{Batman(Robin)/NCIS} Four Times Tim Revealed a Little Too Much (And One Time No One Noticed)
Title: Four Times Tim Revealed a Little Too Much (And One Time No One Noticed)
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2233
Rating: PG (swearing)
Author Notes: Part of Counting Down; this is the second number.
Summary: Too many skills are applicable to both vigilantes and crime fighters. I do my best to remember I'm not the former any more, but the latter is more difficult than you might think.
4 That Time With The Shirt
I don't take my shirt off in front of them, not if I can help it.
They don't need to see that I'm solid instead of chubby. They don't need to see the definition in my arms, or my muscles, or my core, or the toning that can only come from years of rigorous daily practice.
They don't need to see the tanned skin, or the way I can change my posture and attitude to use my clothes as camouflage. They don't need to know I have a handful of specially reinforced undershirts, or sometimes wear a weighted belt, just to keep in shape.
They most certainly don't need to see the scars. There would be questions if they saw the bullet hole through my side, or the numerous scratches and grazes, the teeth-shaped marks in my shoulder, the distinctive thin raised lines across my back, the raw pink burns, or any of the other odd scars that litter my torso and body. I've still got that puckered gash in my thigh from that one knife, and it isn't very pretty.
Anyway.
So it's second nature for me to wear a tee under my work clothes, just in case. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're safe, you know.
So after that one chase that went through a sewer and ended in a trash pile, we drag our tired butts into the locker room, and all I want is to take a shower and fall into a bed. Not even my bed in particular, just a bed, or, hey, any relatively soft horizontal surface.
“Aw, man, I'm never gonna get this smell out of my hair,” Tony whines. I pull down the little bottle I keep in my locker and stare at it, debating between being clean and being a gentleman.
“At least your hair is short,” Ziva grumbles. “I'll be in the shower for hours.”
I sigh, and say, “Here,” and toss the bottle over my shoulder.
She catches it. “What's this?”
I start unlacing my boots. “It'll take the stink off a skunk,” I explain. “That's what it was designed for, actually. Use a little and you'll be fine.”
“Huh,” she says, turning the unlabelled bottle around. “It really works?”
“Hey, you got more of that?” Tony asks, leaning in to poke through my locker.
I shut the door in his face. “No,” I say, conveniently forgetting the rather large batch of it sitting in my shower at home. I pull my button up over my head and toss it at his face.
“What's in it?” Ziva asks, and she sits to take off her own shoes.
“Uh, stuff.” I'm debating about whether or not she wants to hear about the chemical formula when Tony says, “The Knights, huh?”
“What?” I ask, completely thrown.
He gestures at my shirt, and I look down at it myself, because I honestly have forgotten what shirt I put on this morning when I got dressed in the dark.
It's the Gotham Knights tee I picked up not too long after I left my old life behind. I don't ever wear it anymore; it sits at the bottom of my drawer. I must have grabbed it in my hurry this morning; I'd been meaning to do laundry.
“Yeah,” I say past the lump in my throat. “I...lived in Gotham for a while.” I spend a quick moment weighing whether changing the stinking shirt is worth the possibility of them seeing things they shouldn't.
“Gotham? Really” Tony asks, and I decide it's not worth it, since I'll have to take a shower when I get home anyway.
“Yes.”
Ziva stands, and says, “I have heard of Gotham. It's not a very nice city, is it?”
Tony scoffs. “That's an understatement. Gotham is--”
I toss my bag over my shoulder and leave. I'm tired and sore and I stink, and I know that if I start defending Gotham now, I'll let slip things that won't match my cover story.
I love my team, but I love my city, too.
3 That Time With The Sign Language
I don't know how she does it, but Abby's got her metal pumped up through her speakers, bass vibrating the metal stands, and is wearing oversized headphones with a different band blasting through them.
“Ouch,” I say, but even I can't hear my own voice.
Gibbs moves around beside us, and Abby notices the movement in her peripheral vision. She turns to face us, pulls the headphones down, and says, “What?”
Well, I assume she says “What?” I can't hear her, but that's what lip-reading is good for.
Gibbs rolls his eyes to the side, sighs, and signs too loud.
You're too old, she signs back.
Not, he signs, and turn it down? Please?
She grins, wide and pretty, and signs, here, results. She passes him a sheet of paper.
Don't break your ears, he signs, and takes it.
Too late. The piercings aren't only decorative, mother, she teases, and I smile
She glances at me, and I watch her lips say, “What's so funny, McGee?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say back, and smile at her.
She flashes, did you know he could read lips? at Gibbs, who looks at me speculatively.
I put a confused look on my face, but he just signs, good job, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves.
“Bye!” I mouth, and she waves back.
Win one, lose one. Overall, still even.
2 That Time He Lied
The best way to lie to to show everyone how shitty a liar you are. Lie about the little things, and develop a set of tells. That way, when you deliver the necessary whoppers later, they're deceived for real.
I don't like lying, but it's been a part of my life since I don't even remember when. Where I've been spending my time, why I know who I know, hell, even my name.
I've had so very many names.
So everyone in the lab knows I can barely pass a polygraph. Everyone knows I stutter when I lie, and I blink too much. Everyone knows I can't lie to save my life, literally.
Everyone but Ducky, actually.
He's the one who's seen that scar on my forearm, and has the medical training to realize how bad it was, even though it's been treated very well. He knows that something like that means the skin was sliced clean through, and it was deep and bled a lot and only didn't get infected through sheer luck and butler-y stubbornness. He confronted me about it at one point, if only to make sure it didn't cause motor impairment in my hand.
So when Gibbs notices it while I'm sticking a band-aid on my shoulder, I follow his gaze. He says, “McGee?”
“Oh, that?” I finish sticking the bandage on and hold my arm up for inspection. “I was sneaking out one night and got caught in the wire fence. My dad had to come rescue me, and that was pretty much the end of my sneaking-out career.”
Tony snorts and proceeds to regale us with a tale about sneaking out to take a girl to a movie marathon, and I let him divert the attention.
Ducky catches my eye, and I smile a touch grimly and shrug.
He shakes his head at me, but he doesn't say anything, either.
I'll tell him about the sword that caused it, some day. If he asks.
1 That Time With The Costumed Criminal
We find the sailor where we expected to; tied to a chair in an empty apartment. He's unconscious, and Tony cuts his bonds, gets him under an arm and lugs him back down the stairs.
“Clear!” Ziva shouts from the next room over, and I open my mouth to echo it, but something catches my eye. It's black enough not to shine, but not black enough to blend, and it curves rather strangely....
Oh. Well. That explains a lot.
For a single second, I think it might actually be her, but I know better. Just an amateur copycat, looking for all the wrong thrills. Just like some kids tie towels around their necks and save their dolls, some few not-so-little kids go the opposite way. And take it from someone who knows; the black bodysuit thing? Can be very distracting.
“Federal agent!” I announce, drawing everyone's attention. “Come out with your hands up!”
She tries to run, of course she does, but Gibbs is between her and the window. I look less threatening, I guess, because she doubles back and tries to take me out. But Ziva's come up behind me and has her gun leveled at the lady's pretty little pert nose.
I cuff her hands behind her, reciting the Miranda spiel. Ziva checks that I've got her and then continues clearing the apartment. I listen with half an ear, keeping a firm grip on the chain between the cuffs. Something tells me this lady is as slippery as her catsuit.
Sure enough, she shifts her weight to the side, but I know that move, and step forward and sideways, getting myself out of range and unbalancing her. She deflates, then tries leaning back onto me, so I step a little further sideways, and let her stumble. That leads to the shift that means she's going for the elbow to the solar plexus, so I lean in close and lever her bound hands up a little higher.
“Oh,” she purrs, just as Gibbs and Tony pass by. “You're very good, aren't you?”
“Should I take her to the car?” I ask, staring determinedly straight ahead.
“No!” Tony interrupts before Gibbs can say a word. “I'll take her to the car; you take the pictures.”
“Er, boss...?” I try. Tony's a great cop, but this lady is a master escape artist, and she knows all the tricks.
Gibbs sighs and says, “Let him, McGee, or we're gonna be here all day.”
“Thanks, boss!” Tony cheers, grabbing the handcuffs and tugging. “Now, what did you say your name was...?”
I shake my head, and start taking pictures, as ordered. A minute or two later, I hear an engine revv, and tires squeal, and smile, ignoring the suspicious gaze boring into my back.
I'm not in the least surprised.
And That One Time He Got Kidnapped
They jump me at the gas station, and I let them.
There are only two guys, and their abduction is far from polished. These guys are amateurs, but they want an NCIS agent. I figure, better they get me than anyone else. I'm the most likely to leave them alive, after all.
They blindfold me, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing where we were going. I know which way's north, and I count the minutes off in my head, until I know exactly where we are. They don't even drive in circles, or take the long way, or anything, and they don't bother with a gag, but I don't try to talk anyway.
The two of them drag me out of the van and into an abandoned building of some sort, and proceed to do a crap job of tying me to a sub-par chair with low-quality rope.
There are five ways that I can think of off-hand to take these guys out, even while tied to the dinky chair. It is not the most effective kidnapping ever; on a scale of one to 'certain death', they ranked about a 'laughable'.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. I'm already halfway out of the rope, but they don't need to know that.
The big, stupid one knocks me one across the face. I let him, and move my head with the blow, but I can tell it's gonna bruise.
“Okay, that was a mistake,” I say conversationally as the last of my ropes fray and snap. Tall and dumber has just pulled out a cell, about to make the ransom call, unless I miss my guess, and I'm rarely wrong.
I shake off the pathetic bindings, and I'm on them like the shadow I used to be. It takes me less time to beat and bind the both of them than it took the two of them to do the same to me.
Inspired, I grab my backpack, dig out my notebook, and scrawl “Idiot 1” and “Idiot 2” on separate sheets of paper, and stick them to the guys' shirts with safety pins, adding a “We're bad guys! Please arrest us!” letter as well.
I trigger the fire alarm and whistle as I exit the building, finding their van right where they left it, keys in the ignition. It's been a long time since I was kidnapped by such incompetent fools, and it makes for a nice change of pace, really.
I'm ten minutes late, and Tony stares at my swelling jawbone. “I, uh, tripped down the stairs,” I tell him when he asks, and he laughs and assumes some lady slapped me. I don't bother to correct him; instead, I lean back in my chair and smile.
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2233
Rating: PG (swearing)
Author Notes: Part of Counting Down; this is the second number.
Summary: Too many skills are applicable to both vigilantes and crime fighters. I do my best to remember I'm not the former any more, but the latter is more difficult than you might think.
4 That Time With The Shirt
I don't take my shirt off in front of them, not if I can help it.
They don't need to see that I'm solid instead of chubby. They don't need to see the definition in my arms, or my muscles, or my core, or the toning that can only come from years of rigorous daily practice.
They don't need to see the tanned skin, or the way I can change my posture and attitude to use my clothes as camouflage. They don't need to know I have a handful of specially reinforced undershirts, or sometimes wear a weighted belt, just to keep in shape.
They most certainly don't need to see the scars. There would be questions if they saw the bullet hole through my side, or the numerous scratches and grazes, the teeth-shaped marks in my shoulder, the distinctive thin raised lines across my back, the raw pink burns, or any of the other odd scars that litter my torso and body. I've still got that puckered gash in my thigh from that one knife, and it isn't very pretty.
Anyway.
So it's second nature for me to wear a tee under my work clothes, just in case. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're safe, you know.
So after that one chase that went through a sewer and ended in a trash pile, we drag our tired butts into the locker room, and all I want is to take a shower and fall into a bed. Not even my bed in particular, just a bed, or, hey, any relatively soft horizontal surface.
“Aw, man, I'm never gonna get this smell out of my hair,” Tony whines. I pull down the little bottle I keep in my locker and stare at it, debating between being clean and being a gentleman.
“At least your hair is short,” Ziva grumbles. “I'll be in the shower for hours.”
I sigh, and say, “Here,” and toss the bottle over my shoulder.
She catches it. “What's this?”
I start unlacing my boots. “It'll take the stink off a skunk,” I explain. “That's what it was designed for, actually. Use a little and you'll be fine.”
“Huh,” she says, turning the unlabelled bottle around. “It really works?”
“Hey, you got more of that?” Tony asks, leaning in to poke through my locker.
I shut the door in his face. “No,” I say, conveniently forgetting the rather large batch of it sitting in my shower at home. I pull my button up over my head and toss it at his face.
“What's in it?” Ziva asks, and she sits to take off her own shoes.
“Uh, stuff.” I'm debating about whether or not she wants to hear about the chemical formula when Tony says, “The Knights, huh?”
“What?” I ask, completely thrown.
He gestures at my shirt, and I look down at it myself, because I honestly have forgotten what shirt I put on this morning when I got dressed in the dark.
It's the Gotham Knights tee I picked up not too long after I left my old life behind. I don't ever wear it anymore; it sits at the bottom of my drawer. I must have grabbed it in my hurry this morning; I'd been meaning to do laundry.
“Yeah,” I say past the lump in my throat. “I...lived in Gotham for a while.” I spend a quick moment weighing whether changing the stinking shirt is worth the possibility of them seeing things they shouldn't.
“Gotham? Really” Tony asks, and I decide it's not worth it, since I'll have to take a shower when I get home anyway.
“Yes.”
Ziva stands, and says, “I have heard of Gotham. It's not a very nice city, is it?”
Tony scoffs. “That's an understatement. Gotham is--”
I toss my bag over my shoulder and leave. I'm tired and sore and I stink, and I know that if I start defending Gotham now, I'll let slip things that won't match my cover story.
I love my team, but I love my city, too.
3 That Time With The Sign Language
I don't know how she does it, but Abby's got her metal pumped up through her speakers, bass vibrating the metal stands, and is wearing oversized headphones with a different band blasting through them.
“Ouch,” I say, but even I can't hear my own voice.
Gibbs moves around beside us, and Abby notices the movement in her peripheral vision. She turns to face us, pulls the headphones down, and says, “What?”
Well, I assume she says “What?” I can't hear her, but that's what lip-reading is good for.
Gibbs rolls his eyes to the side, sighs, and signs too loud.
You're too old, she signs back.
Not, he signs, and turn it down? Please?
She grins, wide and pretty, and signs, here, results. She passes him a sheet of paper.
Don't break your ears, he signs, and takes it.
Too late. The piercings aren't only decorative, mother, she teases, and I smile
She glances at me, and I watch her lips say, “What's so funny, McGee?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say back, and smile at her.
She flashes, did you know he could read lips? at Gibbs, who looks at me speculatively.
I put a confused look on my face, but he just signs, good job, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves.
“Bye!” I mouth, and she waves back.
Win one, lose one. Overall, still even.
2 That Time He Lied
The best way to lie to to show everyone how shitty a liar you are. Lie about the little things, and develop a set of tells. That way, when you deliver the necessary whoppers later, they're deceived for real.
I don't like lying, but it's been a part of my life since I don't even remember when. Where I've been spending my time, why I know who I know, hell, even my name.
I've had so very many names.
So everyone in the lab knows I can barely pass a polygraph. Everyone knows I stutter when I lie, and I blink too much. Everyone knows I can't lie to save my life, literally.
Everyone but Ducky, actually.
He's the one who's seen that scar on my forearm, and has the medical training to realize how bad it was, even though it's been treated very well. He knows that something like that means the skin was sliced clean through, and it was deep and bled a lot and only didn't get infected through sheer luck and butler-y stubbornness. He confronted me about it at one point, if only to make sure it didn't cause motor impairment in my hand.
So when Gibbs notices it while I'm sticking a band-aid on my shoulder, I follow his gaze. He says, “McGee?”
“Oh, that?” I finish sticking the bandage on and hold my arm up for inspection. “I was sneaking out one night and got caught in the wire fence. My dad had to come rescue me, and that was pretty much the end of my sneaking-out career.”
Tony snorts and proceeds to regale us with a tale about sneaking out to take a girl to a movie marathon, and I let him divert the attention.
Ducky catches my eye, and I smile a touch grimly and shrug.
He shakes his head at me, but he doesn't say anything, either.
I'll tell him about the sword that caused it, some day. If he asks.
1 That Time With The Costumed Criminal
We find the sailor where we expected to; tied to a chair in an empty apartment. He's unconscious, and Tony cuts his bonds, gets him under an arm and lugs him back down the stairs.
“Clear!” Ziva shouts from the next room over, and I open my mouth to echo it, but something catches my eye. It's black enough not to shine, but not black enough to blend, and it curves rather strangely....
Oh. Well. That explains a lot.
For a single second, I think it might actually be her, but I know better. Just an amateur copycat, looking for all the wrong thrills. Just like some kids tie towels around their necks and save their dolls, some few not-so-little kids go the opposite way. And take it from someone who knows; the black bodysuit thing? Can be very distracting.
“Federal agent!” I announce, drawing everyone's attention. “Come out with your hands up!”
She tries to run, of course she does, but Gibbs is between her and the window. I look less threatening, I guess, because she doubles back and tries to take me out. But Ziva's come up behind me and has her gun leveled at the lady's pretty little pert nose.
I cuff her hands behind her, reciting the Miranda spiel. Ziva checks that I've got her and then continues clearing the apartment. I listen with half an ear, keeping a firm grip on the chain between the cuffs. Something tells me this lady is as slippery as her catsuit.
Sure enough, she shifts her weight to the side, but I know that move, and step forward and sideways, getting myself out of range and unbalancing her. She deflates, then tries leaning back onto me, so I step a little further sideways, and let her stumble. That leads to the shift that means she's going for the elbow to the solar plexus, so I lean in close and lever her bound hands up a little higher.
“Oh,” she purrs, just as Gibbs and Tony pass by. “You're very good, aren't you?”
“Should I take her to the car?” I ask, staring determinedly straight ahead.
“No!” Tony interrupts before Gibbs can say a word. “I'll take her to the car; you take the pictures.”
“Er, boss...?” I try. Tony's a great cop, but this lady is a master escape artist, and she knows all the tricks.
Gibbs sighs and says, “Let him, McGee, or we're gonna be here all day.”
“Thanks, boss!” Tony cheers, grabbing the handcuffs and tugging. “Now, what did you say your name was...?”
I shake my head, and start taking pictures, as ordered. A minute or two later, I hear an engine revv, and tires squeal, and smile, ignoring the suspicious gaze boring into my back.
I'm not in the least surprised.
And That One Time He Got Kidnapped
They jump me at the gas station, and I let them.
There are only two guys, and their abduction is far from polished. These guys are amateurs, but they want an NCIS agent. I figure, better they get me than anyone else. I'm the most likely to leave them alive, after all.
They blindfold me, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing where we were going. I know which way's north, and I count the minutes off in my head, until I know exactly where we are. They don't even drive in circles, or take the long way, or anything, and they don't bother with a gag, but I don't try to talk anyway.
The two of them drag me out of the van and into an abandoned building of some sort, and proceed to do a crap job of tying me to a sub-par chair with low-quality rope.
There are five ways that I can think of off-hand to take these guys out, even while tied to the dinky chair. It is not the most effective kidnapping ever; on a scale of one to 'certain death', they ranked about a 'laughable'.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. I'm already halfway out of the rope, but they don't need to know that.
The big, stupid one knocks me one across the face. I let him, and move my head with the blow, but I can tell it's gonna bruise.
“Okay, that was a mistake,” I say conversationally as the last of my ropes fray and snap. Tall and dumber has just pulled out a cell, about to make the ransom call, unless I miss my guess, and I'm rarely wrong.
I shake off the pathetic bindings, and I'm on them like the shadow I used to be. It takes me less time to beat and bind the both of them than it took the two of them to do the same to me.
Inspired, I grab my backpack, dig out my notebook, and scrawl “Idiot 1” and “Idiot 2” on separate sheets of paper, and stick them to the guys' shirts with safety pins, adding a “We're bad guys! Please arrest us!” letter as well.
I trigger the fire alarm and whistle as I exit the building, finding their van right where they left it, keys in the ignition. It's been a long time since I was kidnapped by such incompetent fools, and it makes for a nice change of pace, really.
I'm ten minutes late, and Tony stares at my swelling jawbone. “I, uh, tripped down the stairs,” I tell him when he asks, and he laughs and assumes some lady slapped me. I don't bother to correct him; instead, I lean back in my chair and smile.