Characters and Fiction (1/1)
Title: Characters and Fiction
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR13
Category: Gen
Pairing: None
Character(s): McGee, Tony
Genre: Friendship, Episode Tag
Words: 1,053
Warnings: None
Spoilers: 4x20 “Cover Story”
Disclaimer: All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: A book can reveal a lot about its author, especially when the lines between fiction and reality start to blur. Tag to “Cover Story.” Written for the I’ll Be There for You Challenge and the No Names Challenge at NFA.
A/N: The idea for this story came from Shinju90 who posted it in the Fic Requests thread. Thanks!
* * *
It was probably long past midnight; he hadn’t checked the clock. He realized he should go home, but he couldn’t, not yet. Intellectually he knew he wasn’t responsible for what had happened, that writing about people didn’t mean their deaths were his fault, but he still couldn’t face the sight of his typewriter. So he sat here at his desk, staring holes into a half-finished manuscript and wondering what he was supposed to do with it now.
A shadow fell into the small circle of light projected by his desk lamp and he looked up.
“Hey,” said a familiar voice.
“What are you doing here?” He had counted on being alone, undisturbed, while he tried to make sense of things.
The other man shrugged. “I do paperwork at night. What are you doing here?”
“Thinking,” he sighed. “About what to do with this.” He prodded the carefully arranged pile of typed pages.
“Finish it.” As if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
“How can I, after what happened? Two people are dead because of my book!”
His colleague pulled a chair over, dropping down next to him. “He was crazy. Totally batshit insane! That has nothing to do with you. If it hadn’t been your book he would have found something else to become obsessed with.”
He sighed again. “I know.”
He received a doubtful look.
“I really do. It’s just kind of hard to think about writing more when this will always remind me of, well…” He trailed off. “It’ll be okay, though. I’ve used other cases as inspiration; I just need the time to get some distance, then I’ll be fine. And my publisher’s going to give me an extension.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, and for the first time actually felt confident about that.
“Okay then. But since we’re talking about your writing…”
“Don’t worry, there’s not going to be a third book. My publisher won’t let me off the hook for this one, but after that I’m done.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
He looked over, questioningly.
“It was about that possible ending you had. The one where you die.” He looked uncharacteristically serious. Then again, he’d been exactly that for most of the investigation. Something else was going on there, but it would have to be set aside to think about later.
“It’s not me, it’s just a character based on-”
“But you called him ‘me.’ You said ‘They kill me.’ You never slipped up like that with any of the other characters.”
“It’s… it’s hard to explain.” He paused. “They really are characters to me, you know. Yes, I based them on the team, but they’re like alternate versions of everyone. I develop them beyond their basic traits, way beyond what I know about you, and that’s when they become fictional. But it’s kind of hard to develop fictional emotions for yourself. And besides, what author doesn’t want to be a part of his own story? So yeah, he’s pretty much me.”
“And you were going to kill him?”
“No! Well, yes, but… look, I tried to explain it to you, it’s freewriting. It was just an idea.”
“That’s the thing.” His face was grave. “If you said you’d planned that for plot reasons or story development or something, that would be different. But it was freewriting. Doesn’t that mean it was something you were thinking about it subconsciously?”
“You can’t be- You think I’m suicidal?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well no, not really. But something’s got to be going on, right?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, weary. He supposed just telling the truth was the best idea. “There’s a reason I shred so much of what I write,” he started slowly. “It’s not meant for anybody to read. Writing is… it’s not just to get a book done. It a way of experimenting, trying things out, seeing what would happen without actually doing whatever it is. It’s also a way expressing myself, and even just relieving stress or tension, sometimes. It’s personal, and most of it ends up in the shredder. The only reason I kept that possible ending is because it seemed like a decent idea for a plot twist.”
“So you were just experimenting with killing your alter ego?” He looked doubtful and still worried.
“You’ve had bad days. Haven’t you ever gone to the shooting range just to put holes in something? Haven’t you ever imagined someone’s face on those figures?”
“I’ve never imagined my own.”
“Because that wouldn’t hurt the people you’re imagining hurting:”
“How would…” And then it clicked. “You killed yourself to punish us?”
“My character, not me! And it wasn’t you, either, it was just other characters.”
“But still, the fact that you were thinking-”
“I’m not proud of it, okay? And it’s not something I did consciously! I’d just had a rough day, and I was feeling kind of, well, unappreciated. And I guess maybe a little part of me was thinking ‘I wish they could see what it would be like to have to get on without me.’ It’s childish and stupid; I knew that as soon as I read it. I would have shredded it except, like I said, I thought I might be able to use the plot point.”
His friend said nothing.
“It’s nothing, okay? I was just being-”
“Human.” The word was spoken quietly, without a trace of judgment.
He paused, not sure what to make of that. Then he looked into understanding eyes. “Thanks.”
The other man stood up, clapping him warmly on the shoulder. “You have to finish the book,” he said. “You can’t leave all those fans of yours hanging.”
*
When he came in to work the next morning, he found a cup of hot coffee sitting on his desk. He sniffed at it, then took a cautious sip and was surprised to find it was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He eyed his colleagues, slightly suspicious.
“I happen to know you were up way past your bedtime last night,” came the answer to his unspoken question in the usual, teasing tone that nevertheless managed to seem slightly friendlier than usual. “Can’t have you falling asleep on us today. Who would keep us from having a total computer-crash meltdown?”
He smiled.
* * *
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR13
Category: Gen
Pairing: None
Character(s): McGee, Tony
Genre: Friendship, Episode Tag
Words: 1,053
Warnings: None
Spoilers: 4x20 “Cover Story”
Disclaimer: All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: A book can reveal a lot about its author, especially when the lines between fiction and reality start to blur. Tag to “Cover Story.” Written for the I’ll Be There for You Challenge and the No Names Challenge at NFA.
A/N: The idea for this story came from Shinju90 who posted it in the Fic Requests thread. Thanks!
* * *
It was probably long past midnight; he hadn’t checked the clock. He realized he should go home, but he couldn’t, not yet. Intellectually he knew he wasn’t responsible for what had happened, that writing about people didn’t mean their deaths were his fault, but he still couldn’t face the sight of his typewriter. So he sat here at his desk, staring holes into a half-finished manuscript and wondering what he was supposed to do with it now.
A shadow fell into the small circle of light projected by his desk lamp and he looked up.
“Hey,” said a familiar voice.
“What are you doing here?” He had counted on being alone, undisturbed, while he tried to make sense of things.
The other man shrugged. “I do paperwork at night. What are you doing here?”
“Thinking,” he sighed. “About what to do with this.” He prodded the carefully arranged pile of typed pages.
“Finish it.” As if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
“How can I, after what happened? Two people are dead because of my book!”
His colleague pulled a chair over, dropping down next to him. “He was crazy. Totally batshit insane! That has nothing to do with you. If it hadn’t been your book he would have found something else to become obsessed with.”
He sighed again. “I know.”
He received a doubtful look.
“I really do. It’s just kind of hard to think about writing more when this will always remind me of, well…” He trailed off. “It’ll be okay, though. I’ve used other cases as inspiration; I just need the time to get some distance, then I’ll be fine. And my publisher’s going to give me an extension.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, and for the first time actually felt confident about that.
“Okay then. But since we’re talking about your writing…”
“Don’t worry, there’s not going to be a third book. My publisher won’t let me off the hook for this one, but after that I’m done.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
He looked over, questioningly.
“It was about that possible ending you had. The one where you die.” He looked uncharacteristically serious. Then again, he’d been exactly that for most of the investigation. Something else was going on there, but it would have to be set aside to think about later.
“It’s not me, it’s just a character based on-”
“But you called him ‘me.’ You said ‘They kill me.’ You never slipped up like that with any of the other characters.”
“It’s… it’s hard to explain.” He paused. “They really are characters to me, you know. Yes, I based them on the team, but they’re like alternate versions of everyone. I develop them beyond their basic traits, way beyond what I know about you, and that’s when they become fictional. But it’s kind of hard to develop fictional emotions for yourself. And besides, what author doesn’t want to be a part of his own story? So yeah, he’s pretty much me.”
“And you were going to kill him?”
“No! Well, yes, but… look, I tried to explain it to you, it’s freewriting. It was just an idea.”
“That’s the thing.” His face was grave. “If you said you’d planned that for plot reasons or story development or something, that would be different. But it was freewriting. Doesn’t that mean it was something you were thinking about it subconsciously?”
“You can’t be- You think I’m suicidal?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well no, not really. But something’s got to be going on, right?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, weary. He supposed just telling the truth was the best idea. “There’s a reason I shred so much of what I write,” he started slowly. “It’s not meant for anybody to read. Writing is… it’s not just to get a book done. It a way of experimenting, trying things out, seeing what would happen without actually doing whatever it is. It’s also a way expressing myself, and even just relieving stress or tension, sometimes. It’s personal, and most of it ends up in the shredder. The only reason I kept that possible ending is because it seemed like a decent idea for a plot twist.”
“So you were just experimenting with killing your alter ego?” He looked doubtful and still worried.
“You’ve had bad days. Haven’t you ever gone to the shooting range just to put holes in something? Haven’t you ever imagined someone’s face on those figures?”
“I’ve never imagined my own.”
“Because that wouldn’t hurt the people you’re imagining hurting:”
“How would…” And then it clicked. “You killed yourself to punish us?”
“My character, not me! And it wasn’t you, either, it was just other characters.”
“But still, the fact that you were thinking-”
“I’m not proud of it, okay? And it’s not something I did consciously! I’d just had a rough day, and I was feeling kind of, well, unappreciated. And I guess maybe a little part of me was thinking ‘I wish they could see what it would be like to have to get on without me.’ It’s childish and stupid; I knew that as soon as I read it. I would have shredded it except, like I said, I thought I might be able to use the plot point.”
His friend said nothing.
“It’s nothing, okay? I was just being-”
“Human.” The word was spoken quietly, without a trace of judgment.
He paused, not sure what to make of that. Then he looked into understanding eyes. “Thanks.”
The other man stood up, clapping him warmly on the shoulder. “You have to finish the book,” he said. “You can’t leave all those fans of yours hanging.”
*
When he came in to work the next morning, he found a cup of hot coffee sitting on his desk. He sniffed at it, then took a cautious sip and was surprised to find it was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He eyed his colleagues, slightly suspicious.
“I happen to know you were up way past your bedtime last night,” came the answer to his unspoken question in the usual, teasing tone that nevertheless managed to seem slightly friendlier than usual. “Can’t have you falling asleep on us today. Who would keep us from having a total computer-crash meltdown?”
He smiled.
* * *