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“Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim.” - Rudyard Kipling
Being a ghoul was awkward.
Palmer had read numerous articles and books on the place of the ghoul in both history and modern society and had heard far more poetic and eloquent descriptions, but what it came down to, at least in his case, was that one word.
Awkward.
Awkward because of the conflict between where it was a ghoul’s instinct to be - somewhere near dead bodies, like in autopsy or a funeral home - and society’s reaction to that idea. No one liked the idea of a species famous for eating corpses anywhere near their dead family members.
Awkward because they were scavengers in a world that respected predators and was compassionate to prey, but where popular perception had no mercy for the metaphorical vultures. Awkward because his joints were all wrong for normal human movement and trying to pretend otherwise left him clumsy everywhere but the autopsy table.
Just - awkward.
Being with Breena . . . That was the least awkward he’d ever felt. Alone with another ghoul, he didn’t have to worry if his movements looked unnatural to the human eye. He didn’t have to rein in a sense of humor most found in morbidly poor taste.
Marriage felt as natural as breathing, but the quiet worry of a child disrupted it. No one would let two ghouls adopt anything other than one of their own kind, and the odds of getting an orphaned ghoul were incredibly low. There was a reason he wasn’t optimistic about their chances at a biological child of their own. Ghouls were too connected to death to have an easy job producing life.
It happened, obviously, or they wouldn’t be here, but there was a reason the number of ghouls had never been very high.
Then Breena got pregnant with Victoria, and Palmer didn’t care how awkward he looked dancing around autopsy with sheer joy when he got the news. He didn’t care if the way he turned all conversation to his coming daughter was socially inept. He was going to have a daughter, a daughter, and there was nothing awkward about that at all.
Ducky’s delight didn’t surprise him at all, but Gibbs’ clear approval at his excitement and Tony’s enthusiasm just buoyed him up all the more.
Tim had never really paid much attention to Tony’s interactions with kids, except to tease him when he got awkward around kids on cases, so he was surprised at just how eagerly Tony agreed to babysit when Tim hesitantly asked about a year after his daughter was born.
When he and Delilah got back from their date night, he half expected the place to be a chaotic shambles, but Tony was on the floor with her, using stuffed animals to act out a story for her fascinated eyes, chubby hands grasping for the animals when they came close.
“Wow,” he said as Tony handed her off to Delilah. “I knew you were excited when we made the announcement, but I really thought you didn’t do well with kids.”
“Normal kids, sure,” Tony agreed easily, stretching as he stood.
Delilah’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Normal?”
“Megan’s perfectly normal,” Tim said hastily with a hint of nerves. They hadn’t brought up her magic with anyone, and he didn’t intend to.
“Yeah, but she’s pack.” Tony said like that explained everything. “See you tomorrow, McGeek.” He walked out the door, waving goodbye to Delilah and Megan as he went.
McGee stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and holding his arms out for Megan. Delilah passed her over.
“So how was Uncle Tony, huh?” he asked, bouncing her.
Megan giggled. “Tony, Tony!” she said, clapping her hands.
“Huh,” he repeated.
Tony blamed the fey side of him for his awkwardness with most kids. The fey weren’t always the most paternal of beings, and besides that, the immortal beings almost never had kids. Children were foreign to that side of his nature and that made him nervous.
Pack kids, though, those were different. That was pack and it was hard to explain to anyone else. The wolf demanded that they be taught and protected, and its delight at their existence smoothed over the awkwardness Tony usually felt.
Pack kids were different, and that was even before he got one of his own.
It had vaguely occurred to him that a kid might someday result from one of his many girlfriends, but he’d honestly thought his fey side made that pretty unlikely.
Unlikely wasn’t impossible, though, as he was bluntly reminded when a blonde woman whose name he almost remembered showed up at his door the night of the full moon with a squirming bundle of half-shifted toddler.
“Take her,” she said, shoving the little girl in his arms. “I can’t take it anymore. Her stuff’s here, I’ll get the paperwork to you as soon as possible.”
Tony blinked and opened his mouth to protest, but as soon as he did, the girl’s scent flooded in.
Wolf, nearly overpowering as the moon rose. Fey, just a light, lingering scent. Not enough to control the shift apparently, at least at this young age. Slowly dying flowers, like Kate’s neglected plants had smelled after a long, brutal case.
And above all, a scent that was unmistakably his.
He stood rooted to the spot as the woman stalked off. A half-strangled sound came out of his throat, and he wasn’t sure if it was a growl or a call to wait.
It didn’t matter. She was gone, and the girl - Thalia, his Thalia - was here.
He dragged the bags the woman - Marie, that had been her name - had left by the door into the apartment with one hand and then shut the door and collapsed onto the couch.
Thalia squirmed in his lap as she finished shifting until what was looking up at him was a tiny, curled up wolf pup.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Let me set you down for a moment, and I’ll show you something neat.”
He didn’t normally transform in his apartment since it would be a bit of a tight fit, but he’d make an exception tonight. She shouldn’t have to feel alone.
He shifted into an enormous wolf and laid down on the carpet. After a few moments, Thalia leaped off the couch and padded over cautiously. When he didn’t stop her, she curled up next to him.
He curled around the tiny ball of warmth and tried to think beyond the automatic instinct of mine.
The next morning, when his instincts had died down a bit and he’d shifted back, he did what he should have done from the start.
He called Gibbs.
Gibbs had been a father once.
That once was what kept him up at nights and had made him decide all those years ago that it didn’t matter much if the mouthy detective from Baltimore eventually killed him.
Things hadn’t turned out as he’d planned when he’d tried to have a family. It shouldn’t have surprised him that things hadn’t turned out like he’d planned when he’d tried to start a purely professional team.
Now Palmer’s kid called Ducky “Grandducky,” Megan had bright stick figure drawings of “Uncle Tony, Aunt Ellie, and Aunt Abby,” and it wasn’t to their own fathers’ houses that most of the team wandered off to on a certain day in June.
He’d looked for a family and found death. Looked for death and found a family.
He shook his head and tried to clear the fog out of it. If that was the kind of thought popping into his head, then maybe it was time to concede that Ducky was right about him getting more sleep. He eased himself off the couch and headed to the kitchen.
His cell burst out ringing, and he flipped it open and brought it to his ear. “Gibbs.”
“You’ve got another grandkid,” Tony blurted from the other side, sounding half panicked and half proud.
“Tony?”
“Right, right. Explanation.” Tony took a deep breath. A faint crashing noise came in from the background. “No! Don’t - “ A few moments of frantic sound later and Tony was back. “I don’t suppose you could drop by? It might be easier than trying to explain over the phone. Also, I know how you feel about lawyers, but I think I might need one.”
It was their day off. Gibbs grabbed his keys and headed to the car. “On my way.”