NCIS Fic: "Tim McGee Sees It Through" (3/6)
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
Chapter Three
NOW
"So, more beatings, torture, and death. That's what I have to look forward to. Great."
Be thankful, Probie, it could be worse.
"*How* could it be worse, Tony?"
They could just shoot you without any preamble, giving you no chance to effect a daring escape.
Oh lord. His brain must be in really bad shape now, if it had created a mental DiNozzo to help him deal.
I heard that. And I resent the implication. How have I ever been anything but helpful in these situations?
"I've never been in this particular situation before. And if I'm going to go to my painful death at the hands of...whomever these guys are, I'd prefer not to be mocked as I do it."
Damn it, McGeek, have you learned nothing in 6 years of working with me? I don't mock without purpose, I don't randomly mock, I mock...well, when mockery is called for.
"Sure."
And you've learned to fight back pretty well, too. You're not innocent Probie of Green Gables any more. You've got a vicious streak in you, Tim.
"Yeah, well, don't credit yourself with that. 4 years of Alameda Base High School will tend to bring that out in a guy."
I know. And I wouldn't want you to surrender to it. We need our Good Guy, our Stand-up Boy Scout as often as we need our Secret Ninja Warrioress.
"Leaving you as Smooth Bond-like Secret Agent?"
Sean Connery, not Roger Moore, though. 'Cause Connery was more dignified.
"Of course, no question about that."
But you've learned to use that tough streak, too. And that's good. It's good, because it's going to get you out of here. You're going to get out of this, Tim.
"Damn it, don't start calling me Tim. If you're calling me Tim, it's really serious."
Well, this *is* the Russian mob we're dealing with here. Serious comes with the territory.
"Russian mob... Yes! Goon squad, abandoned warehouse, lots of guns. And cutting off fingers."
A flood of memories washed over him. Seaman Ryan. Payments. Computer expertise. Being shoved in the trunk of a car. And oddly enough, a set of red lace doilies. Red lace doilies?
Think, McGee. Use that big noggin of yours for what it's good for. Think of Pipe-Cleaner With Eyes.
"Pipe-Cleaner With Eyes?"
The hapless henchman who retightened the ropes.
"Are we starting with alliteration now, Tony?"
From the look on his face, he was the guy they were chewing out a little while ago.
Another memory flashed, this one much more helpful than the doilies.
"He was the guy. He was the guy who bashed me over the head, and then abducted me."
What pissed them off so much, if this was all going according to plan, if they meant to kidnap you? Why? WHY, McGee?
"Because they didn't. Because he made a mistake. He didn't expect to see me there. Because...he freaked out."
The inner conversation was rudely interrupted by the office door flying open. Ah. Damn. Mr. Vogon had finally returned.
"So, as we have thoroughly established, you are Special Agent McGee, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Badge Number 0263896743. And Anton has given me the exhaustively complete details of *how* you got here."
Anton equals Pipe Cleaner. Got it.
"So the obvious question to continue with, now that you seem to be fully conscious..."
And with that, Vogon punched him in the chest. Tim was barely able to catch his breath through the pain, and panted for oxygen.
"Why are you here, young man?"
McGee hardly remembered that himself. But what he did remember, he wasn't about to tell his captor.
He caught his breath, and stared up at Vogon, silently. So the guy hit him again.
"You will tell me what you know. And then we will decide what we do with you."
Tim still remained silent. So Vogon punched him again, this time in the face. Pain exploded through Tim's aching head, and already broken nose.
You're strong, Tim. He won't break you. You can get through this.
"I guess I have no choice, do I?"
Just hold on. We're coming to get you.
*******
Then
The rest of the morning and early afternoon had been spent on basic background; the who, what, why and where of Seaman Ryan. They had almost finished up when Ducky arrived. His autopsy backed up the preliminary judgment at the scene. He held forth on that in the bullpen.
"The poor boy has bruises in various stages of the healing process, suggesting the beatings were spaced out over a period of several days. The fingers, however..."
All four of them had looked up at Ducky when he paused at that. But as usual, it was Gibbs to prompt the ME onward.
"They hadn't healed quite so well?"
"Yes. The wounds are ragged, as if they were cut off by hand with a dull serrated blade, and not a machine. All three show signs of coagulation, but not of much healing. It's hard to be exact, but I would guess that they were cut off shortly before they shot him."
Tony moved to speak, but sounded unusually serious. "As punctuation."
Ziva looked puzzled. "But if they were cut off ante-mortem, there would be a lot more blood. And yet, apart from the obvious squalor, the alley in Anacostia was pristine."
Tim followed Ziva's thought process. "Anacostia wasn't the crime scene, merely the dump site."
And as he turned to return to Jimmy and the morgue, Ducky had summed it up succinctly. "You find Seaman Ryan's fingers, you will find your murderers."
However, finding the fingers, or finding any reason why someone would cut them off in the first place, had been more of a challenge.
Tony had tried to think through it out loud: "I mean, just from the fingers... If we were back in Baltimore, I would guess the Russian mob. But I didn't know that they had as much of a presence in Washington. And Anacostia is gang territory more than mob territory."
Having sat through Tony's monologue, Gibbs had responded only with an eyebrow raise.
"Calling the Metro organized crime unit, right boss."
"And?"
"Baltimore, too."
After that was dealt with, the conversation had quickly moved on, as those directed by Gibbs tended to do.
"Ziva, he just got back from deployment, and was on leave?"
"Yes, from Iraq and the Persian Gulf. He was a radio man, dealing with coded transmissions, various computer stuff. I have been on the phone with his commander. He was talented, but quiet. Not a lot of friends, tended to keep to himself."
Tony was never able to pass up a given opportunity: "Ah, so he was basically Johnny Reb's version of McGee."
Tim had been tempted to throw a balled-up bit of paper at Tony. But throwing things at DiNozzo, while fun, was never a good idea when Gibbs was looking right at you.
Ziva's expression brightened at the last item on her list: "Ah, and it looks like he had just been promoted."
His search program had beeped, making Tim smile even wider than Ziva. He loved when he got to do this: "Yeah, well not high enough to explain what I just found."
"Put it up..."
"On the plasma, got it boss."
Gibbs glared at him slightly, and then shifted to a smile, as the four of them gathered around the screen.
"I was going through his financial records, and there initially wasn't much out of the ordinary. Single guy, had a small one-bedroom apartment he used when he wasn't aboard-ship. "
Tony was intrigued. "No girlfriend, no roommates?"
"Ziva was right, it doesn't look like he had many friends at all. Dad died ten years ago, when he was 15, no siblings, and his only family is his mom. She's a retired computer science professor, she lives out in Bethesda."
"Your *point*, McGee?"
"He's not a guy with too many expenses, but 3 months ago, he started being more than able to take care of them. Big deposits, every two weeks, from an account based out of a Baltimore suburb."
Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, but Tim almost gleefully cut him off. "The name on the account is bogus, boss. Could be a mob front."
Ziva had zeroed in on another part of the records. "On the debit side, there are only rent payments, and a few checks to his mother. Doesn't look like he spent much of it either."
Tony responded to that quickly: "Well, he only went on leave a month ago, he had no opportunity."
A horrible thought seemed to speed through the whole team.
Tim was the first to speak: "They contacted him while he was aboard the Stennis."
Tony jumped in. "And what does he have access to on there?"
The three of the chimed in in unison: "INFORMATION."
Gibbs didn't look happy, per se. But he looked determined, which was often better.
"Good work, McGee. I need to go brief Vance on this."
He looked even less happy at that prospect.
"Ziva, Tony, you go out to Ryan's apartment, see what you can pick up there. McGee, you speak her language, you go talk to to Dr. Ryan out in Bethesda. She may not be totally in on it, but those checks mean she knows something."
Three cries of "On it, boss" echoed through the bullpen.
The drive out to Bethesda had been peaceful; well, as peaceful as DC traffic could be, which was not perfect. But Tim had gotten used to it; and the solo task was satisfying.
That good feeling evaporated as soon as he pulled up to Dr. Candice Ryan's house. The white clapboard home had an enclosed porch, which was not unusual. The porch door, however, was wide open, almost bent off its hinges. Tim put his hand on his service weapon, but proceeded towards the house. He walked through the porch, and pushed the main door open.
"Dr. Ryan? My name is Agent Tim McGee, I'm from NCIS."
The living room was untouched, and looked pretty peaceful. Except for one box, upside down on the floor.
Lace doilies. Expensive, bright red. Strewn over the hardwood, almost like bloody fabric.
Tim pulled his gun, and quickly cleared the living room. But as he turned right to clear the kitchen, two things happened at once.
He saw the body. White woman, red hair, in her late 50s. Dr. Candice Ryan, lying on the floor with a bullet in her brain.
And he felt the rifle butt connect with the back of his skull. He spun, and tried to fight back. The guy was kicking, and clawing and elbowing. Tim got off one shot, but it only went wild, into the ceiling.
As Tim reeled from the pain in his head, his assailant landed another blow with the rifle, this time to Tim's nose. He fell backwards, whacking his head and arm on an end table as he went down.
The last thing he recalled was one phrase, in Russian.
Chyort voz'mi!
*******
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
Chapter Three
NOW
"So, more beatings, torture, and death. That's what I have to look forward to. Great."
Be thankful, Probie, it could be worse.
"*How* could it be worse, Tony?"
They could just shoot you without any preamble, giving you no chance to effect a daring escape.
Oh lord. His brain must be in really bad shape now, if it had created a mental DiNozzo to help him deal.
I heard that. And I resent the implication. How have I ever been anything but helpful in these situations?
"I've never been in this particular situation before. And if I'm going to go to my painful death at the hands of...whomever these guys are, I'd prefer not to be mocked as I do it."
Damn it, McGeek, have you learned nothing in 6 years of working with me? I don't mock without purpose, I don't randomly mock, I mock...well, when mockery is called for.
"Sure."
And you've learned to fight back pretty well, too. You're not innocent Probie of Green Gables any more. You've got a vicious streak in you, Tim.
"Yeah, well, don't credit yourself with that. 4 years of Alameda Base High School will tend to bring that out in a guy."
I know. And I wouldn't want you to surrender to it. We need our Good Guy, our Stand-up Boy Scout as often as we need our Secret Ninja Warrioress.
"Leaving you as Smooth Bond-like Secret Agent?"
Sean Connery, not Roger Moore, though. 'Cause Connery was more dignified.
"Of course, no question about that."
But you've learned to use that tough streak, too. And that's good. It's good, because it's going to get you out of here. You're going to get out of this, Tim.
"Damn it, don't start calling me Tim. If you're calling me Tim, it's really serious."
Well, this *is* the Russian mob we're dealing with here. Serious comes with the territory.
"Russian mob... Yes! Goon squad, abandoned warehouse, lots of guns. And cutting off fingers."
A flood of memories washed over him. Seaman Ryan. Payments. Computer expertise. Being shoved in the trunk of a car. And oddly enough, a set of red lace doilies. Red lace doilies?
Think, McGee. Use that big noggin of yours for what it's good for. Think of Pipe-Cleaner With Eyes.
"Pipe-Cleaner With Eyes?"
The hapless henchman who retightened the ropes.
"Are we starting with alliteration now, Tony?"
From the look on his face, he was the guy they were chewing out a little while ago.
Another memory flashed, this one much more helpful than the doilies.
"He was the guy. He was the guy who bashed me over the head, and then abducted me."
What pissed them off so much, if this was all going according to plan, if they meant to kidnap you? Why? WHY, McGee?
"Because they didn't. Because he made a mistake. He didn't expect to see me there. Because...he freaked out."
The inner conversation was rudely interrupted by the office door flying open. Ah. Damn. Mr. Vogon had finally returned.
"So, as we have thoroughly established, you are Special Agent McGee, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Badge Number 0263896743. And Anton has given me the exhaustively complete details of *how* you got here."
Anton equals Pipe Cleaner. Got it.
"So the obvious question to continue with, now that you seem to be fully conscious..."
And with that, Vogon punched him in the chest. Tim was barely able to catch his breath through the pain, and panted for oxygen.
"Why are you here, young man?"
McGee hardly remembered that himself. But what he did remember, he wasn't about to tell his captor.
He caught his breath, and stared up at Vogon, silently. So the guy hit him again.
"You will tell me what you know. And then we will decide what we do with you."
Tim still remained silent. So Vogon punched him again, this time in the face. Pain exploded through Tim's aching head, and already broken nose.
You're strong, Tim. He won't break you. You can get through this.
"I guess I have no choice, do I?"
Just hold on. We're coming to get you.
*******
Then
The rest of the morning and early afternoon had been spent on basic background; the who, what, why and where of Seaman Ryan. They had almost finished up when Ducky arrived. His autopsy backed up the preliminary judgment at the scene. He held forth on that in the bullpen.
"The poor boy has bruises in various stages of the healing process, suggesting the beatings were spaced out over a period of several days. The fingers, however..."
All four of them had looked up at Ducky when he paused at that. But as usual, it was Gibbs to prompt the ME onward.
"They hadn't healed quite so well?"
"Yes. The wounds are ragged, as if they were cut off by hand with a dull serrated blade, and not a machine. All three show signs of coagulation, but not of much healing. It's hard to be exact, but I would guess that they were cut off shortly before they shot him."
Tony moved to speak, but sounded unusually serious. "As punctuation."
Ziva looked puzzled. "But if they were cut off ante-mortem, there would be a lot more blood. And yet, apart from the obvious squalor, the alley in Anacostia was pristine."
Tim followed Ziva's thought process. "Anacostia wasn't the crime scene, merely the dump site."
And as he turned to return to Jimmy and the morgue, Ducky had summed it up succinctly. "You find Seaman Ryan's fingers, you will find your murderers."
However, finding the fingers, or finding any reason why someone would cut them off in the first place, had been more of a challenge.
Tony had tried to think through it out loud: "I mean, just from the fingers... If we were back in Baltimore, I would guess the Russian mob. But I didn't know that they had as much of a presence in Washington. And Anacostia is gang territory more than mob territory."
Having sat through Tony's monologue, Gibbs had responded only with an eyebrow raise.
"Calling the Metro organized crime unit, right boss."
"And?"
"Baltimore, too."
After that was dealt with, the conversation had quickly moved on, as those directed by Gibbs tended to do.
"Ziva, he just got back from deployment, and was on leave?"
"Yes, from Iraq and the Persian Gulf. He was a radio man, dealing with coded transmissions, various computer stuff. I have been on the phone with his commander. He was talented, but quiet. Not a lot of friends, tended to keep to himself."
Tony was never able to pass up a given opportunity: "Ah, so he was basically Johnny Reb's version of McGee."
Tim had been tempted to throw a balled-up bit of paper at Tony. But throwing things at DiNozzo, while fun, was never a good idea when Gibbs was looking right at you.
Ziva's expression brightened at the last item on her list: "Ah, and it looks like he had just been promoted."
His search program had beeped, making Tim smile even wider than Ziva. He loved when he got to do this: "Yeah, well not high enough to explain what I just found."
"Put it up..."
"On the plasma, got it boss."
Gibbs glared at him slightly, and then shifted to a smile, as the four of them gathered around the screen.
"I was going through his financial records, and there initially wasn't much out of the ordinary. Single guy, had a small one-bedroom apartment he used when he wasn't aboard-ship. "
Tony was intrigued. "No girlfriend, no roommates?"
"Ziva was right, it doesn't look like he had many friends at all. Dad died ten years ago, when he was 15, no siblings, and his only family is his mom. She's a retired computer science professor, she lives out in Bethesda."
"Your *point*, McGee?"
"He's not a guy with too many expenses, but 3 months ago, he started being more than able to take care of them. Big deposits, every two weeks, from an account based out of a Baltimore suburb."
Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, but Tim almost gleefully cut him off. "The name on the account is bogus, boss. Could be a mob front."
Ziva had zeroed in on another part of the records. "On the debit side, there are only rent payments, and a few checks to his mother. Doesn't look like he spent much of it either."
Tony responded to that quickly: "Well, he only went on leave a month ago, he had no opportunity."
A horrible thought seemed to speed through the whole team.
Tim was the first to speak: "They contacted him while he was aboard the Stennis."
Tony jumped in. "And what does he have access to on there?"
The three of the chimed in in unison: "INFORMATION."
Gibbs didn't look happy, per se. But he looked determined, which was often better.
"Good work, McGee. I need to go brief Vance on this."
He looked even less happy at that prospect.
"Ziva, Tony, you go out to Ryan's apartment, see what you can pick up there. McGee, you speak her language, you go talk to to Dr. Ryan out in Bethesda. She may not be totally in on it, but those checks mean she knows something."
Three cries of "On it, boss" echoed through the bullpen.
The drive out to Bethesda had been peaceful; well, as peaceful as DC traffic could be, which was not perfect. But Tim had gotten used to it; and the solo task was satisfying.
That good feeling evaporated as soon as he pulled up to Dr. Candice Ryan's house. The white clapboard home had an enclosed porch, which was not unusual. The porch door, however, was wide open, almost bent off its hinges. Tim put his hand on his service weapon, but proceeded towards the house. He walked through the porch, and pushed the main door open.
"Dr. Ryan? My name is Agent Tim McGee, I'm from NCIS."
The living room was untouched, and looked pretty peaceful. Except for one box, upside down on the floor.
Lace doilies. Expensive, bright red. Strewn over the hardwood, almost like bloody fabric.
Tim pulled his gun, and quickly cleared the living room. But as he turned right to clear the kitchen, two things happened at once.
He saw the body. White woman, red hair, in her late 50s. Dr. Candice Ryan, lying on the floor with a bullet in her brain.
And he felt the rifle butt connect with the back of his skull. He spun, and tried to fight back. The guy was kicking, and clawing and elbowing. Tim got off one shot, but it only went wild, into the ceiling.
As Tim reeled from the pain in his head, his assailant landed another blow with the rifle, this time to Tim's nose. He fell backwards, whacking his head and arm on an end table as he went down.
The last thing he recalled was one phrase, in Russian.
Chyort voz'mi!
*******