NCIS Fic: "Tim McGee Sees It Through" (2/6)
Disclaimers: Don't own Tim, Gibbs, Ducky, Tony, Ziva, or Abby. Or the universe in which they operate. I'm just playing in DBell's and Shane Brennan's sandbox.
Rating: FRT; lots and lots and of Tim-whump.
Spoilers: Season 7; up to 7.15, "Jack-Knife" in general, and a few specific ones for 7.01.
Genre: General/Drama/Hurt-Comfort/Case-Fic
Characters: Tim-centric; All Hands On Deck. (Plus assorted OMCs.)
Pairings: None
Notes: a) A completed fic, in six parts; I'll post one a day until it's done.
b) Title borrowed from P.G. Wodehouse.
c) Inspired, encouraged, and has lovely bits written by, melliyna . She is my muse, sounding board, and partner in crime, and this fic would not have come to be without this lovely crack ficlet she wrote me for the prompt, "Gibbs, McGee, ER, waiting/worry."
Summary: What should have been a routine interview has gone, as they say, pear-shaped. Now Tim must a) figure out how he got in this dangerous situation, and b) get out of it. But Gibbs and his teammates are there to back him up. In more senses than one.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
NOW
Tim, looking back on that moment, made a judgment.
"Ziva driving. Damn, I should have known. That was the sign, right there, that today was gonna suck."
He tried to laugh at his own joke, but found that the physical act hurt too much. The thought depressed him.
McGee, if you don't get out of this? Don't think Tony's going easy on you. Or that I will. Death is no excuse.
Tim McGee would've liked to object to Gibbs. Maybe. Truthfully, having Gibbs in your brain when you were slipping in and out of consciousness was kind of reassuring. Even if he was still yelling. Especially, if he was still yelling. Obviously, Gibbs wouldn't be yelling at him if things were really dire. It was like having a snarky and assertive Marvin The Paranoid Android in your head. If Marvin had gone in for head-slapping.
Even if he had managed to get hit over the head, beaten and tied to a chair by a Vogon and his accompanying goon squad. Which, Gibbs was right, Tony was going to tease him about.
Now, now, Timothy, don't give in to the temptation to take Tony seriously when he goes off on one of those tangents of his.
He decided, then and there, that since it was very likely he might not escape this alive, talking to himself (in the form of Gibbs and Ducky) was really the least of his problems.
"I prefer when you're the one talking to me, Ducky. You don't yell, like Gibbs."
Yell like me how?
And of course, his inner Gibbs would have that telepathic ability to know exactly when You Were Committing Mischief. Which was terrifyingly Dad-Like, really. Capt. McGee had been able to do it too. Though, also like Gibbs, he only used his power for good. Especially when Sarah had gotten him into something, and Tim was only going along for her sake. Which, come to think of it, Gibbs had been able to identify as well.
When his captors returned, it would probably be good to not babble this out loud. If he was going to shuffle off the mortal coil, he'd hoped to do it with some dignity.
However, going out having confused them with parental pronouns? That might be a worthy end.
Damn, he was cold. His feet were going somewhat numb. He really hoped that was from the rope restraints, and not the frigid temperature.
"Focus, Tim, focus."
He was in a refrigerated warehouse. Fish? Frozen food? Frozen peas? The broken nose made it impossible to determine. They hadn't stuck him in the walk-in freezer, thank god. Instead, he was in what seemed to be an auxilliary office.
Goon squad. From what he could pick out from the noise out, at least 5, probably more. Probably including the guy who had shoved him in that trunk...how many hours ago now? It was hard to tell.
One member of the Goon Squad was apparently getting a severe chewing out on the other side of the door. By...well, Mr. Vogon was as good a term as any. Fat, stolid, no sense of humor. Sounded Russian. And, he was remembering now, the Vogon had tried to pepper Tim with questions when he arrived. The head injury had made talking difficult. Not that he had been inclined to say much of anything. For old times' sake, he had reverted to the classics. Tony would have been proud.
His inner Gibbs was not so complimentary.
Yeah, sure. Name, rank, badge number. Good job, McGee. Now: evaluate the situation. Exits?
"Two exits, one to the outer reception area, one to the walk-in freezer, so that's out."
Weapons?
"A few guys with automatics, one or two with sidearms. And the big guy had a nasty looking knife, I think."
Yours?
Tim still had enough freedom of movement to feel for his waist holster. Damn it. Gone.
For some reason, a loud hollow noise echoed in his head, and Tim flinched. Ah. Not heard. Remembered. He looked over towards the beige filing cabinet. Yes, they had stuck his service weapon in there.
Which is not going to help you one bit, Timothy, unless you can get yourself free to use it. Look around. From the sound of it, they never intended to keep prisoners in here, so there might be something you can use.
"Thanks, Duck." For some reason, Ducky's British accent made his suggestions of McGyvering more credible. He'd have to ask the real Ducky how he managed it.
Ah, that is a trade secret, my boy.
He's right, McGee. I've spent 15 years trying to figure that out.
The mutual admiration society abruptly ended, as a skinny kid stormed into the room. A really familiar kid, though he couldn't immediately place the face.
At first, Tim thought, he didn't even seem to notice his captive, as he paced back and forth. He looked like a human version of Beaker from the Muppet Show.
Tim's spirits plummeted, as the guy headed over toward him. He was conscious enough to do a once over. No knife, just the one gun. And he didn't seem to be reaching for it, or anything concealed. Good. Not good: while still mumbling incoherently, or maybe incomprehensibly to himself, the guy was tightening Tim's bonds. Painfully.
"AH. Fuck."
The henchman knew that word at least, as he stopped and smiled at Tim's verbal protest. But then the smile disappeared. He spat in Tim's eye, and it took all of McGee's dignity not to flinch.
The kid stormed out, and rejoined the heated discussion going on outside.
He now wished he had chosen Russian in high school, and not Latin. Or that Ziva was here. Or that he knew what the hell was going on. And why that Russian Doogie Howser looked so familiar.
***********
Then
Seaman Cole Edward Ryan. On leave from Norfolk and the USS John C. Stennis. Found lying dead, with one gunshot between the eyes. Beaten, frostbitten, missing both ring fingers and one pinky. Dumped, wearing only his uniform pants, in a chilly and squalid alley in Anacostia.
Ducky and Palmer, having had remarkably good luck with the traffic, arrived only shortly after the rest of the team did.
One thing, Tim recalled, had popped out at him.
"He's...blue."
Tony raised an eyebrow, and seemed to be tempted to roll his eyes. But he refrained.
"Well, yeah, McPenguin, it's about 20 degrees out, in the mid-afternoon, and someone made off with his shirt. Of course he'd be blue."
"Tony is right, McGee. In this kind of weather, frostbite can set in very quickly."
Gibbs jumped in, seeming to sense that this could get out of hand.
"So, liver temp for time of death, out of the question, Duck?"
Tim, having caught up with the conversation, tried to get his point across.
"No, not his lips...his back. Look."
He knelt down, pulled on his latex gloves, and pointed to the patch of skin that had caught his eye. Tony knelt beside him, Ziva looking over their shoulder.
"Good eyes, McGee." Tim smiled gratefully at Ziva's compliment. "But that does not seem like skin, it is too...shiny. And it is somewhat wrinkled."
Tim searched his pockets for some tweezers, but Tony found his faster, and handed them over.
"It's plastic. Industrial looking. And smells like..."
He shoved the small piece towards Tony's nose, probably with a bit more force than was necessary. His partner gave him a resentful look, but performed the required duty.
"Smells like...Thanksgiving dinner. Peas, onions, green beans maybe."
Gibbs had that look on his face.
"He's lying in a trash-filled alley. Could be transfer."
"Nah, I don't think so, Boss."
Uh-oh. Tim had spoken without completely thinking it through. But fortunately, Gibbs seemed to be in a good mood. He was giving him the unspoken "Well, *why* don't you think so, McGee?" Look.
"Look at the spot where I peeled it off. The rest of Seaman Ryan looks...well, pretty much how you'd expect it to look. But that bit looks, red, irritated. I think this plastic was new when it stuck to him."
Ah, good. Gibbs seemed satisfied with that answer, and had moved on. "Ducky, Palmer, I think I can see the cause of death, but any sign of the fingers?"
"Not that I can spot, Jethro. But I can assure you that they were not taken as post-mortem trophies."
"Why not?"
"Because, see the blood around the knuckle, the red ragged edges of the wounds? His right ring finger, especially." Ducky looked up, his eyes very serious. "Ryan's three missing fingers were cut off while he was still alive."
That all silenced them.
"I won't have anything official until we get him back to the Yard. But preliminarily? This man was beaten, tortured, and only then did they end things with the bullet."
**************
Rating: FRT; lots and lots and of Tim-whump.
Spoilers: Season 7; up to 7.15, "Jack-Knife" in general, and a few specific ones for 7.01.
Genre: General/Drama/Hurt-Comfort/Case-Fic
Characters: Tim-centric; All Hands On Deck. (Plus assorted OMCs.)
Pairings: None
Notes: a) A completed fic, in six parts; I'll post one a day until it's done.
b) Title borrowed from P.G. Wodehouse.
c) Inspired, encouraged, and has lovely bits written by, melliyna . She is my muse, sounding board, and partner in crime, and this fic would not have come to be without this lovely crack ficlet she wrote me for the prompt, "Gibbs, McGee, ER, waiting/worry."
Summary: What should have been a routine interview has gone, as they say, pear-shaped. Now Tim must a) figure out how he got in this dangerous situation, and b) get out of it. But Gibbs and his teammates are there to back him up. In more senses than one.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
NOW
Tim, looking back on that moment, made a judgment.
"Ziva driving. Damn, I should have known. That was the sign, right there, that today was gonna suck."
He tried to laugh at his own joke, but found that the physical act hurt too much. The thought depressed him.
McGee, if you don't get out of this? Don't think Tony's going easy on you. Or that I will. Death is no excuse.
Tim McGee would've liked to object to Gibbs. Maybe. Truthfully, having Gibbs in your brain when you were slipping in and out of consciousness was kind of reassuring. Even if he was still yelling. Especially, if he was still yelling. Obviously, Gibbs wouldn't be yelling at him if things were really dire. It was like having a snarky and assertive Marvin The Paranoid Android in your head. If Marvin had gone in for head-slapping.
Even if he had managed to get hit over the head, beaten and tied to a chair by a Vogon and his accompanying goon squad. Which, Gibbs was right, Tony was going to tease him about.
Now, now, Timothy, don't give in to the temptation to take Tony seriously when he goes off on one of those tangents of his.
He decided, then and there, that since it was very likely he might not escape this alive, talking to himself (in the form of Gibbs and Ducky) was really the least of his problems.
"I prefer when you're the one talking to me, Ducky. You don't yell, like Gibbs."
Yell like me how?
And of course, his inner Gibbs would have that telepathic ability to know exactly when You Were Committing Mischief. Which was terrifyingly Dad-Like, really. Capt. McGee had been able to do it too. Though, also like Gibbs, he only used his power for good. Especially when Sarah had gotten him into something, and Tim was only going along for her sake. Which, come to think of it, Gibbs had been able to identify as well.
When his captors returned, it would probably be good to not babble this out loud. If he was going to shuffle off the mortal coil, he'd hoped to do it with some dignity.
However, going out having confused them with parental pronouns? That might be a worthy end.
Damn, he was cold. His feet were going somewhat numb. He really hoped that was from the rope restraints, and not the frigid temperature.
"Focus, Tim, focus."
He was in a refrigerated warehouse. Fish? Frozen food? Frozen peas? The broken nose made it impossible to determine. They hadn't stuck him in the walk-in freezer, thank god. Instead, he was in what seemed to be an auxilliary office.
Goon squad. From what he could pick out from the noise out, at least 5, probably more. Probably including the guy who had shoved him in that trunk...how many hours ago now? It was hard to tell.
One member of the Goon Squad was apparently getting a severe chewing out on the other side of the door. By...well, Mr. Vogon was as good a term as any. Fat, stolid, no sense of humor. Sounded Russian. And, he was remembering now, the Vogon had tried to pepper Tim with questions when he arrived. The head injury had made talking difficult. Not that he had been inclined to say much of anything. For old times' sake, he had reverted to the classics. Tony would have been proud.
His inner Gibbs was not so complimentary.
Yeah, sure. Name, rank, badge number. Good job, McGee. Now: evaluate the situation. Exits?
"Two exits, one to the outer reception area, one to the walk-in freezer, so that's out."
Weapons?
"A few guys with automatics, one or two with sidearms. And the big guy had a nasty looking knife, I think."
Yours?
Tim still had enough freedom of movement to feel for his waist holster. Damn it. Gone.
For some reason, a loud hollow noise echoed in his head, and Tim flinched. Ah. Not heard. Remembered. He looked over towards the beige filing cabinet. Yes, they had stuck his service weapon in there.
Which is not going to help you one bit, Timothy, unless you can get yourself free to use it. Look around. From the sound of it, they never intended to keep prisoners in here, so there might be something you can use.
"Thanks, Duck." For some reason, Ducky's British accent made his suggestions of McGyvering more credible. He'd have to ask the real Ducky how he managed it.
Ah, that is a trade secret, my boy.
He's right, McGee. I've spent 15 years trying to figure that out.
The mutual admiration society abruptly ended, as a skinny kid stormed into the room. A really familiar kid, though he couldn't immediately place the face.
At first, Tim thought, he didn't even seem to notice his captive, as he paced back and forth. He looked like a human version of Beaker from the Muppet Show.
Tim's spirits plummeted, as the guy headed over toward him. He was conscious enough to do a once over. No knife, just the one gun. And he didn't seem to be reaching for it, or anything concealed. Good. Not good: while still mumbling incoherently, or maybe incomprehensibly to himself, the guy was tightening Tim's bonds. Painfully.
"AH. Fuck."
The henchman knew that word at least, as he stopped and smiled at Tim's verbal protest. But then the smile disappeared. He spat in Tim's eye, and it took all of McGee's dignity not to flinch.
The kid stormed out, and rejoined the heated discussion going on outside.
He now wished he had chosen Russian in high school, and not Latin. Or that Ziva was here. Or that he knew what the hell was going on. And why that Russian Doogie Howser looked so familiar.
***********
Then
Seaman Cole Edward Ryan. On leave from Norfolk and the USS John C. Stennis. Found lying dead, with one gunshot between the eyes. Beaten, frostbitten, missing both ring fingers and one pinky. Dumped, wearing only his uniform pants, in a chilly and squalid alley in Anacostia.
Ducky and Palmer, having had remarkably good luck with the traffic, arrived only shortly after the rest of the team did.
One thing, Tim recalled, had popped out at him.
"He's...blue."
Tony raised an eyebrow, and seemed to be tempted to roll his eyes. But he refrained.
"Well, yeah, McPenguin, it's about 20 degrees out, in the mid-afternoon, and someone made off with his shirt. Of course he'd be blue."
"Tony is right, McGee. In this kind of weather, frostbite can set in very quickly."
Gibbs jumped in, seeming to sense that this could get out of hand.
"So, liver temp for time of death, out of the question, Duck?"
Tim, having caught up with the conversation, tried to get his point across.
"No, not his lips...his back. Look."
He knelt down, pulled on his latex gloves, and pointed to the patch of skin that had caught his eye. Tony knelt beside him, Ziva looking over their shoulder.
"Good eyes, McGee." Tim smiled gratefully at Ziva's compliment. "But that does not seem like skin, it is too...shiny. And it is somewhat wrinkled."
Tim searched his pockets for some tweezers, but Tony found his faster, and handed them over.
"It's plastic. Industrial looking. And smells like..."
He shoved the small piece towards Tony's nose, probably with a bit more force than was necessary. His partner gave him a resentful look, but performed the required duty.
"Smells like...Thanksgiving dinner. Peas, onions, green beans maybe."
Gibbs had that look on his face.
"He's lying in a trash-filled alley. Could be transfer."
"Nah, I don't think so, Boss."
Uh-oh. Tim had spoken without completely thinking it through. But fortunately, Gibbs seemed to be in a good mood. He was giving him the unspoken "Well, *why* don't you think so, McGee?" Look.
"Look at the spot where I peeled it off. The rest of Seaman Ryan looks...well, pretty much how you'd expect it to look. But that bit looks, red, irritated. I think this plastic was new when it stuck to him."
Ah, good. Gibbs seemed satisfied with that answer, and had moved on. "Ducky, Palmer, I think I can see the cause of death, but any sign of the fingers?"
"Not that I can spot, Jethro. But I can assure you that they were not taken as post-mortem trophies."
"Why not?"
"Because, see the blood around the knuckle, the red ragged edges of the wounds? His right ring finger, especially." Ducky looked up, his eyes very serious. "Ryan's three missing fingers were cut off while he was still alive."
That all silenced them.
"I won't have anything official until we get him back to the Yard. But preliminarily? This man was beaten, tortured, and only then did they end things with the bullet."
**************