It's Raining on My Hero-- An NCIS Fanfic by Blood_Red_Alibi
Title: It's Raining on My Hero
Author: Blood_Red_Alibi
Rating: R (for language and graphic crime scenes)
Genre: Casefile
Pairing: None
Summary: Five weeks post-Aliyah, Gibbs borrows Agent Cameron Hall from San Diego for an assignment. When a domestic dispute at Quantico turns deadly, the team must try to stay one step ahead of a killer who will stop at nothing to claim what is rightfully theirs. This is (for now) a WIP.
Spoilers: Aliyah
Disclaimer: I honestly don't own anything in relation to NCIS... I'm just borrowing them for a while, and I promise to return them all when I'm finished... *sigh* even Tony. The NCIS characters belong to DPB, Bellisarius Productions, CBS, and a whole list of people that don't include me. Cameron Hall, Jack Winslow, and the San Diego crew belong to me. A big thanks to teenagewitch for giving this a beta, and a thanks to everyone else who looked this over and gave me feedback-- you guys rock!
Warning: This fic contains some graphic descriptions of crime scenes.
Chapter Five: No Matter What
Shortly after five, I’m out of headquarters. Due to the case they’re working on, I really have nothing to do. Gibbs lets me go home at a decent hour.
Sharon calls me on my cell as I’m trapped in traffic. She and her husband are going to trailer the Porsche from Falls Church to McLean to drop it off for me. I invite her over for dinner Friday, but she declines.
“At least stay for a bit this evening.” I say.
“Will do. Ice down that sweet tea, it’s hotter than the hubs of hell out here,” she says with a chuckle. I share her laughter before hanging up. Well over an hour after I left the Yard, I make it home. Going to the door, I let myself in as Traver lets himself out. I putter around the kitchen, letting Traver back in when he returns to the kitchen door. Feeding the Shepard, I fix a dinner of yogurt and granola for myself.
When I finish, I turn on the lights in the den and begin to unpack boxes in earnest. My largest box is nothing but Navy stuff. I uncover a chair and toss a Navy throw over the camel colored suede. I pull out a US Navy rug and put it in front of the door. Pulling navy blue curtains out of the box, I almost swear out loud when I discover that I don’t have enough fabric to cover the whole window. In thirty minutes, I’ve cleared out the box, and filled the den with memorabilia.
A knock on the door keeps me from starting on the living room. Opening it, I find Sharon and a very attractive man about her age standing on my front porch. She grabs me in a fierce hug.
“Hey, Sharon!”
“Hey, Cameron!” she pulls away, “This is my husband, Steve.” I shake his hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, please, come in. I want to show you my new house.” I step back and motion them inside.
“All of your stuff is still in boxes,” Sharon says.
“Come around here to the back, Look at the kitchen and the den.” I show them through my very lived in kitchen and into my newly furnished den.
“Oh, wow. Cam, I like this room a lot.” Sharon examines every corner of the room, “Where is it?” she asks.
“I was waiting for you,” I say, leading her back to the living room. Pulling open a box, I hand her a picture frame. Tears spring to her eyes as she cradles a picture of Jack in his whites.
“I’d be honored if you’d put it on the mantle for me. That picture has a place of honor in every apartment I’ve lived in. I think, now that I have a house, he should go on the mantle.” She nods, and places the frame in the center of the mantle.
“That’s Jack.” Steve states, catching sight of the photo.
“Yeah, Jack was Cam’s partner. That’s how I know her. She’d come to Easter and Thanksgiving dinners with Jack because her family’s all in the Mid-West. She’d save her time off for Christmas.”
“Jack was my best friend.” I say simply, “And six years ago, I let him down.”
“It’s water under the bridge now.” Sharon says, squeezing my arm. A clicking of toenails across the floor draws our attention. Traver goes straight to Sharon and sits at her feet.
“Hi there, sweetheart!” she exclaims, petting him behind the ears, “What’s your name?”
“Traver.” Sharon looks up at me, questioningly.
“That’s an odd name.”
“He came to me with that name. He worked for the DEA. When he got too old to do it, my friend started looking for a retirement home for him… so when he retired, he came to me.” I look down at the dog, “Besides, he’s got a great sense of humor.
“Traver, it‘s chick flick night.” The Shepard yawns theatrically, before looking up with honest golden eyes.
“Oh, my god. How did you teach him that?” Sharon asks.
“I didn’t. When he finds something I do or say boring or lame, he yawns that big theatrical yawn.” She shakes her head. We go out and unload the Porsche, and I pull it into the garage, closing it up and locking the door tightly. I break out the tea and pour each of us a glass. Steve turns out to be a pretty funny guy, and I extend an open invitation to them to come back whenever they want. After they leave, Traver gets cozy on the rug in the living room, and I unpack boxes.
Uncovering a couch and loveseat that match the chairs in my den, I pull out throw pillows and an art deco throw for the back of the couch in reds and black. A similar rug covers the floor, and I wrestle the coffee table onto the rug. I check the clock, and it reads 2200. I decide to turn in for the night.
In my bedroom, I unpack a box of clothes and shoes, taking the time to put them away. By 2230 I’m in a satin nightgown, and sliding between my sheets. I lie awake and think about Jack Winslow.
************************************************
Chapter Six: Whenever You Come Back to Me
2003
Walking down a narrow passage, I count offices until I hit the fifth door on my left. Pushing the door open, I see Winslow and Shanks already waiting for me in front of Berry’s desk.
Berry looks like a berry, especially when he’s mad… he turns the color of a strawberry, and with a pate of hair like Donald Trump, his head is kind of shaped like one too. That unfortunate hair sits above a wide forehead and cheeks that taper to a point of a chin. He’s tall, but filled in, not too skinny and not fat by any stretch of the imagination. He is already in mid-sentence when I arrive.
“… So, I got told that I’ve got to pick two of you geniuses to send on an investigation.”
“Excuse me, sir… but the plural of ‘genius’ would be ‘geni’.” Shanks pipes up. Wiping his brow in an exaggeration of how hard he’d had to work for this little English lesson, Shanks looks like one of the Belushis. His dark hair is thinning on top, even though he’s barely thirty and a small beer gut belies how fast he can move when provoked.
“Shut-it,” Berry says as one word, “Genius is an exception to the rule… which is why I’ll be keeping you here. Better luck next time, Professor.” Berry’s eyes rove between me and Winslow.
“Well, I guess it’s you two then. I was going to go with Shanks until the dummy tried to correct my English.”
“Yer English is more gooder than mine, sir.” Shanks tries a different approach, using his best Jed Clampett imitation.
“Don’t think so, slick. You and I have our own case… it’s a UA, you’re favorite, if I’m not mistaken,” Berry teases Shanks, “You two go on up and see Special Agent in Charge Bishop, She’s expecting you.” Winslow and I look questioningly at each other before moving to leave.
Getting on the elevator, I break the silence, “So what do you make of our little field trip, Jack?”
“Well, I make of it that some egghead Commander got himself made roadkill about three hours ago outside Kingman. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugs. With his dark hair carefully tousled and a slight hint of stubble, Jack could be a movie star. Too bad for Hollywood that the US Government owns Jack’s soul over some hacking he got caught doing in college.
When the elevator deposits us on the top floor, we enter the vestibule of the SAC’s office. The two of us are ushered into Special Agent in Charge Bishop’s office immediately.
Sharon Bishop stands at the window, her back to us. Southern California sunlight sparkles in bobbed hair that was once blonde but is now sprinkled with ash. A tasteful beige pantsuit compliments her hair, and she turns slightly to acknowledge us, black framed glasses slipping down her nose, making her look more like a teacher than a former federal agent. Her personal assistant, Tommy, indicates that we should sit, and pours us both a cup of coffee. After he has left and closed the door behind himself, Bishop turns fully.
“I assume you know why you’re here, so we can cut the crap?” she asks, voice graveled from a pack a day habit for the last twenty plus years. When we nod, she faces away from us, and delivers her briefing to the window, “Commander Jackson Phillips was a senior engineer at the Navy’s weapons research think tank out in the desert at Los Alamos, and from what we can piece together, he was on his way to San Diego when he lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a tree.”
Jack and I sip our coffee as the SAC continues, “When he was discovered by the paramedics, he was unresponsive and covered in physical abrasions which included a six inch incision across his chest. The medics also surmised that the Commander’s nipples had been cut off, and not by accident.” I flick a glance to Jack to find that both of his eyes have crossed, and his face is contorted in mock pain. I’m somewhat less than amused. Knowing Jack, he’s just dying to put his hands up to protect his own nipples. Bishop turns quickly, almost catching Jack.
“I need to send two of you to Arizona to assist on this. Now, you not only have to play well with the locals, but I got a personal phone call from Director Morrow about ten minutes ago that he’s got a second NCIS team assembling to meet you there. All I know for sure is that Commander Phillips was working on the Navy’s top secret second generation ARES system… I want you to find that program prototype yesterday.” It’s a clear dismissal, and Jack and I both shoot to our feet and say, “Yes, ma’am.” She flicks a look at the two of us and sends us on our way. When we get to the door, she speaks again, this time peering at Jack over the tops of her glasses.
“Agent Winslow… your mockery does not amuse me. I sincerely hope your mother warned you that your face might stick like that.” A single quirked brow hovers above cool blue eyes that dance a little in merriment. Jack is completely busted.
“Yes, ma’am… every day.”
In the outer office, Tommy hands the two of us manila folders. Cracking them back in the office, Jack suddenly looks up.
“How the hell are we supposed to get out there?”
“I’m glad you asked that, Winslow… you win the grand pooh-bah prize, five hours in a ‘luxury’ government sedan with the lovely, super Special Agent Cameron Hall,” Shanks spreads his arms.
“You do realize that I’m armed, right?” I point to the holstered Sig Sauer hanging on a hook above my desk.
“You know my favorite saying, Cam… ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me’,” I pantomime thumbing the hammer back on the gun I make with my forefinger and thumb, and he shrugs, “Just kidding, honey. Your travel orders just came through. Go pick up your vehicle of choice.” Jack rolls his eyes and takes the travel orders from Shanks’ desk. I resist the urge to tell Shanks he’s number one… with my middle finger.
“Well, looks like we have plenty of time for a Twisted Sister tour.” Jack quips and I groan, slipping my holster into my waistband. We bid our buddy Shanks and our boss Berry a fond adieu, promising to return at the end of the investigation with souvenirs for both of them.
In the elevator, we head down to the motor pool. Stopping in the sub basement, we take our travel orders over to Barbara, who has been handing out the keys since sometime during Bush Sr.’s administration. She looks over our documents with a practiced eye before disappearing. I set our equipment down.
“What do you think, Cam?” Jack asks, “Tactical Assualt Vehicle? Humvee?”
“Stratus, I hope,” I say and Jack rolls his eyes, “I want the air conditioner.”
“Wuss,” he pushes.
“You can sweat your ass off in the Mojave in a Humvee or TAV, any time you want… as long as I don’t have to tag along.” I say, turning back to Barbara. She tosses the keys on the counter. We grab for the keys at the same time. Pulling back we pump our fists three times in a quick game of ‘rock, paper, scissors,’ to see who will drive.
When Jack’s fist slaps against his open palm in ‘rock,’ I take my open palm, ‘paper,’ and shove him. When he stumbles backwards to get his balance, I sweep the keys off the counter.
“You cheater!” he exclaims.
“Hey, you’re the one who was farting around. I won fair and square. ‘Paper’ beats ‘rock,’ dummy.” He grumbles and grabs the bags of equipment. We enter the garage and I match the number on the keys to a Dodge Stratus. I make Jack load the equipment in the trunk. Getting in, I adjust the seat and mirrors. Jack gets in and plays, laying the seat as far back as it will go.
“Man, I wish I’d had one of these in college!” he exclaims.
“Why, the Yugo just not quite the chick magnet of your dreams?”
“Hearty har har, Cam. I could have lived in here in college and saved a fortune.”
“Yeah, well, when we go to your place, you can just move right on in.” I say, turning the engine over. Pulling out into mid day San Diego traffic, I squint and pull out my sun glasses. Driving across the city, I pull in at Jack’s building.
“This isn’t going to take long, you might as well come up.” Turning the engine off, I follow Jack up the six flights of stairs to his apartment. Entering, he tosses his keys in a dish by the door.
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to change before we leave,” he says over his shoulder before disappearing into his bedroom. I close the door behind me and go straight to the fridge. Grabbing a can of Dr. Pepper for myself, I snag a Sprite for him.
“Hey, grab me a…” he sticks his head out the door, and I toss the Sprite at him, “You’re frightening, you know?” I grin over the top of my can. For as sophomoric as we act, Jack and I have been friends for about five years. We are probably the reason the both of us have problems with significant others. My last boyfriend dumped me the night he met Jack… ditto on Jack’s last two girlfriends.
I toss back another drink of Dr. Pepper. Jack brings his bag out to the couch and zips it shut before tugging on a t-shirt. Slugging back the last of my drink, I toss the can in Jack’s environmentally friendly recycle box.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yeah. Do you have sunscreen?”
“What, are you watching your girlish good looks?” I shoot back.
Jack gives a half curl of his lip, “Aren’t you funny? I was actually trying to look out for you. Didn’t want you to have that sunburn from hell again.” Jack references the first time he and I were partnered, and I tried to be Dirty Harriet at the pier. I had paid for it the next week with a sunburn so bad, I’d ended up in the emergency room blistered and burnt.
“Yeah, I’ve got sunscreen, jackass,” I reply and Jack tips his head back to laugh.
**********************************************
Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s 0300. I haven’t slept a wink, I’ve just rolled around. Throwing back the covers, I pull on shorts and a t-shirt and go to the living room to finish unpacking boxes. At 0530, I realize that I finally have my downstairs unpacked, including my bedroom. By 0615, I’ve changed, put an extra toothbrush, hairbrush, and makeup in a bag to leave at work. I get Traver loaded up in the car so he can hang out with me while I work.