It's Raining on My Hero-- An NCIS Fic: Chapter Two
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 Two
My alarm goes off at five am, and I decide to forego my typical morning run in favor of an extra long shower. Stepping out of the shower, I wander to my closet and spend entirely too long trying to pick something to wear today.
With half my closet strewn across my bed, I finally settle on a smart blazer, slacks and boots, betting that I’ll spend the day flying a desk. I pick up my Celtic knot pendant, and pull it on over my head before I pull my hair back in a banana clip and apply a light dusting of makeup. With a final check of my makeup and a quick tug at the hair that curls down the back of my neck, I step back and drum my fingers on the rim of the basin, satisfied.
Looking up at the clock, I hit full panic mode when I see that it’s already after six. I bolt downstairs and hurriedly fix myself a cup of coffee. Gibbs will be pissed if I’m late for my very first day. Traver comes into the kitchen, toenails clicking on the wood. I scratch his ears roughly before dumping a cup of food in his dish.
“Hey, big man. I’m sorry I didn’t take you for your run, but I’m in a hurry.”
I let him out to do his business and put a lid on my coffee mug, grabbing my purse off the bar on my way out. I holler for Traver and he comes at a sprint. Letting him into the house, I lock the door and scramble for my car.
Jumping in, I turn the key and gun the engine, peeling out of my driveway. I stop at the street, and the Focus spits gravel as I put my foot to the floor and head east. Once I hit the Beltway, I turn the stereo up and blast Bond’s Shine. Traffic is terrible but I somehow manage to hit every green light on my way to the Navy Yard.
Pulling into a parking space in the lot, I make a dash for the building. I pass security, flashing my badge and emptying my pockets. I ask directions to the personnel office. Following a first floor hallway, I pass the firmly closed door to the Office of Special Services. Suppressing the heebeejeebies, I find the personnel office just a few doors down.
The agent there updates my photo on file with the agency, issues me parking passes and a bunch of other junk that I really don’t need, including a building map. The poor guy seems to be the typical, standard issue office agent: suit, tie, vague expression, and bored tone. He escorts me to the elevator and gets on. At the third floor, he essentially boots me out of the elevator and into the bullpen. As I turn to ask a question, he advises, “Take it up with your senior agent.”
The door shuts and I’m alone in the midst of controlled chaos.
Shit.
‘What an ass,’ I think. Turning, I look across a roomful of agents. The squad room seems to consist of four or six stations and each station seems to have about four agents to a group. Every face is new, re-enforcing why I despise being the new kid. ‘If I know Gibbs, I‘m guessing not a lot has changed,’ I think, heading off down the aisle and searching for the only face I know. Nearing the end of the aisle, I feel my spirits sink. I haven’t seen anyone I know.
Rounding the last group of desks, I come face to face with Gibbs. Inwardly, I sigh in relief.
“Agent Gibbs,” I say.
“Agent Hall.” He acknowledges. Two of the three desks behind him are full, and the occupants are focused on our conversation.
“Where do I start?” I ask.
“There.” I look at the desk he indicates. Nothing has been moved since the last agent was there. Gibbs turns to look at his team, “Get back to work, I want reports on my desk by noon.” He gestures that I should sit.
Great.
Before I can get there the man to my left stands up, extends his hand and shakes mine, “Tim McGee, I do a lot of tech work, so if you need some help getting up and running, I’d be glad to help you out.” He attempts a half smile that falls flat. I smile back.
“Thanks.” I turn to the second man. He’s very good-looking even though he flashes me a disgruntled scowl. I extend my hand. He ignores it, kicking back in his desk chair, curling his lip, and showing off an arm in a sling as an excuse. Recognition dawns on me.
“You must be DiNozzo.”
“And you must be the replacement,” he says harshly. Gibbs leans over DiNozzo’s desk, drawing back his hand. The younger man cringes, dropping his feet to the floor.
“Tony,” Gibbs warns.
“Yeah, Boss?” Tony is less disgruntled and more tense, waiting for the hand to fall.
“Shake the woman’s hand.” DiNozzo reluctantly offers his good hand. I take it and shake firmly. DiNozzo applies steady pressure, and I can feel the bones in my hand grinding together. I try not to show my discomfort.
“Nice to meet you,” his tone suggests that he would rather have stepped in dog crap than met me.
“You too.” We stand there for another moment before we drop hands. I feel like rubbing mine, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
While they get to work on various assignments, I elect to get my area under control. Pushing my computer monitor around, I settle for putting it between myself and DiNozzo. I try not to get into drawers or mess with too much, knowing it will be ill- received.
Taking personal items from the desk’s previous tenant off the desktop, I place them carefully in the bottom right-hand drawer. I pick up a half filled legal pad, and note a feminine script. A photo of a man lays face up in the center drawer. I keep an eye out for a picture of the person who sat here before me, my curiosity piqued. I keep moving things with the eye to the fact that the occupant will, possibly, be returning.
McGee and DiNozzo leave and return several minutes later with three fresh coffees. Neither offers me the third cup. I try to concentrate on setting up the desktop of my computer so I can navigate it more comfortably. Clicking off or minimizing several open windows, I am stopped in my tracks by a window which refuses to close. After several minutes, and a frustrating go at a prompt in Hebrew, I ask McGee to help.
Leaning down he looks at the program, “It’s an e-mail site. I think it’s asking you to save your draft. But I don’t know which is yes or no,” he taps at some keys.
“Do you want to save…” his fingers reach for the keys, “No…”
“Yes!” DiNozzo practically shouts across the seven feet of space between us. Catching himself he continues, “Save it, Probie. It might be something important.” McGee rolls his eyes softly, but copies and pastes the draft to a word document before closing the window. Gibbs chooses this moment to interrupt us.
“Hall, while you’ve got a minute,” he trails off, stands, and crooks a finger in my direction.
“Sure.” I say, wondering what‘s going on. Gibbs takes off past my desk and I follow. As I walk past DiNozzo’s desk, he glances up. I stare back. He halfheartedly curls his lip at me, and I cock my eyebrow as if to say, “bring it on.” As I turn, I catch Gibbs giving us both an icy stare.
“Get back to work, DiNozzo,” Gibbs growls.
Chapter One
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 Two
My alarm goes off at five am, and I decide to forego my typical morning run in favor of an extra long shower. Stepping out of the shower, I wander to my closet and spend entirely too long trying to pick something to wear today.
With half my closet strewn across my bed, I finally settle on a smart blazer, slacks and boots, betting that I’ll spend the day flying a desk. I pick up my Celtic knot pendant, and pull it on over my head before I pull my hair back in a banana clip and apply a light dusting of makeup. With a final check of my makeup and a quick tug at the hair that curls down the back of my neck, I step back and drum my fingers on the rim of the basin, satisfied.
Looking up at the clock, I hit full panic mode when I see that it’s already after six. I bolt downstairs and hurriedly fix myself a cup of coffee. Gibbs will be pissed if I’m late for my very first day. Traver comes into the kitchen, toenails clicking on the wood. I scratch his ears roughly before dumping a cup of food in his dish.
“Hey, big man. I’m sorry I didn’t take you for your run, but I’m in a hurry.”
I let him out to do his business and put a lid on my coffee mug, grabbing my purse off the bar on my way out. I holler for Traver and he comes at a sprint. Letting him into the house, I lock the door and scramble for my car.
Jumping in, I turn the key and gun the engine, peeling out of my driveway. I stop at the street, and the Focus spits gravel as I put my foot to the floor and head east. Once I hit the Beltway, I turn the stereo up and blast Bond’s Shine. Traffic is terrible but I somehow manage to hit every green light on my way to the Navy Yard.
Pulling into a parking space in the lot, I make a dash for the building. I pass security, flashing my badge and emptying my pockets. I ask directions to the personnel office. Following a first floor hallway, I pass the firmly closed door to the Office of Special Services. Suppressing the heebeejeebies, I find the personnel office just a few doors down.
The agent there updates my photo on file with the agency, issues me parking passes and a bunch of other junk that I really don’t need, including a building map. The poor guy seems to be the typical, standard issue office agent: suit, tie, vague expression, and bored tone. He escorts me to the elevator and gets on. At the third floor, he essentially boots me out of the elevator and into the bullpen. As I turn to ask a question, he advises, “Take it up with your senior agent.”
The door shuts and I’m alone in the midst of controlled chaos.
Shit.
‘What an ass,’ I think. Turning, I look across a roomful of agents. The squad room seems to consist of four or six stations and each station seems to have about four agents to a group. Every face is new, re-enforcing why I despise being the new kid. ‘If I know Gibbs, I‘m guessing not a lot has changed,’ I think, heading off down the aisle and searching for the only face I know. Nearing the end of the aisle, I feel my spirits sink. I haven’t seen anyone I know.
Rounding the last group of desks, I come face to face with Gibbs. Inwardly, I sigh in relief.
“Agent Gibbs,” I say.
“Agent Hall.” He acknowledges. Two of the three desks behind him are full, and the occupants are focused on our conversation.
“Where do I start?” I ask.
“There.” I look at the desk he indicates. Nothing has been moved since the last agent was there. Gibbs turns to look at his team, “Get back to work, I want reports on my desk by noon.” He gestures that I should sit.
Great.
Before I can get there the man to my left stands up, extends his hand and shakes mine, “Tim McGee, I do a lot of tech work, so if you need some help getting up and running, I’d be glad to help you out.” He attempts a half smile that falls flat. I smile back.
“Thanks.” I turn to the second man. He’s very good-looking even though he flashes me a disgruntled scowl. I extend my hand. He ignores it, kicking back in his desk chair, curling his lip, and showing off an arm in a sling as an excuse. Recognition dawns on me.
“You must be DiNozzo.”
“And you must be the replacement,” he says harshly. Gibbs leans over DiNozzo’s desk, drawing back his hand. The younger man cringes, dropping his feet to the floor.
“Tony,” Gibbs warns.
“Yeah, Boss?” Tony is less disgruntled and more tense, waiting for the hand to fall.
“Shake the woman’s hand.” DiNozzo reluctantly offers his good hand. I take it and shake firmly. DiNozzo applies steady pressure, and I can feel the bones in my hand grinding together. I try not to show my discomfort.
“Nice to meet you,” his tone suggests that he would rather have stepped in dog crap than met me.
“You too.” We stand there for another moment before we drop hands. I feel like rubbing mine, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
While they get to work on various assignments, I elect to get my area under control. Pushing my computer monitor around, I settle for putting it between myself and DiNozzo. I try not to get into drawers or mess with too much, knowing it will be ill- received.
Taking personal items from the desk’s previous tenant off the desktop, I place them carefully in the bottom right-hand drawer. I pick up a half filled legal pad, and note a feminine script. A photo of a man lays face up in the center drawer. I keep an eye out for a picture of the person who sat here before me, my curiosity piqued. I keep moving things with the eye to the fact that the occupant will, possibly, be returning.
McGee and DiNozzo leave and return several minutes later with three fresh coffees. Neither offers me the third cup. I try to concentrate on setting up the desktop of my computer so I can navigate it more comfortably. Clicking off or minimizing several open windows, I am stopped in my tracks by a window which refuses to close. After several minutes, and a frustrating go at a prompt in Hebrew, I ask McGee to help.
Leaning down he looks at the program, “It’s an e-mail site. I think it’s asking you to save your draft. But I don’t know which is yes or no,” he taps at some keys.
“Do you want to save…” his fingers reach for the keys, “No…”
“Yes!” DiNozzo practically shouts across the seven feet of space between us. Catching himself he continues, “Save it, Probie. It might be something important.” McGee rolls his eyes softly, but copies and pastes the draft to a word document before closing the window. Gibbs chooses this moment to interrupt us.
“Hall, while you’ve got a minute,” he trails off, stands, and crooks a finger in my direction.
“Sure.” I say, wondering what‘s going on. Gibbs takes off past my desk and I follow. As I walk past DiNozzo’s desk, he glances up. I stare back. He halfheartedly curls his lip at me, and I cock my eyebrow as if to say, “bring it on.” As I turn, I catch Gibbs giving us both an icy stare.
“Get back to work, DiNozzo,” Gibbs growls.
Chapter One