Chapter Text
In the elevator up to work, Deliliah was annoyed with McGee when he tells her, he needs more notice for him to change their plans. Ellie joins them, she's excited to meet Delilah, who she describes as "a big deal in the analyst world, ever since Operation Pin Drop." But they can't tell McGee what it is.
In the office, Tony is up to speed on McGee and Delilah's tiff because McGee butt-dialled him by accident. Delilah is being awarded an impressive intelligence fellowship and wants him to go to a black tie gala tomorrow. McGee says he can't get time off, but Gibbs joins and is open to the idea when he gets the call with the body of the week: a dead Marine in Rock Creek Park. As they're leaving, Gibbs tells McGee not to use him as an excuse. Timothy McGee was never the first one through the door. That was usually Gibbs, or maybe Bishop these days, with their weapons drawn and instincts sharp as ever. McGee’s instincts led him to hard drives and routers, not dark hallways with tripwires. But sometimes, circumstances left no choice.
McGee runs into Delilah in the hall as they are on their way back up to the bull pen. She bought him a tux. She understands that with their current investigation he can't come to the gala, but she doesn't understand why he was so resistant in the first place. McGee tells her no he will come to the Gala as it means that much to her.
Later, in downtown D.C., the drone edges closer to its destination.
McGee had felt like a fish out of water in his tux. Delilah, by contrast, was radiant—confident, moving easily among the crowd of analysts, aides, and officials.
“Relax, Tim,” she teased, slipping her hand into his. “You look like you’re about to interrogate someone instead of enjoy the party.”
He smiled sheepishly, tugging at his tie. “I just keep waiting for Gibbs to appear out of nowhere and tell me I’m late for a case.”
She laughed, warm and easy. “Tonight you’re off duty. With me.”
At the gala, numerous people are heading downstairs in preparation for the black-tie gala, McGee and Delilah among them and as they head down the steps, McGee stops upon seeing Tony on his cell phone.
McGee answers it, telling Tony that he figures that Tony would try to upstage McGee's one night off.
McGee can’t hear him properly as the line is terrible as he wonders what Tony's saying. Tony is trying to say that there's going to be an attack but it's not getting through.
McGee tells Tony to hold on and he will move to a different area to see if he can get a better signal. Delilah looks at him wondering why Tony is phoning them.
McGee states that he doesn't know, that he can't hear before telling Delilah that he'll meet her inside with Delilah agreeing.
With that, McGee heads downstairs while Delilah heads outside for some fresh air before the event.
Downstairs, McGee asks Tony what's going on.
“Parsa's drone must be destroyed, he's using it on the Conrad gala, Homeland and Metro are on their way. You need to get everyone out of there right away.”
Suddenly, the sound of a drone flying overhead catches McGee's attention and he looks up at the sky, puzzled.
In the car, with Gibbs's phone on speaker, Gibbs and Mann are racing to the scene, Gibbs behind the wheel and Mann in the passenger seat. “Gibbs the SIGNIT team got a hit on the radio frequency and have traced the source” shouts Nishop through the phone.
Suddenly, the sound of an explosion stops everyone cold and they look over to see an explosion and a ball of flames coming from the Conrad gala, revealing that the drone has struck its target. The sound hit first, a sharp click buried under the hum of the drone. Then came the roar.
Gibbs and Mann get a quick glimpse with Mann muttering, "Oh my God", horrified.
Bishop asks Gibbs if he's there.
Gibbs quickly recovers, “ Bishop give me the address.”
Bishop replies “Stand by Gibbs”
Mann turns back, “ Are we going to McGee.”
Gibbs shakes his head “no we get Parsa..”
The gala had been polished perfection. Glittering chandeliers reflected off champagne glasses, music drifted softly over the chatter of Washington’s elite. But then everything fractured. The night had been ordinary until the blast.
The explosion tore through the hall without warning—an ear-splitting roar followed by a violent shockwave. McGee barely had time to shove Delilah back before heat and light engulfed him. The world flipped. Tables splintered. Glass rained like knives. The blast ripped the room apart, heat and debris swallowing everything in a single, merciless second. McGee was thrown backward, pain flashing white-hot, then merciful darkness. People lie dead and dying around him. There are multiple casualties. He just hopes Delilah is not somewhere in this mess.
Timothy McGee hadn’t even registered the sound before the world turned white and hot, the ground rushing up beneath him. His ears rang with a piercing whine, drowning out shouts and chaos around him. When he tried to push himself up, his body didn’t cooperate—pain flared sharp and unrelenting in his legs.
He blinked through the haze, vision swimming. The gala hall was a ruin of twisted glass and overturned tables. Fire alarms shrieked in the distance. And then, through the drifting smoke, Delilah was there—her dress torn, her face streaked with dust, but on her feet, moving.
“Tim!” she shouted, dropping to her knees beside him.
When he came to again, the air was thick with smoke and screams. His ears rang so loud he couldn’t hear his own breath. He tried to stand, but pain ripped through his legs, locking him in place.
“Tim!”
Delilah’s voice cut through the chaos. He turned his head, vision swimming, and saw her scrambling across the broken floor toward him. She looked shaken but—thank God—unharmed.
He tried to joke, something about being fine, but all that came out was a broken gasp. His hand found hers, gripping hard. He could see the fear in her eyes, and it terrified him more than the pain.
“Stay with me,” she demanded, pressing her hand against his bleeding side, her training kicking in even as tears threatened. “You’re not leaving me like this. Not now.”
McGee felt consciousness tugging at him, heavy and insistent. He wanted to tell Delilah not to blame herself—that she’d been supposed to be in that spot, not him, and fate had just shuffled the deck. But the words stuck in his throat.
Delilah leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching his. “Don’t you dare check out on me,” she whispered fiercely, trembling but unyielding. “You’ve always been my anchor. I’ll be yours now. We’ll get through this.”
She dropped beside him, her hands moving with startling calm as she assessed the damage. “You’re bleeding,” she said firmly, pressing her scarf against the wound on his side. “Don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” he croaked, though his voice was little more than air.
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare downplay this.”
The team arrived moments later. Gibbs knelt at McGee’s side, his hand anchoring him to reality. Tony hovered nearby, pale but alert, scanning the room for threats. Bishop shouted for medics.
“Boss…” McGee whispered, his eyelids heavy.
“You’re not done yet, Tim,” Gibbs said, voice steady, commanding. “Stay awake. That’s an order.”
McGee wanted to obey, but darkness pressed in, thick and insistent.
Around them, Gibbs and Tony barreled through the wreckage, calling out orders, scanning for survivors. When Gibbs saw McGee on the ground, something tightened in his expression, though his voice stayed steady. “We’ve got you, Tim. EMS is on the way.”
As the medics rushed in and Gibbs’ hand clamped firmly on his shoulder, McGee finally let his eyes close, trusting her voice to hold him steady in the storm.
The last thing he felt before it claimed him was Delilah’s hand clutching his, her voice trembling but fierce: “I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”
And somewhere in the chaos, Delilah made a silent vow: no matter how long the recovery, no matter what it meant for their future, she wasn’t going to let Timothy McGee face it alone.
The ambulance doors slammed shut, sealing Delilah in the back with McGee. The siren wailed as they tore through D.C. streets, but to her it was all muffled noise. Her world had narrowed to the pale, bloodied man on the stretcher in front of her.
His skin was clammy, his breaths shallow, his lips moving in half-formed words she couldn’t make out. She gripped his hand tightly, as though sheer willpower could tether him here.
“Tim, you listen to me,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You’ve coded a thousand scripts, solved impossible cases. You don’t get to give up now. Not on me. Not on us.”
The medic adjusted the oxygen mask, speaking quickly into a radio. Delilah only caught fragments: internal bleeding… possible spinal injury… hold pressure.
Her stomach turned. She’d been trained to think in probabilities, risk assessments. But none of that training prepared her for this—not when it was him.
——
At Bethesda, chaos swallowed them whole. Doctors and nurses rushed him into surgery, and for the first time, Delilah’s hand was torn away. She stood frozen in the corridor, her fingers curled into an empty fist, fighting the urge to break down.
Then Gibbs was there. No words, no dramatic declarations—just a solid presence at her side, his hand briefly on her shoulder, grounding her. Tony and Bishop weren’t far behind, both looking shaken and out of place in the sterile hallway.
“How bad?” Tony asked quietly.
Delilah’s voice caught, but she forced it steady. “They don’t know yet. He… he wasn’t conscious when they took him in.”
No one replied. Silence hung thick, filled only by the echo of distant intercom calls.
Hours dragged. Delilah refused to sit, pacing instead, every footstep a battle against helplessness. She replayed the explosion again and again, the way he’d shoved her aside without hesitation, the way he’d taken the force meant for her.
It should’ve been me, she thought, guilt gnawing sharp and merciless.
Finally, a surgeon appeared, his scrubs stained and his expression grave. “Special Agent McGee made it through surgery,” he said, and Delilah’s knees nearly buckled in relief. “But the injuries are extensive. He lost a lot of blood, and his spinal cord… there’s damage. We won’t know the full extent until he wakes.”
The words landed heavy, final.
Delilah didn’t flinch. She nodded once, steel hardening in her spine. “Then I’ll be here when he does.”
Gibbs gave a small nod, approval hidden in the set of his jaw. Tony glanced away, his usual humor absent, and Bishop reached over to squeeze Delilah’s arm gently.
For the first time since the blast, Delilah let herself sink into a chair outside the ICU. She closed her eyes, whispering to herself like a vow:
“No matter what comes next, Tim, you won’t face it alone.”
——
The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the first sound McGee registered. The second was the whisper of voices—low, careful, familiar.
When he woke, the world was sterile white and blindingly bright. The hum of machines pressed in around him. His throat ached, his chest felt heavy, and something in his body felt… wrong.
“Tim? it's okay and you’rein the hospital, we were at the gala there was an explosion.”
Delilah’s voice. His eyes fluttered open, and there she was, her face pale and streaked with tears, her hand gripping his like an anchor.
He tried to open his eyes, but the light stabbed too bright. Groaning, he shifted instinctively and immediately regretted it. Pain flared sharp in his side, and his body felt heavy, uncooperative.
“Tim?”
Delilah’s voice cut through the fog. He forced his eyes open, and there she was, seated by his bed, her hand wrapped firmly around his. Her hair was pulled back messily, dark circles shadowed her eyes, but the relief on her face was unmistakable.
“You’re awake,” she breathed, squeezing his hand. “You scared me half to death.”
He tried to smile but only managed a weak grimace. “Guess I… didn’t stick the landing.” His voice was raspy, strained.
Delilah gave a choked laugh, tears welling despite herself. “Still making bad jokes. That’s a good sign.”
McGee shifted again, testing his body, but his legs didn’t respond. The realization hit like cold steel. His breath caught. “Delilah… my legs. I can’t—”
She gripped his hand tighter. “The doctors said it’s too soon to know the full extent. Swelling, trauma… they’re not making any predictions yet.”
“But you are.” His voice cracked, raw. He could read it in her eyes, the guarded hope laced with fear. He’d always been good at parsing data, even when that data was the tremor in her voice.
Delilah leaned closer, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “What I know is that you’re alive. And that’s enough for me right now.”
He swallowed hard, throat burning. “It should’ve been you. That bomb—”
“Don’t.” Her tone was fierce, unshakable. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. You didn’t ‘take my place.’ You saved me. And I am not going to waste time on what-ifs when I’ve got you right here.”
“Del…How many?",
“six people are dead and twenty-two are wounded.”
“Was it Parsa? Did we get him?”
His voice cracked. He tried to shift, to sit up, but his body didn’t respond the way it should. Panic flickered in his chest. And he tries to brace his arms on the bed to help push himself up, he brushes his thighs. Weirdly he can’t feel his hands on his legs. Panickedly Tim tries to run his hands further up and down his legs but cant due to pain from his injuries. “I—I can’t feel—”
Her tears spilled faster, deciding to go with the truth rather than hold on to hope alone, she shook her head, as if refusing to let the words take root. “The doctors said… that the force of the blast and the shrapnel…there was spinal damage. Tim, they tried, but—” Her voice broke. “They don’t think the nerves will recover.”
The words crashed over him, heavier than the explosion, heavier than anything. McGee stared at her, the world suddenly smaller, the beeping of machines louder, as if mocking him. He wanted to deny it, to tell her it was temporary, but all he could manage was a strangled, “No…”
Delilah leaned closer, pressing her forehead against his. “We’ll get through this. You hear me? Together.”
But McGee barely heard her. All he could hear was the silence and all he could feel was where his legs should have been.
——
The doctor’s words were clinical, practiced — the kind of speech he had probably given dozens of times before. But for Timothy McGee, each syllable carved into him like glass.
“The explosion caused a significant liekly complete spinal cord injury,” Dr. Harris said, his hands folded neatly, his voice steady but not unkind. “The damage is around the T7 vertebrae. This causes complete paraplegia. Your hips and legs are paralyzed and you’ll likely have no feeling at all, your abdominal muscles are also affected. This also causes loss of bladder and bowel control. At this time, the paralysis is thought to be permanent. We realigned your damaged vertebrae and surgically stabilised it through internal fixation with a plate and screws. Patients managed surgically in this way are often able to mobilize much more rapidly than those managed conservatively, sometimes within 7 - 10 days post-surgery.”
Permanent.
McGee stared at him, the word echoing in his head, bouncing around until it rang hollow. Permanent meant final. Permanent meant no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much therapy, no matter how many second opinions he chased, he wouldn’t walk again.
Delilah squeezed his hand so tightly it almost hurt. She was holding herself together — McGee could see it in her trembling jaw, in the way her eyes glistened but refused to spill over. She needed to be strong, because he couldn’t be. Not right now.
“Is there… is there anything?” McGee’s voice cracked, thinner than he wanted. “Anything that could change this?”
The doctor paused, measuring his answer with care. “There are always advancements being made. But you need to focus on recovery and adaptation now. That’s how you’ll take your life back.”
Life back. As if it had been stolen. McGee wasn’t sure it could be returned.
——
When the doctor left, McGee finally looked down. His legs lay under the blanket, exactly as they always had — long, lean, ordinary. For a moment he almost expected them to twitch, to shift, to prove the doctor wrong. But it wasn’t pain, not numbness exactly — just… nothing. A hollow emptiness where sensation should be.
But he had significant weakness and loss of sensation in his legs. No matter what he did, no matter how much he willed his foot to move. Nothing. He tried harder, the effort tightening his chest, sweat breaking at his temple. Still nothing. It was like shouting into a void and hearing no echo. His brain screamed commands, but the silence below his waist was absolute. He had lost all feeling he had discovered in his genitals and rectal region as well. That likely meant he would have difficulty controlling bowel or bladder function. During a panicked exploration he nearly dislodged his catheter. He also had Pain radiating from his back to his arms, legs, and around the rib cage toward his chest. He had a fever which was apparently normal in this situation and lower back pain, his fever was linked to underlying inflammation caused by the injury.
His hand shook as he pinched his thigh through the hospital gown. His fingers felt the pressure, but his brain registered only the motion of his hand, not the response of his body. He might as well have been gripping someone else’s leg.The emptiness was worse than pain. Pain would have meant connection. This meant absence.
Delilah reached for his hand again, pulling it away before he hurt himself. “Tim. Stop.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
But he couldn’t stop. He needed to know where he ended and the nothingness began.
When she left to go grab a coffee, the silence returned, thicker than before. McGee stared at his legs again. They looked the same. He could almost pretend they weren’t broken, that any moment he’d swing them over the bed and stand.But nothing happened. His hands curled into fists. *What good am I like this?* He couldn’t chase suspects, couldn’t back up his team in the field. Even at a desk, he’d just be in the way.
He hadn’t realised Delilah had returned until she brushed her fingers over his arm. “Tim, we’ll figure it out. You’re still you. Nothing changes that.”
But McGee didn’t believe her. Not yet. Right now, all he could feel was the crushing weight of uselessness and the cold, empty silence where his legs should have been. And that hurt worse than the explosion.
—-—
The room was quiet for a moment, just the hum of machines and the sound of her breathing. Then the door opened softly, Later, his team arrived, their presence filling the sterile hospital room with warmth he didn’t know he needed until it was there.
Abby was first, rushing to his side, hugging him so fiercely Gibbs had to clear his throat in case she did any further damage. Her pigtails bounced as she pulled back, tears streaking her face. “You scared me, Timmy. Don’t you *ever* do that again.”
Tony tried for levity, of course. “Leave it to you, Probie, to blow up a perfectly good hotel. You know, I’m starting to think Gibbs is rubbing off on you.” His grin wavered, though, and his eyes betrayed what his jokes tried to hide.
Bishop set a small notebook on his tray. “I thought maybe… you’d like something to write in. For the downtime. If you want.” She smiled, shy but sincere.
Gibbs lingered at the back, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable — but McGee could feel the weight of his gaze. Steady. Solid. Like a foundation he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Thanks,” McGee murmured, his throat tight. He wanted to say more, to tell them he appreciated them being there, but the words stuck, too heavy.
Outside the room, Gibbs stood with his arms crossed, jaw set tight. He had seen many things in his career, but watching McGee — his probie, his agent, his friend — lying broken in that bed was something else entirely. The blast had taken McGee’s legs. Gibbs swore to himself it wouldn’t take his spirit. Then Gibbs stepped in. He didn’t say a word at first, just studied McGee with that steady blue gaze, the one that always managed to strip away excuses.
“Good to see you awake, McGee,” Gibbs finally said. His voice was even, but there was something rough underneath. “You did good.”
McGee felt his throat tighten again, but he nodded.
Gibbs glanced at Delilah, then back at him. “Focus on healing. We’ll handle the rest.”
And with that, Gibbs slipped out, leaving only the faint trace of coffee and sawdust that always seemed to follow him.
When Delilah returns, he turns his gaze back to her, his chest heavy fear and gratitude both. She leaned down and pressed her forehead against his.
“No matter what happens,” she whispered, “we’ll figure it out. Together.”
For the first time since the blast, he believed her
The next day, McGee’s room felt less like an ICU and more like a quiet vigil. Delilah hadn’t moved from his side, her laptop open on the tray table, but she barely typed—her attention anchored on him.
The door creaked open. Abby was the first one in, a stuffed Caf-Pow clutched like a peace offering, her eyes rimmed red from crying. Behind her came Bishop, carrying a bag of books, and then Ducky, calm and deliberate.
And finally, Tony.
“McGee,” Tony said, his usual swagger conspicuously absent. He lingered by the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, as if stepping further into the room might make things more real.
McGee offered a faint smile. “Hey, Tony. You look overdressed for a hospital.”
It was weak humor, but it cracked the silence. Abby rushed forward, nearly spilling the Caf-Pow as she hugged him—careful, but tight. “You scared me so bad, Timmy,” she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“I’ll… try not to,” McGee managed.
Bishop set the bag of books on the bedside table. “I thought you might want something to read. You’re not the type to sit still.”
McGee’s gratitude was quiet but genuine. “Thanks, Ellie.”
Ducky gave a reassuring pat to McGee’s arm. “You’re young and strong, Timothy. Recovery will not be easy, but I’ve no doubt you’ll face it with the same perseverance you’ve shown in the field.”
McGee nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced.
Then his gaze shifted to Tony, still lingering at the edge of the room. The others chatted softly, but Tony didn’t move closer. His eyes kept flicking to McGee’s legs, to the machines, to anywhere but his face.
Finally, McGee broke the tension. “You’re awfully quiet, DiNozzo. That’s not like you.”
Tony forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “What do you want me to say, McGee? That you scared ten years off my life? Because you did.”
“Join the club,” Abby muttered, brushing tears from her cheeks.
Tony shoved a hand through his hair. “I was supposed to be the one cracking jokes at your bedside. You’re supposed to be the steady one. The reliable one. You don’t get to…” His voice faltered, the words trailing off into silence.
McGee swallowed hard, understanding dawning. “Tony…”
But Tony cut him off, shaking his head as though he could push the weight away. “I can’t do this right now.” Without another word, he turned and walked out, the door shutting quietly behind him.
The room was heavy in his absence. Abby looked like she might chase after him, but Gibbs appeared in the doorway just then, his expression unreadable. One glance at the tension, and he simply said, “Let him be. He’ll come around.”
McGee leaned back against the pillows, his chest tight. He’d never seen Tony look like that before—lost, angry, afraid all at once. And somehow, it hurt almost as much as the injuries.
Delilah reached for his hand, grounding him again. “He’s scared. Just like you are. Give him time.”
McGee nodded, though the knot in his throat didn’t ease.
——
McGee had convinced himself he wanted solitude. He had got the nurse to shut the blinds, and ignored the lunch tray untouched on the side table.
The knock on the door was light, but the voice wasn’t.
“Knock, knock. It’s the pizza delivery guy. Except I forgot the pizza. And the delivery car. And the job.”
McGee groaned. “Tony, go away.”
Instead, Tony strolled in, carrying a giant plastic bag of DVDs and a bag of chips. “What’s the matter, Probie? Too good for movie night with the DiNozzo cinematic collection? I brought the classics—Die Hard, The Princess Bride, and, uh… Legally Blonde.” He paused. “Don’t judge me. Reese Witherspoon’s a national treasure.”
McGee shook his head, the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch despite himself. “I’m not really in the mood.”
Tony plopped down in the visitor’s chair, unwrapping the chips like he owned the place. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the crunch of chips. McGee stared at his hands, guilt and anger still simmering from earlier. Finally, Tony leaned back, his expression shifting from goofball to something quieter.
“You know,” Tony said, “I’ve seen you go head-to-head with hackers, terrorists, assassins… and somehow, this is what finally takes you down. Yourself.”
McGee bristled. “You don’t get it.”
Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I get more than you think. You’re mad at the world, so you’re torching the one thing that makes this whole mess survivable. And for what? Pride?”
McGee’s jaw tightened.
Tony continued, softer now. “Delilah’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Everyone can see it. Hell, even Gibbs—though he’d sooner eat kale than admit it. And you’re gonna throw that away because you can’t stand that she saw you fall?”
McGee looked away, his throat burning.
Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I crack jokes because I don’t know how to deal with… stuff. Death. Fear. The fact that one day Gibbs is gonna outlive us all just out of spite.” He smirked, but his eyes stayed serious. “But don’t think for a second I don’t see what’s happening here. You push her away, McGee, and you’re not punishing her—you’re punishing yourself.”
The words landed heavier than any joke. McGee swallowed hard.
“You love her, right?” Tony pressed.
McGee’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah. More than anything.”
“Then stop being an idiot.” Tony’s tone softened, a rare earnestness cutting through. “She doesn’t see you as broken, McGee. She sees you as worth every fight. Don’t let her slip away just because you’re scared.”
For a long moment, McGee just sat there, staring at the floor, Tony’s words echoing louder than his own self-loathing.
Finally, McGee let out a shaky breath. “You’re surprisingly wise for a guy who owns three copies of Smokey and the Bandit.”
Tony grinned, relief flickering in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a renaissance man.”
McGee managed the smallest smile. And for the first time in days, he felt the faintest flicker of hope.