Tim wasn't sure what he looked like when he traveled, zooming across the barren sky as some sort of invisible ghost. His speed was quick, the passage of time irrelevant. He could go anywhere, but arriving somewhere he stayed as a floating, immaterial object with only the ability to watch. He was merely perspective, nothing else. The only places he arrived at as something tangible were Gibbs', Abby's, Kate's and Tony's.

Going to Tony's had been a surprise. Of everything he thought he might materialize as, a bird had never come to mind. In fact, he was a little starling, plump, small and plain.

Strangely enough, Tony kept a bird feeder on the back porch area of his apartment.

The first day he came, Tony was sitting down, staring up at the sky in his wicker chair. He appeared calm and for some reason so much older than Tim would ever have imagined. Tim sat past other birds coming and going, content to watch his friend.

"C'mon fatty, it's not poisoned."

Tim flinched, hopping nervously along the rim of the bird feeder. Tony was looking right at him and it was obvious that he was the one Tony was addressing. Tim primly took up one of the seeds, gulping it down.

Tony grinned.

"There you go, buddy."

Tim quirked his head again and this got a laugh from Tony. To Tim this was totally foreign. He'd never imagined his co-worker like this, relaxed and not thinking about food or girls.

He'd had a few strange moments with Tony, a day after his death and in the morgue. Tony had come down and opened the slab with Tim's body in it and had just started talking like it was another day in the office. At the end, he'd claimed that he didn't want his 'Probie' to be lonely. He'd cried as well.

It had hit Tim hard. Tony was difficult for him to read, and more often than not he felt that the other man only liked harassing him. After Kate had died, he'd always thought that Tony had wished it'd been Tim on the slab, that it had been Tim who'd died. Tim had understood, Kate was wonderful, Tony had known her longer, and, well, even Tim had believed that if anybody had deserved to die out of their team it would have been himself.

Tony wasn't supposed to cry, he wasn't supposed to visit Tim's body and have conversations with him so he wouldn't get lonely, he wasn't supposed to sit in a wicker chair watching birds eat. He wasn't supposed to care.

Jethro didn't enjoy Tim's funeral. Penelope Langston and Sarah McGee were the only two family members, aside from a distant cousin, to attend. The rest were friends and co-workers. He had paused at Tim's coffin and all he had felt was that everything was wrong, something unfinished, something not right.

He had admonished himself. Of course nothing was right, Timothy McGee was dead and at the least the man should've had his parents there, should've been lauded for his efforts. Instead he was nearly forgotten, even the damned paperwork for the federally funded funeral getting misplaced.

Tony had been dead silent. Abby had bawled the entire service. Kate had shown up and made her best efforts to avoid all of them. She'd transferred to the NCIS location in L.A. after quitting with them.

Jethro was now sitting at his house dressed in casual clothing and holding a beer in his hand. He turned his head and saw a boy.

He was instantly recognizable. It was Timothy McGee, age six (confirmed by Penelope) and dressed just like how he'd been from the picture. Jethro stared. He'd seen McGee before, glimpses of his figure peering over Tony's shoulder or sitting in a melancholy position at his desk. He'd always appeared with blood trailing down his mouth and a bullet hole in his stomach. He'd never spoken before.

Now Tim appeared as a six year old, no doubt conjured by Jethro's mind after seeing Mrs. Langston's photo.

He couldn't do this, not now, so he headed down and into his basement. He almost hoped the hallucination would just leave and let him handle an average dosage of guilt. But it wasn't to be, the soft sounds of little feet coming down the steps and then almost tripping.

Jethro recalled that Kelly had also tripped on that very step.

It seemed guilt was going to come a' knocking whether he wanted it to or not, so he addressed his hallucination. It spoke a little, but there was no blame thrown, just a sad little confession and then sleep.

Jethro had carried the child back up the steps and laid Tim on the couch. He wondered at the extraordinary sensory ability of his hallucinating and settled in his chair to watch the boy sleep. He entered unconsciousness himself.

Tim put off visiting Gibbs, scared of what he would see when he came face to face with the man. Gibbs always had come off as so aloof. He was a demanding, severe person, difficult to read, and for Tim, too much like his father for him to feel comfortable. He had always felt like he had something to prove to the man, and that it was something he would never be able to do, that he would never be good enough for the ex-marine.

But it had to be done. He could feel it, that he was supposed to visit Gibbs. So he did.

Landing on the doorstep, Tim was puzzled to find that no tangible form had yet been taken. He was still some ephemeral spirit. So he went through the door.

What he appeared as took him by surprise. It was himself, at six years old, dressed in a stiff polo t-shirt with sneakers and jeans, his hair combed back how his mother liked. Tim immediately felt like he shouldn't be here, not like this, a disappointment to his boss.

Then Gibbs was there, a beer in his hand, and his outfit casual. He froze, staring at Tim. Tim shifted on his feet, unable to watch as Gibbs' eyes measured him and deemed him unfit. However, that wasn't what happened.

Gibbs stared blankly for a minute before turning away. Tim was shocked. Maybe Gibbs couldn't see him. So he trotted after, curious. Gibbs headed for his basement.

Tim had heard about it, the basement, a hallowed place which few entered. It was where Gibbs went to be, at least that was according to Tony. Tim went down a few steps, stopping to stare in bewilderment at the many tools and the beautiful skeleton of a sailboat.

"You can come down, kid."

Tim jumped, not expecting the sudden voice. Gibbs was looking at him, face inscrutable as ever but not unwelcoming. Tim hurried down the steps, tripping on the last one and almost face planting. He caught himself at the last second. He blushed a deep red as he saw his boss' gaze leveled on him. Even dead he was still screwing up.

Tim watched Gibbs start working. The man appeared to be in the process of sanding down the ribs of the boat. It was quiet for a while but Tim's curiosity got the better of him.

"What happens when you're done sanding?" he piped up.

Gibbs paused to look over at Tim. Tim shrunk into himself, wishing he hadn't spoken. Gibbs however wasn't angry.

"I'll strip plank it and seal it with epoxy."

Tim tilted his head, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to say something stupid. Gibbs continued working. Time passed and Tim started to doze, confused by the little body he was in. He was half asleep when something landed on him.

He snapped awake, afraid for a moment, until he felt the new warmth, fingers brushing against the fiber of Gibbs' jacket. He could smell the pinewood, resin and black coffee which had all seeped their scents into the cloth. The man himself was already back at work. Tim relaxed against the steps, but his eyes stayed open.

"I don't like boats," he said.

As soon as it was out of his mouth he flushed with embarrassment and ducked his head under the jacket. That had been a stupid thing to say. When Gibbs said nothing in response, Tim felt like he needed to say more.

"I-I mean, I like them, I just don't like riding on them, the-they make me sick."

He was stuttering again. Tim clenched his eyes shut. He wasn't the Probie anymore, this wasn't his father, he was dead, literally nothing could hurt him now. It didn't feel like that though.

Tim watched Gibbs hands run the sandpaper up and down a beam, the motes of dust illuminated by the single hanging light bulb.

"I was supposed to like boats though, and ships. I didn't mean to be sick on them. I wanted to like them."

Tim fell silent, a melancholy washing over him. He rested his head on the steps, wondering why he was here, why he couldn't just move on. He drifted off into semi-conscious rest, the first of any kind that he'd experienced since dying.

Someone lifted him, hands that were firm but careful, cradling him close. He thought of John McGee, his disappointment, of sitting on his lap at five and wondering about the world. Tim opened his eyes, almost expecting his father to be there, getting ready to put him to bed. It was Gibbs, face weighed with sorrow, unnerving blue eyes watching him.

"You're safe now."

With that promise, Tim fell asleep.

He woke up in the woods.