The Anatomy of Writing (1/1)
Title: The Anatomy of Writing
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR15
Category: Gen, Het
Pairing: McAmy, Tisa, Tibbs/OFC
Character(s): McGee, L.J. Tibbs, Agent McGregor, Agent Tommy, Officer Lisa, Amy Sutton
Genre: Five Times Format, Character Study, Romance, Angst, Friendship
Words: 4,274
Warnings: Canon Character Death
Spoilers: 2x23 “Twilight,” 3x01/2 “Kill Ari”
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: Four scenes that didn’t make it into Deep Six, and one that did. Written for the Five Times Challenge and the Characterization Challenge (McGee) at NFA.
* * *
Catharsis
The silence in the squad room is almost unbearable, but speaking would somehow make it worse still. They are sitting within feet of each other, close enough to distinguish every sighing breath, and every one of them is alone. Trapped in a solitary pain that isolates them from the others. There is a hole in everything, and an aching awareness of the empty desk where Jane should be sitting.
The unfathomable has occurred, shattering their world, and with it their illusions of immortality. All of them face death on a regular basis, and somewhere along the line escaping it became routine. Taken for granted. Something always goes right; something always saves them. Except this time it didn’t.
It seems implausible that life is moving on around them, that people are pursuing ordinary activities, that somewhere someone’s life is still the same when theirs will never be again.
Despite its shared cause, their pain is fundamentally unique, and they all deal with it in their own peculiar ways. Tommy’s way is anger. He lashes out, striking at the nearest available target, not caring who gets hit, restraining himself only in that he uses words rather than fists or bullets. Craving the release of tension, of pent-up emotion, the feeling of fighting to cover up his helplessness. Rage is the only outlet he will allow himself.
Tibbs takes the opposite approach, treating what remains of his team with uncommon, undeserved, and almost painful kindness. Protecting what he has, or what he hasn’t yet lost.
They are acting out of character, all of them. Or maybe they aren’t, maybe they are just presenting the sides of themselves that they keep carefully hidden under normal circumstances, but that surge to the surface as their masks crack and crumble. Maybe this is who they are, when everything is stripped away.
Of all of them, McGregor is the most forlorn. Tommy and Tibbs have been through this kind of loss before, and while it doesn’t lessen the pain it gives them at least an understanding of what they are going through. McGregor, on the other hand, is completely adrift. He has no data for this, no reference points, not even an idea of the scale. It is like that time when he was eight and playing in the ocean, when a wave caught him by surprise, made him lose his footing and plunged him underwater, and for three terrifying moments he was completely at the mercy of the water that seemed to be pulling him in all directions at once, with no idea which way was up and if he would ever reach the surface again.
It is terrifying, paralyzing, but at the same time it doesn’t feel completely real. It can’t be. For all that he chases dangerous criminals on a regular basis, McGregor’s life is marked by a steady, undeterred predictability. He comes in to work in the morning, exchanges some witty remarks with his teammates and grabs his gear when his boss tells him to. He takes measurements and pictures and collected evidence, helps Amy in the lab and hacks the occasional secure database. He likes it that way.
And through it all, Jane is there. Holding out an evidence bag for him to drop something into, stepping out of the way to snap a photo, bickering with Tommy, and slapping the back of his head if his eyes linger in the vague vicinity of her legs for more than a millisecond.
The thought that she is gone seems preposterous. Sure, she isn’t there right now, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t come striding through the door any minute, or so he feels in defiance of his knowledge to the contrary. She is a part of life, and the fact that she will never again be striding through any doors doesn’t seem to want to penetrate the deeper layers of his mind.
Maybe he is subconsciously blocking out the truth, embracing the illusion of normalcy. Trying to retreat into his neat, orderly world of facts and predictability. Using his routines as a sanctuary. Blocking out any part of reality that might interrupt his make-believe world. Like her body, lying on one of the cold metal slabs down in autopsy.
He is a gamer, spends hours in front of his computer, playing a battle-savvy elf lord fighting other imaginary creatures for imaginary prizes in an imaginary world. Blocking out reality isn’t even a conscious decision anymore; it’s instinctive. The real world recedes and the fantasy becomes real, at least until it is shattered by some jarring element of reality that is too loud to fade and too wrong to fit in, like the insistent beep of the phone or the shrill ring of the doorbell. Seeing her body would be his doorbell.
He goes to see her anyway, or maybe because. It shakes him, but it hurts less than he thought it would. Maybe that’s because, in the back of his mind, he was always aware of this truth. Whatever the rationalizations, at least he is now back on the same, albeit shaky, ground as the others.
He thinks things will be better after they catch the bastard, and after Jane is buried.
They aren’t. Jane may now be resting in peace, but there is no peace for them. Ali is dead, but Tibbs selfishly claimed the satisfaction of shooting, leaving McGregor and especially Tommy feeling somehow wanting. What is worse is that they now have no one to chase. No one to focus their collective nervous energy on, no one to channel their aggression towards, no one to fight.
No, now they have to go back to their daily life, and try not to destroy each other in the process. They are to one another the strongest, most tangible reminders of their loss, as well as the easiest targets. How can they not end up turning on each other, knocking each other down like the falling pieces of a house of cards from which someone has ruthlessly torn part of its fundamental structure?
The jazz Amy plays as they walk away from the grave is upbeat, hopeful, but there is very little hope for them. They are irrevocably shattered, cutting their flesh on the broken shards of themselves, tears running down numb cheeks and dripping down to mix with their blood.
McGee’s hands were trembling so badly that he barely managed to hit the last few keys. As he blinked and slowly returned to reality, he realized that his whole body was shaking, and that his cheeks were suspiciously wet.
He closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, steadying himself. Then he opened them again and looked for a few moments at the small pile of white pages he had filled with evenly typed black letters. Then he gathered them up into a neat pile and, one by one, fed them into the shredder.
*
Fantasy
Amy Sutton is never not busy. She is the one and only forensic scientist at the DC headquarters, and at any given time there is evidence from five or more cases awaiting analysis. Aside from mainlining caffeine, however, she handles the stress remarkably well, and always makes time for a chat or at least a personal comment when someone drops by her lab, even though usually has half her attention directed at something under a microscope at the same time.
“McGregor!” she exclaims happily as the agent walks through the sliding doors to her lab. “What have you got for me?”
He holds out a Caf-Pow to her, knowing better than to present her with more work without also presenting her with her source of energy. Well, part of her energy, anyway. He knows that even without the masses of caffeine in her bloodstream she is naturally bouncy.
“Ooh, a bribe!” She grins. “That will get you everywhere. And what do you have for my babies?”
“We found it in the victim’s apartment.” He hands her a small vial of milky liquid. “Tibbs says you have an hour to tell us what it is.”
“Tell him I won’t disappoint him!” She takes a large gulp of the Caf-Pow and bounds off to one of her machines, vial in hand.
“He knows.” He smiles and turns towards the door, leaving her to what she does best.
Amy’s mind is typically several dozen steps ahead of her body, and as she goes through the menial task of preparing a sample for analysis, it wanders. “I used to date him, you know,” she tells her favorite ‘baby,’ the ‘Major’ Mass Spectrometer. “Well, of course you know that. I told you. And it was it was the real you you, too, not some earlier version, even though it was kind of long ago. That’s cause the Director says there’s no money for new equipment, which really isn’t good, but in a way it kind of is, too, ‘cause I’d really miss you. You’ve been here forever and you never let me down and you always help me out. You’re my Major MassSpec!” She pauses to take a breath as she inserts the sample for analysis. “What was I talking about? Oh, right, McGregor. He’s always so sweet,” she sighs.
The machine doesn’t actually respond or ask ‘What happened,’ but it might as well have. For the longest hours of the day, when Tibbs’ team is out in the field, her machines are her only companions, and by now Amy considers them her close friends. They are like pets to her; they require some time, some food and some tender, loving care and in return they always listen when she needs to talk, and know just what to do to cheer her up. The beep that indicates a match has been found is or an analysis is complete is just as heartwarming and meaningful to her as the snuffles of a puppy. Amy is generally recognized as being over-endowed with empathy, but it serves her well in her basement lab. Where other people might become lonely she finds comfort in her inanimate friends.
“We broke up,” Amy says, replying to the question Major MassSpec might have asked. “Well, actually, I kind of broke up with him.”
“I had to!” she defends herself, when the Major seems to disapprove. “He was getting too clingy! He was always asking where our relationship was going, and things like that.” She starts pacing up and down the lab. “If we’d kept on dating he probably would have proposed or something! And that’s crazy! Why can’t dating just be fun? Why couldn’t he just let it happened and not worry about the future?”
Major MassSpec beeps quietly, indicating one phase of the analysis is complete.
“I know it’s just who he is. But that’s the problem! I’m not like that. I’m,” she spins and waves her arms around dramatically, “free! So it doesn’t matter that he is super nice, or that he understands me and is always there when I need him, or that even when I get angry at him he always forgives me-”
The Major beeps again, louder this time.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Amy says, sobering slightly. “He’s just so sweet and, well, he’s not perfect, because nobody’s perfect, and besides, he has that things he does where- but that’s not what matters. I am. I think I’m scared of getting tied to anyone serious. But if there’s anyone worth getting tied to, it’s him, right?” She pauses, and seems to hear a reply in the customary whirring of her machine. “Right. And besides, I miss him.”
The mass spectrometer beeps once more, this time signaling that the analysis is complete, and Amy rushes over to check the results.
Right on cue, the doors slide open and McGregor walks in. “Hey, Amy, do you have the-” He doesn’t get any further before she throws herself into his arms and kisses him with all her might.
“Amy, what-?” He gasps, trying to catch his breath.
“It’s standard over-the-counter cough syrup and it hasn’t been tampered with and I’m sorry I broke up with you and I’m sorry I said you were too clingy and I’m sorry about everything and will you take me back?”
McGregor blinks, trying to get his wits back and make sense of the rush of words. Then he looks into Amy’s pleading eyes and knows that there is only one answer to that question.
“Always, Amy.”
McGee sighed as he reread the scene. His editor had abominable handwriting, but he could still make out the key words in the red scrawl along the margins. ‘Out of character,’ ‘cliché,’ ‘lack of relevance.’ She didn’t mince her words. He thought he recognized the words ‘wish fulfillment,’ too, but that might just have been a sort of Rorschach effect. Sighing again, he turned on his shredder and watched as the paper was efficiently cut into tiny little strands.
*
Mortification
“Our victim’s name is Lyudmila Agrafena, Boss, she was a petty officer second class…”
At the sound of the name ‘Lyudmila’, Tommy’s voice started to fade out, replaced memories of an almost-forgotten past flooding L.J. Tibbs’ mind. He had been undercover in Russia as Yakov Fyodor, a lone operative now looking integration with a well-established spy ring. Lyudmila Varnikova had had both information and influence he needed, and she had taken a fancy to him.
One scene in particular flashed before his eyes.
“Yakov,” she drawls, using a voice far too sultry to be anything but an invitation to bed. “There is something I want to show you.” She gives him a pointed look and turns slowly, letting him follow her swaying hips to her bedroom. She is not a woman to doubt that he will.
Once he has closed the door behind him, she pushes him up against it and rakes long, red nails over his shirt and down his chest, almost purring. “You have ambition, don’t you, Yakov? You want to rise up in our organization. Well, you should know that you cannot do better than to make me happy. And you want to make me happy, don’t you?”
She is clearly not accustomed to being refused. It is lucky for Tibbs, then, that he has no intention of refusing her. She is his gateway into the higher levels of the spy ring; it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. She is also a very attractive woman who is more than aware of her charms and knows exactly how to best put them to use.
He growls an affirmative before kissing her roughly, letting her take the lead when their tongues battle, but still presenting the firm opposition she is looking for.
Lyudmila wastes no time in tearing at his clothes, and soon she has divested them both of their shirts. Tibbs runs his hand appreciatively over her smooth skin as she presses her body into his and places hot licks along his jaw. He feels his body reacting and groans in response, then tries to maneuver her towards the bed.
The woman is having none of it and pushes him back against the door with surprising strength, pinning him and showing very clearly that they are going to do this her way. That is perfectly fine with him, as long as she doesn’t stop moving her body against his. Then she does just that, but his groan of frustration turns into a gasp when she quickly undoes his belt buckle, shoving down his pants and freeing
McGee propelled himself backwards violently in his chair, skidding away from the desk. Moaning in mental agony, he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, trying to will the words out of his brain. There was no way - no way - he could write this. His publisher wouldn’t be happy, but this time he was going to insist on the point. Regardless of how much she tried to cajole him, there would under no circumstances be any steamy scenes in his book. He shuddered and hurriedly tore the page from the typewriter, stuffing it into the shredder as quickly as he could. If only the mental images could be destroyed so easily. He definitely wouldn’t be able to look Gibbs in the eye tomorrow.
*
Realization
Agent Tommy exasperation is rapidly turning into anger. He is proud and sure of the way he does his job, and he does not take criticism on that point from anyone but Tibbs. The fact that Officer Lisa is accusing him of mishandling a situation is particularly galling, since it comes from someone who arrived in the country only months ago and is still grappling with basic concepts, such as the fact that she can’t just shoot everyone who irritates her.
“Why must you do something so deplorably stupid?” Lisa hisses at her partner. “You could have been killed!”
“So could you,” Tommy retaliates brusquely.
“I know what I am doing. I have experience defusing bombs; you do not. You did not contribute anything by standing next to me! Why could you not just stay at a safe distance?”
“Because that’s not how it works! It’s not what a team does! I don’t know how things are in Mossad, but here when someone on your team is in danger you don’t run away, you stand by them!”
“It was not a danger you could have done anything about! It is foolish to stay, and if you do it again you will end up dying for no purpose, just because of a sentimental wish to stand next to someone you cannot help.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” Tommy was furious now, the brief vision he had had of her torn to pieces in a ball of fire flashing once again in his mind’s eye. “Don’t you think it’s better to get blown up yourself than to watch your teammates die and know the only reason you’re still alive is because you deserted them?”
“No, I do not! If I am alive, I can continue the fight! That is what they would have wanted, and that is the way to honor their memories. If I die with them when I don’t have to, my life is wasted and my death is useless!”
Not for the first time, but with a stronger jolt than usual, Tommy realizes how different their worlds are. Can he blame, really, for her approach to life, when for most of hers all she has known is war?
“And if I am the one dying because the bomb is not properly defused,” she continues more quietly, “it is much better to know that everyone else is safe, that with my failure I am not also responsible for the death of someone I-” She looks at him and swallows. “Someone I care about,” she finishes softly.
At the sight of the emotion shining in her eyes, all the remaining anger flees Tommy’s system, replaced with something else. He doesn’t recognize it at first, but then she parts her lips ever so slightly, and he sees a reflection of his feelings in her face.
“Lisa,” he says softly, but she shakes her head.
“No.”
Tommy stares for a second longer, then nods. But before he can turn away, she grasps his collar and pulls him down to her, kissing him roughly. Just as abruptly, she lets go and steps back, almost as if nothing had happened.
Tommy clears his throat, unsure of what to say. “If that’s how you thank me for helping you defuse a bomb, I think I’m going to do that more often.” ‘When in doubt, make a joke’ is a method that has rarely failed him.
“You were not helping me. You are incapable of helping with a bomb,” Lisa growls, but without resentment and even with a touch of humor, this time.
“Well, a man can’t be skilled at everything,” Tommy muses. “And I happen to be very capable in other areas.” He leers suggestively and she laughs it off as she always does. Things are back to normal, except not quite. There is something else between them now, and unspoken understanding of something more, and it makes Tommy smile and even whistle a few notes of a happy tune as he walks.
McGee stared at the words in front of him in shock. He hadn’t been paying attention, had let the writing part of his mind take over completely. Words and sentences had streamed from his fingers seemingly without his conscious participation, as they always did at the height of his creativity. It was how he produced his best scenes, letting his imagination flow onto the pages without pausing and considering and overthinking every phrase.
And now here was this. How on earth had his imagination produces this? It was ridiculous, absurd. Yet the dialog had developed so naturally that even now, looking at the result, the scene read as genuine, and he couldn’t tell where he had veered off course or where Tommy and Lisa had started appearing out of character. They didn’t seem out of character at all.
But if they weren’t out of character that meant… Tony and Ziva? He closed his eyes, trying to recall a typical interaction between the two. Tony would be leering at her, yes, but he leered at almost any woman; it would have been odd for him not to. And Ziva would be reacting the way she always did, with good-humored mocking and teasing. McGee smiles as he recalled some of the more interesting moments in the squad room. She was the only one who, on a regular basis, managed to leave Tony speechless. They were just teammates, bantering with each other as always, each according to their own character. But now that he thought about it… was there a hint of something in the way their eyes lingered on the other? In the twitch of nervous energy when one of them was headed into danger without the other?
Looking back at the neatly typed page, McGee suddenly felt like a voyeur. Without giving himself time for second thought, he pulled it from the typewriter and gave it over to his shredder, which destroyed the evidence with a familiar, steady buzz.
*
Truth
McGregor stares down at his right wrist in frustration. It is only sprained - not fractured, as he had feared - but it is still immobilized for the time being by a cast. He can move his fingers to a certain extent, but typing is going to be hell. Well, he will to have to get through it somehow, he decides. He has a case report to finish, and Tibbs isn’t going to let him off the hook just because of a fractured bone. He sighs and makes to grab his case notes, only to realize they aren’t where he left them.
At the desk next to his, Tommy is suspiciously absorbed in typing his own case report.
“Tommy.” McGregor starts wearily. “Do you have my notes?”
“Yep.” Tommy points at a precariously wobbling stack of files sitting next to his keyboard.
“Can I have them back, please?”
“Nope.”
Internally, McGregor groans. “Look, Tommy, I’m really not in the mood. I have to get my report done in an hour and with this cast it’s going to take forever just to fill out the basic details.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Wrong about what? That it’ll take me take me forever?”
“No, you’re probably right about that. You’re wrong about having to get your report done in an hour.”
“What do you mean?” McGregor asks, surprised and slightly suspicious. “Did Tibbs say I could have more time?”
“Nope.”
“Then what-?”
Tommy hands him several sheets of paper. “It’s already done.”
“What is?”
“Your report.”
McGregor blinks and looks at the document, which indeed turns out to be the report he is supposed to be working on. He looks over at Tommy, who answers with a shrug before the questions is even asked.
“I got bored. You were at the hospital, Tibbs was out doing who knows what and Lisa wouldn’t let me distract her. I had nothing else to do.”
“Thank you, Tommy.” McGregor’s thanks is doubly heartfelt as he catches a glimpse of the other agent’s screen and realizes that Tommy is rushing to finish his own report in time now. “I still need the notes, though, for-”
“Your incident report,” Lisa supplies, laying a file down on his desk. Sure enough, ‘his’ incident report is inside.
“I thought I had to write my own account of what happened for this?” he asks, cautiously.
“You did,” Lisa says with little patience for bureaucratic formalities. “As soon as you sign here.”
McGregor skims the test cautiously.
“Don’t worry,” Tommy says, “I made her read it out loud and fixed all the idioms. You’re safe.”
Feeling his face split into a wide smile, McGregor signs the sheet in front of him. “Thanks, guys,” he says. “Really.”
“Well, we’ve got to protect that hand of yours, don’t we, Probie?” Tommy replies, casually. “I have a feeling you’ll need it soon enough. The Director just called Tibbs to talk about some super classified case, and you know how he feels about classified things. You’re probably going to end up having to hack the Pentagon or something.”
McGregor leans back in his chair, still smiling. He has wondered about his choice of job at times, but it is in moments like these that he knows there is nowhere else he would rather be.
* * *
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR15
Category: Gen, Het
Pairing: McAmy, Tisa, Tibbs/OFC
Character(s): McGee, L.J. Tibbs, Agent McGregor, Agent Tommy, Officer Lisa, Amy Sutton
Genre: Five Times Format, Character Study, Romance, Angst, Friendship
Words: 4,274
Warnings: Canon Character Death
Spoilers: 2x23 “Twilight,” 3x01/2 “Kill Ari”
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: Four scenes that didn’t make it into Deep Six, and one that did. Written for the Five Times Challenge and the Characterization Challenge (McGee) at NFA.
* * *
Catharsis
The silence in the squad room is almost unbearable, but speaking would somehow make it worse still. They are sitting within feet of each other, close enough to distinguish every sighing breath, and every one of them is alone. Trapped in a solitary pain that isolates them from the others. There is a hole in everything, and an aching awareness of the empty desk where Jane should be sitting.
The unfathomable has occurred, shattering their world, and with it their illusions of immortality. All of them face death on a regular basis, and somewhere along the line escaping it became routine. Taken for granted. Something always goes right; something always saves them. Except this time it didn’t.
It seems implausible that life is moving on around them, that people are pursuing ordinary activities, that somewhere someone’s life is still the same when theirs will never be again.
Despite its shared cause, their pain is fundamentally unique, and they all deal with it in their own peculiar ways. Tommy’s way is anger. He lashes out, striking at the nearest available target, not caring who gets hit, restraining himself only in that he uses words rather than fists or bullets. Craving the release of tension, of pent-up emotion, the feeling of fighting to cover up his helplessness. Rage is the only outlet he will allow himself.
Tibbs takes the opposite approach, treating what remains of his team with uncommon, undeserved, and almost painful kindness. Protecting what he has, or what he hasn’t yet lost.
They are acting out of character, all of them. Or maybe they aren’t, maybe they are just presenting the sides of themselves that they keep carefully hidden under normal circumstances, but that surge to the surface as their masks crack and crumble. Maybe this is who they are, when everything is stripped away.
Of all of them, McGregor is the most forlorn. Tommy and Tibbs have been through this kind of loss before, and while it doesn’t lessen the pain it gives them at least an understanding of what they are going through. McGregor, on the other hand, is completely adrift. He has no data for this, no reference points, not even an idea of the scale. It is like that time when he was eight and playing in the ocean, when a wave caught him by surprise, made him lose his footing and plunged him underwater, and for three terrifying moments he was completely at the mercy of the water that seemed to be pulling him in all directions at once, with no idea which way was up and if he would ever reach the surface again.
It is terrifying, paralyzing, but at the same time it doesn’t feel completely real. It can’t be. For all that he chases dangerous criminals on a regular basis, McGregor’s life is marked by a steady, undeterred predictability. He comes in to work in the morning, exchanges some witty remarks with his teammates and grabs his gear when his boss tells him to. He takes measurements and pictures and collected evidence, helps Amy in the lab and hacks the occasional secure database. He likes it that way.
And through it all, Jane is there. Holding out an evidence bag for him to drop something into, stepping out of the way to snap a photo, bickering with Tommy, and slapping the back of his head if his eyes linger in the vague vicinity of her legs for more than a millisecond.
The thought that she is gone seems preposterous. Sure, she isn’t there right now, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t come striding through the door any minute, or so he feels in defiance of his knowledge to the contrary. She is a part of life, and the fact that she will never again be striding through any doors doesn’t seem to want to penetrate the deeper layers of his mind.
Maybe he is subconsciously blocking out the truth, embracing the illusion of normalcy. Trying to retreat into his neat, orderly world of facts and predictability. Using his routines as a sanctuary. Blocking out any part of reality that might interrupt his make-believe world. Like her body, lying on one of the cold metal slabs down in autopsy.
He is a gamer, spends hours in front of his computer, playing a battle-savvy elf lord fighting other imaginary creatures for imaginary prizes in an imaginary world. Blocking out reality isn’t even a conscious decision anymore; it’s instinctive. The real world recedes and the fantasy becomes real, at least until it is shattered by some jarring element of reality that is too loud to fade and too wrong to fit in, like the insistent beep of the phone or the shrill ring of the doorbell. Seeing her body would be his doorbell.
He goes to see her anyway, or maybe because. It shakes him, but it hurts less than he thought it would. Maybe that’s because, in the back of his mind, he was always aware of this truth. Whatever the rationalizations, at least he is now back on the same, albeit shaky, ground as the others.
He thinks things will be better after they catch the bastard, and after Jane is buried.
They aren’t. Jane may now be resting in peace, but there is no peace for them. Ali is dead, but Tibbs selfishly claimed the satisfaction of shooting, leaving McGregor and especially Tommy feeling somehow wanting. What is worse is that they now have no one to chase. No one to focus their collective nervous energy on, no one to channel their aggression towards, no one to fight.
No, now they have to go back to their daily life, and try not to destroy each other in the process. They are to one another the strongest, most tangible reminders of their loss, as well as the easiest targets. How can they not end up turning on each other, knocking each other down like the falling pieces of a house of cards from which someone has ruthlessly torn part of its fundamental structure?
The jazz Amy plays as they walk away from the grave is upbeat, hopeful, but there is very little hope for them. They are irrevocably shattered, cutting their flesh on the broken shards of themselves, tears running down numb cheeks and dripping down to mix with their blood.
McGee’s hands were trembling so badly that he barely managed to hit the last few keys. As he blinked and slowly returned to reality, he realized that his whole body was shaking, and that his cheeks were suspiciously wet.
He closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, steadying himself. Then he opened them again and looked for a few moments at the small pile of white pages he had filled with evenly typed black letters. Then he gathered them up into a neat pile and, one by one, fed them into the shredder.
*
Fantasy
Amy Sutton is never not busy. She is the one and only forensic scientist at the DC headquarters, and at any given time there is evidence from five or more cases awaiting analysis. Aside from mainlining caffeine, however, she handles the stress remarkably well, and always makes time for a chat or at least a personal comment when someone drops by her lab, even though usually has half her attention directed at something under a microscope at the same time.
“McGregor!” she exclaims happily as the agent walks through the sliding doors to her lab. “What have you got for me?”
He holds out a Caf-Pow to her, knowing better than to present her with more work without also presenting her with her source of energy. Well, part of her energy, anyway. He knows that even without the masses of caffeine in her bloodstream she is naturally bouncy.
“Ooh, a bribe!” She grins. “That will get you everywhere. And what do you have for my babies?”
“We found it in the victim’s apartment.” He hands her a small vial of milky liquid. “Tibbs says you have an hour to tell us what it is.”
“Tell him I won’t disappoint him!” She takes a large gulp of the Caf-Pow and bounds off to one of her machines, vial in hand.
“He knows.” He smiles and turns towards the door, leaving her to what she does best.
Amy’s mind is typically several dozen steps ahead of her body, and as she goes through the menial task of preparing a sample for analysis, it wanders. “I used to date him, you know,” she tells her favorite ‘baby,’ the ‘Major’ Mass Spectrometer. “Well, of course you know that. I told you. And it was it was the real you you, too, not some earlier version, even though it was kind of long ago. That’s cause the Director says there’s no money for new equipment, which really isn’t good, but in a way it kind of is, too, ‘cause I’d really miss you. You’ve been here forever and you never let me down and you always help me out. You’re my Major MassSpec!” She pauses to take a breath as she inserts the sample for analysis. “What was I talking about? Oh, right, McGregor. He’s always so sweet,” she sighs.
The machine doesn’t actually respond or ask ‘What happened,’ but it might as well have. For the longest hours of the day, when Tibbs’ team is out in the field, her machines are her only companions, and by now Amy considers them her close friends. They are like pets to her; they require some time, some food and some tender, loving care and in return they always listen when she needs to talk, and know just what to do to cheer her up. The beep that indicates a match has been found is or an analysis is complete is just as heartwarming and meaningful to her as the snuffles of a puppy. Amy is generally recognized as being over-endowed with empathy, but it serves her well in her basement lab. Where other people might become lonely she finds comfort in her inanimate friends.
“We broke up,” Amy says, replying to the question Major MassSpec might have asked. “Well, actually, I kind of broke up with him.”
“I had to!” she defends herself, when the Major seems to disapprove. “He was getting too clingy! He was always asking where our relationship was going, and things like that.” She starts pacing up and down the lab. “If we’d kept on dating he probably would have proposed or something! And that’s crazy! Why can’t dating just be fun? Why couldn’t he just let it happened and not worry about the future?”
Major MassSpec beeps quietly, indicating one phase of the analysis is complete.
“I know it’s just who he is. But that’s the problem! I’m not like that. I’m,” she spins and waves her arms around dramatically, “free! So it doesn’t matter that he is super nice, or that he understands me and is always there when I need him, or that even when I get angry at him he always forgives me-”
The Major beeps again, louder this time.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Amy says, sobering slightly. “He’s just so sweet and, well, he’s not perfect, because nobody’s perfect, and besides, he has that things he does where- but that’s not what matters. I am. I think I’m scared of getting tied to anyone serious. But if there’s anyone worth getting tied to, it’s him, right?” She pauses, and seems to hear a reply in the customary whirring of her machine. “Right. And besides, I miss him.”
The mass spectrometer beeps once more, this time signaling that the analysis is complete, and Amy rushes over to check the results.
Right on cue, the doors slide open and McGregor walks in. “Hey, Amy, do you have the-” He doesn’t get any further before she throws herself into his arms and kisses him with all her might.
“Amy, what-?” He gasps, trying to catch his breath.
“It’s standard over-the-counter cough syrup and it hasn’t been tampered with and I’m sorry I broke up with you and I’m sorry I said you were too clingy and I’m sorry about everything and will you take me back?”
McGregor blinks, trying to get his wits back and make sense of the rush of words. Then he looks into Amy’s pleading eyes and knows that there is only one answer to that question.
“Always, Amy.”
McGee sighed as he reread the scene. His editor had abominable handwriting, but he could still make out the key words in the red scrawl along the margins. ‘Out of character,’ ‘cliché,’ ‘lack of relevance.’ She didn’t mince her words. He thought he recognized the words ‘wish fulfillment,’ too, but that might just have been a sort of Rorschach effect. Sighing again, he turned on his shredder and watched as the paper was efficiently cut into tiny little strands.
*
Mortification
“Our victim’s name is Lyudmila Agrafena, Boss, she was a petty officer second class…”
At the sound of the name ‘Lyudmila’, Tommy’s voice started to fade out, replaced memories of an almost-forgotten past flooding L.J. Tibbs’ mind. He had been undercover in Russia as Yakov Fyodor, a lone operative now looking integration with a well-established spy ring. Lyudmila Varnikova had had both information and influence he needed, and she had taken a fancy to him.
One scene in particular flashed before his eyes.
“Yakov,” she drawls, using a voice far too sultry to be anything but an invitation to bed. “There is something I want to show you.” She gives him a pointed look and turns slowly, letting him follow her swaying hips to her bedroom. She is not a woman to doubt that he will.
Once he has closed the door behind him, she pushes him up against it and rakes long, red nails over his shirt and down his chest, almost purring. “You have ambition, don’t you, Yakov? You want to rise up in our organization. Well, you should know that you cannot do better than to make me happy. And you want to make me happy, don’t you?”
She is clearly not accustomed to being refused. It is lucky for Tibbs, then, that he has no intention of refusing her. She is his gateway into the higher levels of the spy ring; it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. She is also a very attractive woman who is more than aware of her charms and knows exactly how to best put them to use.
He growls an affirmative before kissing her roughly, letting her take the lead when their tongues battle, but still presenting the firm opposition she is looking for.
Lyudmila wastes no time in tearing at his clothes, and soon she has divested them both of their shirts. Tibbs runs his hand appreciatively over her smooth skin as she presses her body into his and places hot licks along his jaw. He feels his body reacting and groans in response, then tries to maneuver her towards the bed.
The woman is having none of it and pushes him back against the door with surprising strength, pinning him and showing very clearly that they are going to do this her way. That is perfectly fine with him, as long as she doesn’t stop moving her body against his. Then she does just that, but his groan of frustration turns into a gasp when she quickly undoes his belt buckle, shoving down his pants and freeing
McGee propelled himself backwards violently in his chair, skidding away from the desk. Moaning in mental agony, he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, trying to will the words out of his brain. There was no way - no way - he could write this. His publisher wouldn’t be happy, but this time he was going to insist on the point. Regardless of how much she tried to cajole him, there would under no circumstances be any steamy scenes in his book. He shuddered and hurriedly tore the page from the typewriter, stuffing it into the shredder as quickly as he could. If only the mental images could be destroyed so easily. He definitely wouldn’t be able to look Gibbs in the eye tomorrow.
*
Realization
Agent Tommy exasperation is rapidly turning into anger. He is proud and sure of the way he does his job, and he does not take criticism on that point from anyone but Tibbs. The fact that Officer Lisa is accusing him of mishandling a situation is particularly galling, since it comes from someone who arrived in the country only months ago and is still grappling with basic concepts, such as the fact that she can’t just shoot everyone who irritates her.
“Why must you do something so deplorably stupid?” Lisa hisses at her partner. “You could have been killed!”
“So could you,” Tommy retaliates brusquely.
“I know what I am doing. I have experience defusing bombs; you do not. You did not contribute anything by standing next to me! Why could you not just stay at a safe distance?”
“Because that’s not how it works! It’s not what a team does! I don’t know how things are in Mossad, but here when someone on your team is in danger you don’t run away, you stand by them!”
“It was not a danger you could have done anything about! It is foolish to stay, and if you do it again you will end up dying for no purpose, just because of a sentimental wish to stand next to someone you cannot help.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” Tommy was furious now, the brief vision he had had of her torn to pieces in a ball of fire flashing once again in his mind’s eye. “Don’t you think it’s better to get blown up yourself than to watch your teammates die and know the only reason you’re still alive is because you deserted them?”
“No, I do not! If I am alive, I can continue the fight! That is what they would have wanted, and that is the way to honor their memories. If I die with them when I don’t have to, my life is wasted and my death is useless!”
Not for the first time, but with a stronger jolt than usual, Tommy realizes how different their worlds are. Can he blame, really, for her approach to life, when for most of hers all she has known is war?
“And if I am the one dying because the bomb is not properly defused,” she continues more quietly, “it is much better to know that everyone else is safe, that with my failure I am not also responsible for the death of someone I-” She looks at him and swallows. “Someone I care about,” she finishes softly.
At the sight of the emotion shining in her eyes, all the remaining anger flees Tommy’s system, replaced with something else. He doesn’t recognize it at first, but then she parts her lips ever so slightly, and he sees a reflection of his feelings in her face.
“Lisa,” he says softly, but she shakes her head.
“No.”
Tommy stares for a second longer, then nods. But before he can turn away, she grasps his collar and pulls him down to her, kissing him roughly. Just as abruptly, she lets go and steps back, almost as if nothing had happened.
Tommy clears his throat, unsure of what to say. “If that’s how you thank me for helping you defuse a bomb, I think I’m going to do that more often.” ‘When in doubt, make a joke’ is a method that has rarely failed him.
“You were not helping me. You are incapable of helping with a bomb,” Lisa growls, but without resentment and even with a touch of humor, this time.
“Well, a man can’t be skilled at everything,” Tommy muses. “And I happen to be very capable in other areas.” He leers suggestively and she laughs it off as she always does. Things are back to normal, except not quite. There is something else between them now, and unspoken understanding of something more, and it makes Tommy smile and even whistle a few notes of a happy tune as he walks.
McGee stared at the words in front of him in shock. He hadn’t been paying attention, had let the writing part of his mind take over completely. Words and sentences had streamed from his fingers seemingly without his conscious participation, as they always did at the height of his creativity. It was how he produced his best scenes, letting his imagination flow onto the pages without pausing and considering and overthinking every phrase.
And now here was this. How on earth had his imagination produces this? It was ridiculous, absurd. Yet the dialog had developed so naturally that even now, looking at the result, the scene read as genuine, and he couldn’t tell where he had veered off course or where Tommy and Lisa had started appearing out of character. They didn’t seem out of character at all.
But if they weren’t out of character that meant… Tony and Ziva? He closed his eyes, trying to recall a typical interaction between the two. Tony would be leering at her, yes, but he leered at almost any woman; it would have been odd for him not to. And Ziva would be reacting the way she always did, with good-humored mocking and teasing. McGee smiles as he recalled some of the more interesting moments in the squad room. She was the only one who, on a regular basis, managed to leave Tony speechless. They were just teammates, bantering with each other as always, each according to their own character. But now that he thought about it… was there a hint of something in the way their eyes lingered on the other? In the twitch of nervous energy when one of them was headed into danger without the other?
Looking back at the neatly typed page, McGee suddenly felt like a voyeur. Without giving himself time for second thought, he pulled it from the typewriter and gave it over to his shredder, which destroyed the evidence with a familiar, steady buzz.
*
Truth
McGregor stares down at his right wrist in frustration. It is only sprained - not fractured, as he had feared - but it is still immobilized for the time being by a cast. He can move his fingers to a certain extent, but typing is going to be hell. Well, he will to have to get through it somehow, he decides. He has a case report to finish, and Tibbs isn’t going to let him off the hook just because of a fractured bone. He sighs and makes to grab his case notes, only to realize they aren’t where he left them.
At the desk next to his, Tommy is suspiciously absorbed in typing his own case report.
“Tommy.” McGregor starts wearily. “Do you have my notes?”
“Yep.” Tommy points at a precariously wobbling stack of files sitting next to his keyboard.
“Can I have them back, please?”
“Nope.”
Internally, McGregor groans. “Look, Tommy, I’m really not in the mood. I have to get my report done in an hour and with this cast it’s going to take forever just to fill out the basic details.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Wrong about what? That it’ll take me take me forever?”
“No, you’re probably right about that. You’re wrong about having to get your report done in an hour.”
“What do you mean?” McGregor asks, surprised and slightly suspicious. “Did Tibbs say I could have more time?”
“Nope.”
“Then what-?”
Tommy hands him several sheets of paper. “It’s already done.”
“What is?”
“Your report.”
McGregor blinks and looks at the document, which indeed turns out to be the report he is supposed to be working on. He looks over at Tommy, who answers with a shrug before the questions is even asked.
“I got bored. You were at the hospital, Tibbs was out doing who knows what and Lisa wouldn’t let me distract her. I had nothing else to do.”
“Thank you, Tommy.” McGregor’s thanks is doubly heartfelt as he catches a glimpse of the other agent’s screen and realizes that Tommy is rushing to finish his own report in time now. “I still need the notes, though, for-”
“Your incident report,” Lisa supplies, laying a file down on his desk. Sure enough, ‘his’ incident report is inside.
“I thought I had to write my own account of what happened for this?” he asks, cautiously.
“You did,” Lisa says with little patience for bureaucratic formalities. “As soon as you sign here.”
McGregor skims the test cautiously.
“Don’t worry,” Tommy says, “I made her read it out loud and fixed all the idioms. You’re safe.”
Feeling his face split into a wide smile, McGregor signs the sheet in front of him. “Thanks, guys,” he says. “Really.”
“Well, we’ve got to protect that hand of yours, don’t we, Probie?” Tommy replies, casually. “I have a feeling you’ll need it soon enough. The Director just called Tibbs to talk about some super classified case, and you know how he feels about classified things. You’re probably going to end up having to hack the Pentagon or something.”
McGregor leans back in his chair, still smiling. He has wondered about his choice of job at times, but it is in moments like these that he knows there is nowhere else he would rather be.
* * *