It's Raining on My Hero-- An NCIS Fic: Chapter One
Summary: Five weeks post-Aliyah, Gibbs borrows Agent Cameron Hall from Everett for an assignment. When a domestic dispute at Quantico turns deadly, the team must put aside their differences to crisscross Washington, D.C. in search of a cold blooded killer… before any of the bodies left behind becomes one of their own.
Spoilers: Aliyah/ Truth or Consequence
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 the original fic 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 One
I putter around my new house as I wait for a final coat of paint in the front room to dry. Peeking into the kitchen, I am excited to see that it is almost complete. Where there are still boxes and plastic covered furniture in the front room, the kitchen gleams with everything in its place.
I cross to the sink, and dump my roller, turn on the tap, and pour myself a plastic cup of iced tea. As I stir in a spoonful of sugar, I cast my gaze around the room barely able to believe that just two and a half weeks ago my request for transfer had been approved.
When I finish stirring, I decide to add a healthy hit of rum. ‘Why not?’ I think, ‘I have nowhere to be tomorrow.’ I took a full two weeks off to move so I could spend a few days with family between Everett and Washington DC.
As far as I’m aware, I shouldn’t be joining Agent Casey’s team for another two days. After a six month stint in narcotics, I feel more comfortable getting back into the violent crimes division.
In the living room, I contemplate my moving habits: I always unpack the kitchen first so I feel more settled. I am mildly annoyed that the dining room set I ordered didn’t show up with the rest of my furniture. One whole half of the room looks ridiculous with no furniture whatsoever. On the rug in front of the fireplace, my black Dutch Shepherd dozes.
There are many things to be said for dogs, one of which is the fact that he doesn’t care if I tell him how my day went. Good, bad, or dinner table inappropriate; he will always love me.
I reach down and scratch him behind the ears, “Hey, Traver,” his ears snap up, “What do you think?” He wags his tail and rolls over to have me scratch his belly.
“I had a feeling,” I say with a smile, indulging him.
Looking around the room, still so sparsely decorated, I sigh in contentment. This is the first house I’ve lived in since I was in high school. Too many years of apartment living has caused me to go overboard on furniture. A couch with matching loveseat, two end tables, an overstuffed chair, and a coffee table occupy space in the corner the owner had called the living room. On the mantle above me, a cd player cycles back to the first track and Rockapella tunes up to Pachabel’s Canon in D.
Traver’s head comes up off the rug and his ears raise in the direction of the door. A low growl builds in his throat, stilling my hand. Over the music, I hear a knock on my front door. Checking my watch, I see that it’s almost 2200. Apprehension twists my stomach in knots. I contemplate grabbing my 229 before remembering I had left it on my bedside table.
I head for the door cautiously, tea in hand. Rolling my eyes at my appearance, I tell myself whoever’s there will have to excuse my paint stained tank top, ratty shorts, and disheveled ponytail. Another knock sounds as I reach for the knob and crack the door. I can’t even begin to imagine who is knocking on my door, especially at this hour.
Opening the door a crack, I find the last person I would have ever suspected.
“Agent Gibbs,” I say in recognition, “What brings you all the way out to McLean at such an hour?”
“Heard you’d been transferred to the Yard.”
I wait. So does he. He’s not much of a conversationalist, but that isn’t new. He’d been like this since I had met him during a murder investigation that had crisscrossed the Southwest.
“Oh, yes,” I awkwardly nod and pick the exchange up, “I have.”
Our conversation trails off once more. We stand there for several long seconds. In that time, I note that his hair has more silver than I remember. Six years have passed and time is telling, if only in his hair… and maybe a few more lines around his eyes.
He shuffles his feet on the porch, “Did you have a minute?” he asks, motioning inside.
“Of course… please come in. I’m not sure where my manners are.” I say in apology, stepping back from the door so he can enter. My bare feet make sweaty ‘pops’ on the hardwood. He looks around the room before glancing back at me.
“This is a very nice place, how’d you come by this?” He asks, gesturing between the wood floors and large windows.
“I was fortunate enough to be standing in the real estate office waiting to be set up with a realtor when the guy who owned it struck up a conversation with me. Said he had lived here for years and hated to sell the place, but he was looking to downsize and travel Italy. He told me he had retired from the Navy several years ago, and was looking to hand it down. I told him about my years in the service, stating that I was not as recently separated from it, and the conversation really took off from there. I told him I‘d be interested in seeing the house, and we left without even seeing a realtor. He showed me around, and I fell in love, told him I‘d pay top dollar for it. He named a very reasonable price and I paid a down payment on the spot.” Gibbs nods.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, “I‘ve been here once before.”
“Really? I bought the house from AJ Chegwidden. Figured you might have crossed paths once or twice.”
“Name sounds about right. Yeah, I thought this place looked familiar. I was here once about ten or fifteen years ago for some type of get together. Probably rubbing elbows with some of the JAG brass,” He stands in the middle of the room looking around, “Place’s in great shape.”
On the stereo, Rockapella changes keys into Green Day’s Basket Case.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.
“Coffee?” He asks, really looking at me for the first time since he came in. I can tell there’s something he wants but I motion him towards the kitchen, waiting for him to come out and say it.
“I was a cop after I was a sailor, Gibbs… of course I have coffee. You know, NCIS should really instate a caffeine tolerance test at FLETC,” I say. He laughs.
I busy myself pulling out my coffee machine. While I grind the beans, Gibbs looks around the kitchen. I unsnap the lid and pour the grounds into the filter and start the machine. Seeing his gaze wandering, I call him on it.
“Yeah, I’m odd. I move into my kitchen first, that way I can start making meals the first day. Doesn’t take me as long to adjust when I start here. Please, have a seat.” I motion to one of the barstools and he sits.
“That’s a nice coffee maker,” he observes. I hear Traver click into the kitchen; he sits on the rug in front of the sink and surveys Gibbs.
“Yeah. I don’t like having to deal with a pot. It’s one less thing for me to wash.” The water heats quickly and I grab a cup. Putting it up to the dispenser, I push a button and wait for it to fill. When it’s finished, I hand it to him and watch as he takes a sip.
“That’s a fancy machine, makes pretty good coffee. The only thing that could make this better…” I pull a bottle of Woodrun’s Reserve out from under the island, “Hey, that’s the good stuff.” he states appreciatively. I hand him the bottle and he pours, taking his time.
When he puts the bottle on the counter, he seems to square his shoulders as if preparing to speak.
Unfortunately, Traver chooses that moment to cozy up to Gibbs, putting his head on the agent’s knee.
“Hi, there,” he says, scratching Traver behind the ears. Whatever he had been on the verge of saying dies.
“That’s Traver.” Gibbs’ head swings up to look at me questioningly, “Don’t ask me… he came to me with the name. I have a friend who works a DEA K9 unit out in Seattle. Traver was being retired, and she wanted to place him with someone she trusted. Ergo, I snagged the best roommate a girl could ask for. The only thing he’s bad at is wiping his feet.”
He fixes me with eyes of cerulean, and I can see a smile dancing there.
“So… what brings you all the way out to McLean in the middle of the night?” I try to maneuver the subject back around to the reason for this late night visit.
“I talked to the director earlier. Your name came up in the conversation, as well as your transfer.”
“And?” I prompt.
“I need a pinch hitter.” His tone sobers as he sets his mug on the counter with a soft clunk. And there it is… Gibbs is calling in a favor that’s been hanging over me for six years.
I stare at the counter for a few seconds before I speak. Sighing, I ask, “How long?”
“A couple of weeks… maybe a month.”
“What’s the deal? You got someone TAD?” I grab the jug of sun tea from the fridge and refresh my glass while trying not to act like I’m against the wall on this.
“Sort of.”
“What’s ‘sort of’?” I use finger quotes… a bad habit I’d picked up in San Diego and one I knew Gibbs hadn‘t been fond of.
“It’s a long story.” He twists his mug on the counter.
“I’ve got time.”
“‘Long story,’ means ‘drop it’.” His voice takes on a warning note, “I want you on my team, Cam.” he says, taking another swig of his coffee and bourbon.
“I was looking for something more permanent,” I start.
Gibbs cuts me off, snapping “I’ve got a lot on my plate and I just want someone on my team I can trust!” Dialing it back he adds, “and if I can’t trust you after Anacostia…”
“Anacostia,” I hiss, “You‘re a shitty salesman, Jethro Gibbs!” I snap. So the bastard was calling in his favor. He shrugs as if to say, ‘take it or leave it.’ I’ve never walked out on a favor yet, and I wasn’t about to start now.
“I’ll be your pinch hitter, Gibbs… but the subject of Anacostia is off limits.” I put as much ice and menace in my voice as I can summon.
“For now?”
“Forever!” I snap, pinning him with my glare. The silence stretches between us for long moments. Neither of us breaks the eye contact, unwilling to be the first to budge.
Finally, Gibbs stands, quirking one silver brow at me and I can see that his outburst had really been directed elsewhere. I just can’t help but get pissed off whenever anyone brings up that incident, and even Gibbs is not allowed to go there. He measures me with a look, nodding.
“Sounds good. You start tomorrow,” he drains the last of his coffee. I take a deep, calming breath.
“You seemed awfully sure that I was going to let you cash in your favor.”
“You just told me I can’t talk about it,” he shrugs before heading out of the kitchen and pauses at the door.
“Hey… don’t let DiNozzo get to you.” I stare at him in bewilderment.
“I have no idea what that means.”
Gibbs chuckles at this, “You will. Heard hostility was your specialty.”
I glare at him as much as I dare, “Yeah? Well, Kennedy has a big fat mouth, considering I kicked his ass six ways from Sunday.” I smirk.
“I saw the mug shots… you didn’t look so hot either.” He says matter-of-factly and starts for the front door. I follow slowly.
“Guess I got what I deserved for fist-fighting on liberty.” A smile twitches at the corners of Gibbs’ lips.
I can’t help but smile recalling the incident in question. It had gotten brought up years ago on the case we worked together. Turns out, then- Staff Sergeant Kennedy had once served under a hard-assed Gunny by the name of Gibbs, who had gotten a good laugh out of the fact that his former student had been beaten to hell by a sailor, and a woman to boot.
Sobering, I ask, “Does your team know they’re getting me?” Gibbs looks at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
His lips twitch into a small, half smile as he opens the front door, “They will.”
I return to the kitchen and pour out my tea.
Spoilers: Aliyah/ Truth or Consequence
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 the original fic 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 One
I putter around my new house as I wait for a final coat of paint in the front room to dry. Peeking into the kitchen, I am excited to see that it is almost complete. Where there are still boxes and plastic covered furniture in the front room, the kitchen gleams with everything in its place.
I cross to the sink, and dump my roller, turn on the tap, and pour myself a plastic cup of iced tea. As I stir in a spoonful of sugar, I cast my gaze around the room barely able to believe that just two and a half weeks ago my request for transfer had been approved.
When I finish stirring, I decide to add a healthy hit of rum. ‘Why not?’ I think, ‘I have nowhere to be tomorrow.’ I took a full two weeks off to move so I could spend a few days with family between Everett and Washington DC.
As far as I’m aware, I shouldn’t be joining Agent Casey’s team for another two days. After a six month stint in narcotics, I feel more comfortable getting back into the violent crimes division.
In the living room, I contemplate my moving habits: I always unpack the kitchen first so I feel more settled. I am mildly annoyed that the dining room set I ordered didn’t show up with the rest of my furniture. One whole half of the room looks ridiculous with no furniture whatsoever. On the rug in front of the fireplace, my black Dutch Shepherd dozes.
There are many things to be said for dogs, one of which is the fact that he doesn’t care if I tell him how my day went. Good, bad, or dinner table inappropriate; he will always love me.
I reach down and scratch him behind the ears, “Hey, Traver,” his ears snap up, “What do you think?” He wags his tail and rolls over to have me scratch his belly.
“I had a feeling,” I say with a smile, indulging him.
Looking around the room, still so sparsely decorated, I sigh in contentment. This is the first house I’ve lived in since I was in high school. Too many years of apartment living has caused me to go overboard on furniture. A couch with matching loveseat, two end tables, an overstuffed chair, and a coffee table occupy space in the corner the owner had called the living room. On the mantle above me, a cd player cycles back to the first track and Rockapella tunes up to Pachabel’s Canon in D.
Traver’s head comes up off the rug and his ears raise in the direction of the door. A low growl builds in his throat, stilling my hand. Over the music, I hear a knock on my front door. Checking my watch, I see that it’s almost 2200. Apprehension twists my stomach in knots. I contemplate grabbing my 229 before remembering I had left it on my bedside table.
I head for the door cautiously, tea in hand. Rolling my eyes at my appearance, I tell myself whoever’s there will have to excuse my paint stained tank top, ratty shorts, and disheveled ponytail. Another knock sounds as I reach for the knob and crack the door. I can’t even begin to imagine who is knocking on my door, especially at this hour.
Opening the door a crack, I find the last person I would have ever suspected.
“Agent Gibbs,” I say in recognition, “What brings you all the way out to McLean at such an hour?”
“Heard you’d been transferred to the Yard.”
I wait. So does he. He’s not much of a conversationalist, but that isn’t new. He’d been like this since I had met him during a murder investigation that had crisscrossed the Southwest.
“Oh, yes,” I awkwardly nod and pick the exchange up, “I have.”
Our conversation trails off once more. We stand there for several long seconds. In that time, I note that his hair has more silver than I remember. Six years have passed and time is telling, if only in his hair… and maybe a few more lines around his eyes.
He shuffles his feet on the porch, “Did you have a minute?” he asks, motioning inside.
“Of course… please come in. I’m not sure where my manners are.” I say in apology, stepping back from the door so he can enter. My bare feet make sweaty ‘pops’ on the hardwood. He looks around the room before glancing back at me.
“This is a very nice place, how’d you come by this?” He asks, gesturing between the wood floors and large windows.
“I was fortunate enough to be standing in the real estate office waiting to be set up with a realtor when the guy who owned it struck up a conversation with me. Said he had lived here for years and hated to sell the place, but he was looking to downsize and travel Italy. He told me he had retired from the Navy several years ago, and was looking to hand it down. I told him about my years in the service, stating that I was not as recently separated from it, and the conversation really took off from there. I told him I‘d be interested in seeing the house, and we left without even seeing a realtor. He showed me around, and I fell in love, told him I‘d pay top dollar for it. He named a very reasonable price and I paid a down payment on the spot.” Gibbs nods.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, “I‘ve been here once before.”
“Really? I bought the house from AJ Chegwidden. Figured you might have crossed paths once or twice.”
“Name sounds about right. Yeah, I thought this place looked familiar. I was here once about ten or fifteen years ago for some type of get together. Probably rubbing elbows with some of the JAG brass,” He stands in the middle of the room looking around, “Place’s in great shape.”
On the stereo, Rockapella changes keys into Green Day’s Basket Case.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.
“Coffee?” He asks, really looking at me for the first time since he came in. I can tell there’s something he wants but I motion him towards the kitchen, waiting for him to come out and say it.
“I was a cop after I was a sailor, Gibbs… of course I have coffee. You know, NCIS should really instate a caffeine tolerance test at FLETC,” I say. He laughs.
I busy myself pulling out my coffee machine. While I grind the beans, Gibbs looks around the kitchen. I unsnap the lid and pour the grounds into the filter and start the machine. Seeing his gaze wandering, I call him on it.
“Yeah, I’m odd. I move into my kitchen first, that way I can start making meals the first day. Doesn’t take me as long to adjust when I start here. Please, have a seat.” I motion to one of the barstools and he sits.
“That’s a nice coffee maker,” he observes. I hear Traver click into the kitchen; he sits on the rug in front of the sink and surveys Gibbs.
“Yeah. I don’t like having to deal with a pot. It’s one less thing for me to wash.” The water heats quickly and I grab a cup. Putting it up to the dispenser, I push a button and wait for it to fill. When it’s finished, I hand it to him and watch as he takes a sip.
“That’s a fancy machine, makes pretty good coffee. The only thing that could make this better…” I pull a bottle of Woodrun’s Reserve out from under the island, “Hey, that’s the good stuff.” he states appreciatively. I hand him the bottle and he pours, taking his time.
When he puts the bottle on the counter, he seems to square his shoulders as if preparing to speak.
Unfortunately, Traver chooses that moment to cozy up to Gibbs, putting his head on the agent’s knee.
“Hi, there,” he says, scratching Traver behind the ears. Whatever he had been on the verge of saying dies.
“That’s Traver.” Gibbs’ head swings up to look at me questioningly, “Don’t ask me… he came to me with the name. I have a friend who works a DEA K9 unit out in Seattle. Traver was being retired, and she wanted to place him with someone she trusted. Ergo, I snagged the best roommate a girl could ask for. The only thing he’s bad at is wiping his feet.”
He fixes me with eyes of cerulean, and I can see a smile dancing there.
“So… what brings you all the way out to McLean in the middle of the night?” I try to maneuver the subject back around to the reason for this late night visit.
“I talked to the director earlier. Your name came up in the conversation, as well as your transfer.”
“And?” I prompt.
“I need a pinch hitter.” His tone sobers as he sets his mug on the counter with a soft clunk. And there it is… Gibbs is calling in a favor that’s been hanging over me for six years.
I stare at the counter for a few seconds before I speak. Sighing, I ask, “How long?”
“A couple of weeks… maybe a month.”
“What’s the deal? You got someone TAD?” I grab the jug of sun tea from the fridge and refresh my glass while trying not to act like I’m against the wall on this.
“Sort of.”
“What’s ‘sort of’?” I use finger quotes… a bad habit I’d picked up in San Diego and one I knew Gibbs hadn‘t been fond of.
“It’s a long story.” He twists his mug on the counter.
“I’ve got time.”
“‘Long story,’ means ‘drop it’.” His voice takes on a warning note, “I want you on my team, Cam.” he says, taking another swig of his coffee and bourbon.
“I was looking for something more permanent,” I start.
Gibbs cuts me off, snapping “I’ve got a lot on my plate and I just want someone on my team I can trust!” Dialing it back he adds, “and if I can’t trust you after Anacostia…”
“Anacostia,” I hiss, “You‘re a shitty salesman, Jethro Gibbs!” I snap. So the bastard was calling in his favor. He shrugs as if to say, ‘take it or leave it.’ I’ve never walked out on a favor yet, and I wasn’t about to start now.
“I’ll be your pinch hitter, Gibbs… but the subject of Anacostia is off limits.” I put as much ice and menace in my voice as I can summon.
“For now?”
“Forever!” I snap, pinning him with my glare. The silence stretches between us for long moments. Neither of us breaks the eye contact, unwilling to be the first to budge.
Finally, Gibbs stands, quirking one silver brow at me and I can see that his outburst had really been directed elsewhere. I just can’t help but get pissed off whenever anyone brings up that incident, and even Gibbs is not allowed to go there. He measures me with a look, nodding.
“Sounds good. You start tomorrow,” he drains the last of his coffee. I take a deep, calming breath.
“You seemed awfully sure that I was going to let you cash in your favor.”
“You just told me I can’t talk about it,” he shrugs before heading out of the kitchen and pauses at the door.
“Hey… don’t let DiNozzo get to you.” I stare at him in bewilderment.
“I have no idea what that means.”
Gibbs chuckles at this, “You will. Heard hostility was your specialty.”
I glare at him as much as I dare, “Yeah? Well, Kennedy has a big fat mouth, considering I kicked his ass six ways from Sunday.” I smirk.
“I saw the mug shots… you didn’t look so hot either.” He says matter-of-factly and starts for the front door. I follow slowly.
“Guess I got what I deserved for fist-fighting on liberty.” A smile twitches at the corners of Gibbs’ lips.
I can’t help but smile recalling the incident in question. It had gotten brought up years ago on the case we worked together. Turns out, then- Staff Sergeant Kennedy had once served under a hard-assed Gunny by the name of Gibbs, who had gotten a good laugh out of the fact that his former student had been beaten to hell by a sailor, and a woman to boot.
Sobering, I ask, “Does your team know they’re getting me?” Gibbs looks at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
His lips twitch into a small, half smile as he opens the front door, “They will.”
I return to the kitchen and pour out my tea.