crappy day-" he said at last, gently tousling Jethro's ears – letting this favourite tickle-spot work its soothing magic until he felt Jethro relax back against him.

And when his cheek was gently slurped in return, Tim could feel his own tension start to ease – even managing the slightest of smiles, as Jethro's tail started to wiggle in his own, unique approval. Yes, this was his McMutt alright – companion, protector, entertainer, and now personal counsellor.

The best coat in the world too, he thought, gratefully settling back under a lapful of snuggling fur – letting this living warmth chase more demons out of a mind that was still overloaded with memories.

Jeff was still at the top of the pile, of course. So was that truly priceless, but now cruelly lost album.

Thinking about it now, though, the anger that Tim had expected to feel strangely failed to materialise. Instead he found himself smiling again, as memories of far happier times kept it firmly at bay.

They'd been so alike, joint rulers in MIT's kingdom of geeks, but – damn, Jeff had been a nut at times!

A quiet, butter-wouldn't-melt student one minute, he could be wickedly witty, and wicked, the next. To this day, the maniac who'd painted Lee Martin's room in pink and purple spots was still unknown.

Needless to say, God's gift to MIT's football team, and its adoring cheerleaders, had not been amused. But for everyone else who had to tolerate his preening arrogance, it had been the best laugh of the year.

In fact, Tim was laughing now, shaking his head as he glanced up at the star-dotted sky above him. One of the college counsellors had suggested this, to cope with his grief, and – yes, there he was. Sitting bright, and proud, and permanent above Betelgeuse, his tragically lost room-mate lived on.

Back at home, of course, he had dozens of photos too, that he'd never been able to look at. Still studying that very special star, Tim then felt fresh strength, and resolve, flood through him.

He'd be able to look at them now. In fact, he'd be proud, and so deeply grateful, to look at them now. Jethro, too, could feel this lift in his mood as he jumped from his lap and waited for him to stand up.

And still in their cover of shadowing trees, Tony and Ziva traded surprised but hopeful glances. Tim McGee, they gratefully noted, was returning to his apartment a lot happier than when he'd left it.

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They'd known it was a long shot, but – well, that didn't give Gibbs, or Ducky, any comfort now.

Every box had been meticulously searched, two times over, but they just hadn't found it – the suspicion that had silently niggled at the backs of their minds now coming inexorably true.

In the chaos of clearing out his mother's belongings, Ducky knew he'd made an awful mistake. Through a flukish accident, Tim McGee's priceless album had somehow been put on the wrong pile – realization causing him to groan now, as he stared at the mass of papers and trinkets around him.

"Those charity boxes were collected weeks ago, Jethro, it could be anywhere in the country!"

"Yeah, Ducky, I know. There's no chance of finding it now…" Gibbs agreed, just as quietly – the effort of searching through so many boxes causing his sense of tact to go on mal-timed walkabout

"The only way to find another is what McGee did to replace your clubs. An online auction-"

A baleful glare silently told him that suggestion wasn't helping Ducky to feel any better. As Gibbs guiltily noted, it had only made him feel worse, as a quiet voice tellingly testified.

"I can replace those clubs myself, Jethro, but that album… Timothy will never forgive me-"

Gibbs frowned at that. That defeated tone didn't sound like Ducky at all. And he didn't like it. Time, he decided, to put all that experience of keeping his kids in line to somewhat unusual use.

"Yes, he will, Duck-" he said at last, striding over to give Ducky's shoulder a rallying shake – thinking how odd it was, that he was now giving advice to one of his own, inspiring mentors.

"You know him better than that. The only person he'll ever find hard to forgive is himself, and… hey, you know something that would break his heart? That would be a tragedy, for both of you? Losing you-"

Another stare, but one of surprise this time, gave him hope – a firm foundation to quietly build upon.

"He's already lost special friends, Duck. Jeff. Kate. Paula. Jenny. And more, I expect, that he hasn't told us about. But to lose your friendship, to lose the guidance, all the support that you've always given him… no, that would break him, Duck. However strong he is, that would be as devastating to him as losing Jeff-"

It had been quite a speech, bordering on an all-out lecture at times, but – well, it had worked.

Ducky was smiling back at him now, in both gratitude and agreement, as he patted his arm – pride warming his voice again, for the blessing of two vastly different but equally precious friendships.

"Rather like his mentor, Jethro… that boy has strengths that never cease to surprise me-"

"Tell me about it-" Gibbs agreed just as dryly, his own grin widening from his own proud memories. "Remember when he first worked with me? Hell, the poor kid didn't know what hit him!"

"From experience, Jethro, it was probably your hand on his head-" Ducky retorted, grinning too – sharing several moments of welcome laughter before, sighing once more, he shook his head again.

"I also know he never meant to break those clubs, Jethro, and I know I was needlessly harsh on him. And yes, I know he'll forgive me for this, but… well, I just wish I hadn't lost something so special"

"It was an accident, Duck, on both counts. Neither of you did this deliberately…" Gibbs reminded him gently, giving his shoulder another encouraging squeeze, before nodding to the shelved unit beside them.

"Now, while I'm here, do you want that old record player moved down to a lower shelf?"

"If you could, Jethro. I'm afraid this hand still isn't as strong as it used to be-" Ducky agreed – whatever he'd planned to say next forgotten, in a moment of embarrassed, wisely silent 'ooops…'

Blue eyes met blue again, in a glance of shared hope and increasingly sheepish realization. But it was Ducky, it had to be Ducky, who then grinned, so broadly, as he came very happily clean.

"Yes, of course! Timothy put it up there for me, so it wouldn't get damaged. I'm afraid mother's friends could be quite the kleptomaniacs at times, and… oh, dear. Oh, my-"

After six straight hours of fruitless searching, Gibbs was strongly tempted to say something else.

It didn't matter, though. He didn't really mind. All that dust, all that effort, but… no, he didn't mind. Staring down, at the grooved black disc and autographed cover in Ducky's hands, he didn't mind at all.

Sliding it, very carefully, back into its sleeve, Ducky then re-met two gently mischievous blue eyes – mustering up all the straight-faced dignity that his own helpless amusement would reasonably allow.

"I rather think, Jethro, that I'm going to have to start writing things down-"

There was a teasing insult in there somewhere – but right now, Gibbs was grinning too much to find it. Instead he clapped Ducky's shoulder while making a suggestion that no doctor could ever refuse.

"How'd you like to make a very special house call?"

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For Tim McGee, sorting through his old MIT keepsakes had proved to be a rather mixed blessing. On the plus side, he'd found three more T-shirts, and a room-banner he'd long since resigned to be lost.

Okay, so dark red and grey didn't really fit in with his bedroom's colour scheme, but that didn't matter. If he stared at it for long enough, just as he was proudly doing now… yeah, he'd soon get used to it. Either that, or… well, he'd just have to forget boring beige, and re-paint his whole room.

More seriously, he'd also found what he'd originally set out to find – that box full of Jeff's photos. Still meticulously wrapped in their albums, they'd been placed, very safely, on top of his dresser.

For every plus-side, of course, there had to be a down-side against it – and this had an obvious one. At a time when he should be snugly tucked up in his bed, he was ruefully frowning at it instead – asking himself the same, self-scolding question as he started to clear more clutter from its surface.

"What kind of MIT genius dumps all his junk on the bed that he now wants to sleep in?"

*wuff*

Pulling a face at this less than helpful reply, Tim then grinned at his current, smugly panting roomie.

"Yeah, just because you're all tucked up in your big comfy bed-"

Answered with another grinning bark, Tim just rolled his eyes, then brightened with inspiration. Okay, so his couch wasn't nearly so comfy, but aside from Jethro's toys, at least it was still sleepable.

Grabbing some pillows and blankets from their storage unit, he then padded into his living room – frowning slightly when his journey towards the couch was broken by a soft knock on his door.

Glancing at his watch, Tim frowned even more. Who'd be calling at this time of night, and – aw, jeez. Surely his kid sister hadn't been framed for another murder! It had been bad enough the first time.

Just as it had done then, a quick glance through his spy-hole caused Tim's eyes to widen in surprise. Ducky was the last person he'd expected to see, or wanted to see right now, and – damn it, too late. Those hopes of avoiding him, and pretending not to be in, had been ruined by a betrayal of barks.

"Traitor-" he muttered, resigned now to Jethro's giveaway barks and his own sense of honesty – dumping his makeshift bed on a nearby chair before, taking a deep breath, he finally opened his door.

An albeit awkward smile was a promising sign, as was the sight of Gibbs at Ducky's shoulder.

Quite what Tony and Ziva were doing there was anyone's guess, and – ah yes, that explained it. Their shoes still subtly covered in mud and tree-twigs, his parkland stalkers were finally revealed – a subtle cough prompting him to stop staring, remember his manners, and let them inside.

He was still in shock, though – too confused, and tired, to start to understand why they were here. The most likely reason, of course, was that rather melodramatic way that he'd left the bullpen, and – yes, in hesitant awkwardness, a soft Scottish burr was now confirming it.

"I'm sorry, Timothy, to disturb you at this hour, but… well, about today, this really couldn't wait. Jethro told me why that album was so special to you… everything you did to replace my clubs, and… well, I had to apologise, dear boy, for being so unfair to you, and… well, I also had to give you this-"

Taking advantage of the wary silence that followed, Ducky then smiled and reached behind his back – dryly thinking that Gibbs had missed his calling, that parcel-transfer was sleight of hand to perfection.

And Tim McGee's reaction, as he realized what he was holding, was everything he'd hoped it to be.

Shock first, of course, followed by disbelief. Stunned recognition. And finally, helplessly flooded eyes

He could feel his mouth working, too, opening and closing – but no words were coming out. No amount of effort could force his voice to climb over the lump that had now lodged in his throat.

Overwhelmed now, by so many emotions, this could so easily have become embarrassing for him – a fatherly arm around his shoulders, and a gentle voice, telling him that, for once, it didn't matter.

"I know, son. I know-"

As tear-bright green eyes continued to blink at him, Gibbs then smiled and gently ruffled his hair – proudly relieved for the smile that followed as Tim nodded and, if still shakily, re-found his voice.

"Th-Thanks, boss, and… well, I- um… I – I found something special tonight too-"

In a puzzling repeat of his earlier actions, Tim then strode, then ran, back into his bedroom – emerging several seconds later with scrunched tissues in one hand, and a small ribboned box in the other.

"I – I haven't been able to look at these since… well, since – since it happened-" he said at last – smiling his thanks for the fatherly and brotherly arms that now gently steered him to his couch.

Drawing out the first album, Tim then glanced, still shyly, around four proudly supportive faces.

"And I – I know it's late, but if you can stay, I'd… um… well, I'd – I'd like you all to meet Jeff-"

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Glancing, in turn, around four smiling faces, Gibbs felt the approving grin on his face proudly widen.

There'd been tears, of course, he'd expected that – but Tim McGee's eyes now cried with laughter. In fact, they were all laughing, as McGee's latest MIT Misadventure drew to a giggling close.

A jeering jock had dared to call him a wuss. That had been a big mistake.

"…so we rigged his computer, using his own voice, so every time he turned it on… aw, jeez! I thought I did pretty good, with the boot-up fart, but… no, Jeff, he just had to go one better on me. Every time this jerk touched the keys, all you could hear was him saying 'I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay!'"

Gibbs almost lost his coffee on that. Ziva and DiNozzo were both in real danger of cracking a rib. The only source of discipline left in the room was Ducky, and… well, he was beyond that too.

"Oh, Timothy!" he spluttered, as sternly as he could manage, before he almost fell off his chair. Even Jethro, stretched faithfully at Tim's feet, was wagging his tail to every wave of laughter.

The study of a happy family, Gibbs thought, still watching them through a fatherly proud smile – that smile fading slightly as he studied the photo in front of him, and wondered what might have been.

For Tim McGee, of course, life after MIT had taken him into the career he'd always wanted, but – well, for the other child-genius in that photo, the pressures piled upon him had just been too much.

At least he was happy here, Gibbs reflected, absently tracing his finger over two youthful faces. Arms around each other's shoulders, grinning goofily for the camera, they both looked so happy.

They'd both been so young, had so much to live for, and… damn it, he thought bitterly, what a waste – a rush of darkening thoughts thankfully interrupted by another infectious chorus of laughter.

Glancing back at that photo, at two youthfully devilish grins, Gibbs found his smile returning too. Yes, Jeff Baxter's death had been tragic, but – by God, that short life had still had its moments!

There was even a dash of DiNozzo to him, especially in that wickedly mischievous grin, and – yes, as he studied its living, modern day counterpart, Gibbs knew that explained one hell of a lot.

As one special friendship had cruelly ended, so another had, so blessedly, taken its place – the strength of that bond conveyed in another salvo of giggles, and a brotherly vigorous noogie.

He could almost sense the mischief, brewing between them, and after what he'd just heard – yes, from years of hair-greying experience, this felt like a really good time for a sustaining refill.

Hell, with these two around, he'd be pure white before Christmas, and… yes, one thing was for sure. The next time he insulted his junior agent, he'd check his computer very, very, carefully afterwards.

More seriously, he needed a quiet place to think, a private moment to chase away his own demons. In the absence of a convenient basement, anywhere with access to coffee would always do instead.

Just as he'd expected, one of very few people who could read his moods had already joined him. It was Ducky, though, perhaps inevitably, who offered reassurance for still silently brooding concerns.

"He'll be alright now, Jethro, and… well, however cruelly it happened, I think this has done him good. Timothy's had all this grief and avoidance bottled up for so long, and… well, it's best to be out-"

"Yeah, Duck, I know-" Gibbs agreed quietly, recalling his own bitter experience of 'bottling up'.

He'd lost one family, but gained another. Any threat to them worried him more than he'd ever admit. They could all take care of themselves, and each other, and him. He knew that, and - uh-oh.

In a snug huddle around Tim McGee's computer, what were these quirky kids of his up to now?

The clattering of keys was a guiding clue. So was a covert, 'keep him talking' glance from two hopeful green eyes.

That famous gut instinct, and years of Black Ops missions, now made Gibbs grin in realization – a grin that proudly widened, as an unmistakeable voice finally broke the silence, in a joyously exuberant yell.

"Yes! Yes!!! Yeeee-eeeeessss!!!!"

Pretending he hadn't seen Ducky jump in the air, Gibbs chose a rather more tactful wink instead – gently steering him to where Tim McGee sat, so full of bouncing excitement that he just couldn't wait for them to reach him.

"Got 'em, Ducky!! I've finally managed to get your clubs!"

Not surprisingly, Ducky was grinning too now, hugging Tim's shoulders as he peered at his screen – the wonders of online technology inspiring him to make the most of this very special moment.

"That's wonderful, Timothy! Absolutely wonderful, and… um… you can buy anything here?"

"Yeah, anything, pretty much-" Tim nodded, blinking slightly at the inevitable, beaming follow-up.

"Well, in that case, dear boy, there's… um… a few parts I need for the Morgan-"

That, of course, was just the start of it. But as orders for beanies, sunglasses, and carpentry tools rained down around him, Tim McGee smiled – giving his long suffering credit card's slogan a happily wry twist as he set, equally happily, to work.

Golf clubs, car parts, beanies, sunglasses, and tools – pricey. A lifetime of love and friendship – priceless.