Over and Out by [to be announced]
Title: Over and Out
Character(s): Tim McGee, team.
Episode(s): Post S6
Word Count: 1,995.
The call comes at noon.
It’s not a surprise. They’ve been expecting it for hours. Gibbs nods at the phone with his eyes on DiNozzo - Rule 38a: your intel, your lead - and just like that, war is declared.
Ziva checks the safety on her gun, as if the phone itself is the enemy.
Tony reaches for the receiver.
McGee watches Tony’s mouth move somewhere beyond the thump thump thump of his own heart, as though his own body has denied him permission to hear the specifics. Inadequate security clearance is not so much the problem as some kind of bodily self-sabotage. Someone’s hit mute on the remote and his clumsy fingers can’t find the rewind button to take them back to this morning, before the rat-tat-tat of Gibbs’ barked ‘missing Marine dependents’ and the flurry of activity that came after.
He’d even go back to the part of the morning with the spitballs.
Anything but this.
Finally, Tony hangs up and rubs his hand over his face as though he needs more than force of will to make his smile stick. “Well, it’s officially official,” he announces to his captive audience, eyes flicking to each of them in turn.“Today’s going downhill faster than Jabba the Hutt on a greased Slip-N-Slide, and not just because we’re meeting Fornell and his Feebs downtown in twenty.”
The film reference is meant for McGee. This he understands. Why someone would butcher two children under ten and abduct a third, he can’t even begin to comprehend, but Star Wars is a language he speaks.
Apparently it’s a language that Gibbs speaks too, because Tim could swear that a smile ghosts over the older man’s face before he can stop himself. It disappears in the space of a blink as he turns away to grab his badge and gun, but there’s a definite easing of the tension among them.
Tony pauses for effect. “Let’s roll,” he says with an easy flourish, though the tension in his too-upright back betrays him. Ziva is the first to follow, her eyes locking with Tony’s as they head for the elevator. He raises an eyebrow in silent challenge, daring her to break the gaze.
“Your mind powers will not work on me, boy,” Ziva says in a lofty way that reminds McGee of the almost-extinct creature he calls Early Ziva - part danger, part insanity, and a whole lot of sex. It has the desired effect on their temporary boss, though. The empty air at his feet proves a sudden and unexpected hazard in the face of amplified ex-ninja wiles.
“We never watched - I mean, uh - you - really?”
Gibbs clears his throat meaningfully. “Not your boss today,” he reminds them with all the subtlety of a hammer to the head. “Will be again tomorrow.”
The opening doors of the elevator almost mask the sound of Tony slapping himself upside the head.
****
They ride almost silently until they reach the block before the rendezvous point, the only sounds deliberately measured breaths and the whirr-rip-chrrr of Velcro on vests. Once they pull up, Tony makes up for the minutes of quiet, sparing only a moment to nod to Agent Fornell, who’s clearly doing the same with his team across the street.
“Ziva, you’re with me. Flank and cover, then we head left. Fornell’s heat scanners show two large figures and one kid-shaped blur holed up in the site manager’s office. One door, one teeny tiny window. If our hostage - Kenny Davis - is actually in there, I could use your very bendy...”
Ziva’s glare is a force to be reckoned with.
Tony gulps.
“…fingers. Uh. To pick the lock. Anyway.” A roughly-drawn map appears as if by magic, his fingers drumming out an uneven tattoo on the crumpled paper. “Two more here, another two out roaming around out back. Feebs’ll take care of the guards.”
Gibbs frowns. “Lot of muscle for one kid.”
Tony’s fingers twitch as though he’s dying to administer a slap for the interruption. “Guess goons come cheap these days. Global Financial Crisis and all that. Hope you brought your glasses,” he fires back, though there’s no heat in it and Gibbs almost looks like he’s going to crack another smile. “Three and Four are all yours, B - Gibbs. Put those sneaky bullpen skills to good use.”
Though he doesn’t want to incite the wrath of Tony, McGee wants to know -
“Tim,” Tony continues before he can ask, looking almost sheepish, “I need someone I can trust out front. Keep out of sight, keep us updated on who goes in, who comes out. I hate surprises, especially when they come attached to guns.”
And just like that, he’s more or less benched. A small mean part of him whispers that it’s ‘lie in the dirt and play dead while I do the talking’ all over again, and isn’t that just like Tony to want the glory for himself, just like -
Wait. He’s someone Tony can trust. Two kids are dead, and there’s no real glory in what they’re about to do. Just more bloodshed. This is not a situation for rubber bullets.
“Like Gibbs said,” Tony offers as parting, “Lot of muscle for one kid. Be on the lookout for anything else that might inspire a flock of goons. Or is it a gathering?”
None of them say what they’re thinking.
Tim watches them all fan out and take position as ordered, moving away from him without a backward glance, and wonders whether Tony knows that the probability of things not ending in almost rises exponentially with each dangerous situation they get thrown into. Tim’s gut isn’t nearly as well-tested as Tony’s, so he takes it on faith (and, he admits just a little begrudgingly, numerous demonstrations of the Senior Field Agent’s skill) that DiNozzo knows what he is doing.
It’s the same faith that propels children to put teeth under their pillow and cookies out on the bench; that allows them to believe that talcum-powdered footprints on the carpet belong to oversized rabbits bearing cheap waxy chocolate.
The wind whistles a warning.
****
Minutes pass.
He can’t see the others anymore. He can see FBI agents crawling around the edges of the scene like black-Kevlar’ed ants, Fornell’s salt-and pepper head disappearing around the east corner of the warehouse with them. Seconds later they too are gone and he’s all alone save for a few birds. The perimeter remains clear, a homeless guy asleep on a pile of bags at the other end of the block notwithstanding.
“All clear to the northeast side,” Gibbs announces in his best cracked-gravel whisper, which probably means they’re down two bad guys. Which leaves… four? Five?
Seconds seem to drag on for hours, time warping and stretching like taffy.
McGee, who was proud Chief of Santa Snack Placement until it occurred to him at the age of eight that Santa’s journey around the world was a mathematical impossibility, wonders how old the rest of them were when they stopped believing in things they could not see. He figures that fantasies and fairytales are part of neither assassin training nor boarding school hazing rituals, though there was that thing with Ziva and the lion-headed-dragon-goat a few years ago. He’s not entirely sure about Gibbs.
Given the choice, he would rather attempt to plank atop the Charger than ask.
“Tony,” he stutters over the crackle and hum of radio static, “What’s going on?” Not strictly professional, he knows, but radio codes and protocol burn and catch in his throat like cheap vodka.
“Ziva’s taken out one roamer with her secret ninja sleeper hold. Got the kid in sight. Hold position - we’re going in.”
The lack of nicknames, of joking around, tells Tim more than he wants to know about how things are really going for his partners. His finger twitches convulsively on the side of the receiver, leaving telltale trails of moisture in its wake. Funny how a loaded gun makes him less nervous than a radio these days, or perhaps it’s just the constant tension of hurry up and wait. But all things considered, things seem to be going to plan.
He’s apparently a giant lightning rod for irony, because it’s right about then that the shooting starts.
McGee spares only seconds for a brief mental apology to his mother before cursing worthy of a sailor, because things are quickly going to shit in a seaman’s sack and he’s damned if he’s going to hang around and watch while the closest thing he’s ever had to a family get slaughtered like the sergeant’s children.
“It’s a soapy ending for you, McPotty,” Tony interjects with a hint of a wheeze. There’s a crash, a harsh static crackle, and a string of words that McGee doesn’t even want to repeat to himself.
“DiNozzo!” he hisses. “You okay?”
“Fuck, Probie.” Tony groans, and McGee can hear the sharp retort of gunfire echoing around the warehouse, “We got at least five - ”
Transmission cuts off with a screech, but not before he hears the sickening thud of metal on flesh and the tail end of Ziva’s muted groan.
He reaches reflexively for his gun, a poised soldier waiting obediently for the official call to arms. Orders are orders, after all. But he’s also been trained - and trusted - by two wild stallions, and so the resolve to obey lasts about six seconds before he’s charging across the street on desperation-winged feet.
The distance to be covered stretches out like a mirage before his panic-fogged eyes.
FBI agents appear from all corners of the perimeter, taking aim through windows and adding to the cacophony of noise and smoke with the patter patter of careful fire.Don’t hit the agents!, he wants to scream. Maybe he does, because one or two look around, motioning urgently. Pointing, shaking their heads, mouths stretched in wild warning caricature.
There’s an explosion of noise from somewhere above and to his left. A bird screams past him, makes him stumble in surprise and trip on the curb.
Fornell appears front and centre, yelling something that Tim’s deaf ears block out to preserve the memory of Tony’s raw-edged voice over the line, the tone that means they’re in a whole fuckload of trouble. Ziva (who practically ate danger for breakfast most of her pre-NCIS life) is probably hurt, and Gibbs is… well, he doesn’t know where, but that’s usually when Gibbs does his best work so he’ll have to take it on faith that he’s okay.
Not that there’s any other option. He’s lost his earpiece in his mad dash.
There’s a sudden moment of stillness in which the chaos blurs and recedes for a minute and Tim realises three things. First, Fornell has way more hair than usual. If he’s gone and got plugs Tony will never let him live it down. He’s somehow got hold of an NCIS jacket and wait, it’s not Fornell at all but Gibbs looking strangely - is that panic? It looks foreign on his face, crooked and ill-fitting like a cheap thrift store disguise.
Don’t forget to leave the carrots out for the reindeer, he thinks he sees not-Fornell mouth from his position looming over him, the sky grey and heavy with promised rain above his head. He can’t remember when Gibbs got so tall. Tony would… would… something...
His thoughts are jumbling, tripping over one another like his feet.
Gibbs reaches toward him. Something explodes just outside his field of vision, burns through him in a blur of refracted noise and heat. He can’t bear to look.
There’s a blistering hurt and godawful pressure growing in his hip and arm that he’s only just starting to notice from before; he must have jarred them when he tripped because he’s not gaining any ground on the pavement that feels like he’s running in midair but Tony and Ziva are still out there and they’re hurt and they need him, they trusted him to watch their six (twelve?) and… and -
Character(s): Tim McGee, team.
Episode(s): Post S6
Word Count: 1,995.
The call comes at noon.
It’s not a surprise. They’ve been expecting it for hours. Gibbs nods at the phone with his eyes on DiNozzo - Rule 38a: your intel, your lead - and just like that, war is declared.
Ziva checks the safety on her gun, as if the phone itself is the enemy.
Tony reaches for the receiver.
McGee watches Tony’s mouth move somewhere beyond the thump thump thump of his own heart, as though his own body has denied him permission to hear the specifics. Inadequate security clearance is not so much the problem as some kind of bodily self-sabotage. Someone’s hit mute on the remote and his clumsy fingers can’t find the rewind button to take them back to this morning, before the rat-tat-tat of Gibbs’ barked ‘missing Marine dependents’ and the flurry of activity that came after.
He’d even go back to the part of the morning with the spitballs.
Anything but this.
Finally, Tony hangs up and rubs his hand over his face as though he needs more than force of will to make his smile stick. “Well, it’s officially official,” he announces to his captive audience, eyes flicking to each of them in turn.“Today’s going downhill faster than Jabba the Hutt on a greased Slip-N-Slide, and not just because we’re meeting Fornell and his Feebs downtown in twenty.”
The film reference is meant for McGee. This he understands. Why someone would butcher two children under ten and abduct a third, he can’t even begin to comprehend, but Star Wars is a language he speaks.
Apparently it’s a language that Gibbs speaks too, because Tim could swear that a smile ghosts over the older man’s face before he can stop himself. It disappears in the space of a blink as he turns away to grab his badge and gun, but there’s a definite easing of the tension among them.
Tony pauses for effect. “Let’s roll,” he says with an easy flourish, though the tension in his too-upright back betrays him. Ziva is the first to follow, her eyes locking with Tony’s as they head for the elevator. He raises an eyebrow in silent challenge, daring her to break the gaze.
“Your mind powers will not work on me, boy,” Ziva says in a lofty way that reminds McGee of the almost-extinct creature he calls Early Ziva - part danger, part insanity, and a whole lot of sex. It has the desired effect on their temporary boss, though. The empty air at his feet proves a sudden and unexpected hazard in the face of amplified ex-ninja wiles.
“We never watched - I mean, uh - you - really?”
Gibbs clears his throat meaningfully. “Not your boss today,” he reminds them with all the subtlety of a hammer to the head. “Will be again tomorrow.”
The opening doors of the elevator almost mask the sound of Tony slapping himself upside the head.
****
They ride almost silently until they reach the block before the rendezvous point, the only sounds deliberately measured breaths and the whirr-rip-chrrr of Velcro on vests. Once they pull up, Tony makes up for the minutes of quiet, sparing only a moment to nod to Agent Fornell, who’s clearly doing the same with his team across the street.
“Ziva, you’re with me. Flank and cover, then we head left. Fornell’s heat scanners show two large figures and one kid-shaped blur holed up in the site manager’s office. One door, one teeny tiny window. If our hostage - Kenny Davis - is actually in there, I could use your very bendy...”
Ziva’s glare is a force to be reckoned with.
Tony gulps.
“…fingers. Uh. To pick the lock. Anyway.” A roughly-drawn map appears as if by magic, his fingers drumming out an uneven tattoo on the crumpled paper. “Two more here, another two out roaming around out back. Feebs’ll take care of the guards.”
Gibbs frowns. “Lot of muscle for one kid.”
Tony’s fingers twitch as though he’s dying to administer a slap for the interruption. “Guess goons come cheap these days. Global Financial Crisis and all that. Hope you brought your glasses,” he fires back, though there’s no heat in it and Gibbs almost looks like he’s going to crack another smile. “Three and Four are all yours, B - Gibbs. Put those sneaky bullpen skills to good use.”
Though he doesn’t want to incite the wrath of Tony, McGee wants to know -
“Tim,” Tony continues before he can ask, looking almost sheepish, “I need someone I can trust out front. Keep out of sight, keep us updated on who goes in, who comes out. I hate surprises, especially when they come attached to guns.”
And just like that, he’s more or less benched. A small mean part of him whispers that it’s ‘lie in the dirt and play dead while I do the talking’ all over again, and isn’t that just like Tony to want the glory for himself, just like -
Wait. He’s someone Tony can trust. Two kids are dead, and there’s no real glory in what they’re about to do. Just more bloodshed. This is not a situation for rubber bullets.
“Like Gibbs said,” Tony offers as parting, “Lot of muscle for one kid. Be on the lookout for anything else that might inspire a flock of goons. Or is it a gathering?”
None of them say what they’re thinking.
Tim watches them all fan out and take position as ordered, moving away from him without a backward glance, and wonders whether Tony knows that the probability of things not ending in almost rises exponentially with each dangerous situation they get thrown into. Tim’s gut isn’t nearly as well-tested as Tony’s, so he takes it on faith (and, he admits just a little begrudgingly, numerous demonstrations of the Senior Field Agent’s skill) that DiNozzo knows what he is doing.
It’s the same faith that propels children to put teeth under their pillow and cookies out on the bench; that allows them to believe that talcum-powdered footprints on the carpet belong to oversized rabbits bearing cheap waxy chocolate.
The wind whistles a warning.
****
Minutes pass.
He can’t see the others anymore. He can see FBI agents crawling around the edges of the scene like black-Kevlar’ed ants, Fornell’s salt-and pepper head disappearing around the east corner of the warehouse with them. Seconds later they too are gone and he’s all alone save for a few birds. The perimeter remains clear, a homeless guy asleep on a pile of bags at the other end of the block notwithstanding.
“All clear to the northeast side,” Gibbs announces in his best cracked-gravel whisper, which probably means they’re down two bad guys. Which leaves… four? Five?
Seconds seem to drag on for hours, time warping and stretching like taffy.
McGee, who was proud Chief of Santa Snack Placement until it occurred to him at the age of eight that Santa’s journey around the world was a mathematical impossibility, wonders how old the rest of them were when they stopped believing in things they could not see. He figures that fantasies and fairytales are part of neither assassin training nor boarding school hazing rituals, though there was that thing with Ziva and the lion-headed-dragon-goat a few years ago. He’s not entirely sure about Gibbs.
Given the choice, he would rather attempt to plank atop the Charger than ask.
“Tony,” he stutters over the crackle and hum of radio static, “What’s going on?” Not strictly professional, he knows, but radio codes and protocol burn and catch in his throat like cheap vodka.
“Ziva’s taken out one roamer with her secret ninja sleeper hold. Got the kid in sight. Hold position - we’re going in.”
The lack of nicknames, of joking around, tells Tim more than he wants to know about how things are really going for his partners. His finger twitches convulsively on the side of the receiver, leaving telltale trails of moisture in its wake. Funny how a loaded gun makes him less nervous than a radio these days, or perhaps it’s just the constant tension of hurry up and wait. But all things considered, things seem to be going to plan.
He’s apparently a giant lightning rod for irony, because it’s right about then that the shooting starts.
McGee spares only seconds for a brief mental apology to his mother before cursing worthy of a sailor, because things are quickly going to shit in a seaman’s sack and he’s damned if he’s going to hang around and watch while the closest thing he’s ever had to a family get slaughtered like the sergeant’s children.
“It’s a soapy ending for you, McPotty,” Tony interjects with a hint of a wheeze. There’s a crash, a harsh static crackle, and a string of words that McGee doesn’t even want to repeat to himself.
“DiNozzo!” he hisses. “You okay?”
“Fuck, Probie.” Tony groans, and McGee can hear the sharp retort of gunfire echoing around the warehouse, “We got at least five - ”
Transmission cuts off with a screech, but not before he hears the sickening thud of metal on flesh and the tail end of Ziva’s muted groan.
He reaches reflexively for his gun, a poised soldier waiting obediently for the official call to arms. Orders are orders, after all. But he’s also been trained - and trusted - by two wild stallions, and so the resolve to obey lasts about six seconds before he’s charging across the street on desperation-winged feet.
The distance to be covered stretches out like a mirage before his panic-fogged eyes.
FBI agents appear from all corners of the perimeter, taking aim through windows and adding to the cacophony of noise and smoke with the patter patter of careful fire.Don’t hit the agents!, he wants to scream. Maybe he does, because one or two look around, motioning urgently. Pointing, shaking their heads, mouths stretched in wild warning caricature.
There’s an explosion of noise from somewhere above and to his left. A bird screams past him, makes him stumble in surprise and trip on the curb.
Fornell appears front and centre, yelling something that Tim’s deaf ears block out to preserve the memory of Tony’s raw-edged voice over the line, the tone that means they’re in a whole fuckload of trouble. Ziva (who practically ate danger for breakfast most of her pre-NCIS life) is probably hurt, and Gibbs is… well, he doesn’t know where, but that’s usually when Gibbs does his best work so he’ll have to take it on faith that he’s okay.
Not that there’s any other option. He’s lost his earpiece in his mad dash.
There’s a sudden moment of stillness in which the chaos blurs and recedes for a minute and Tim realises three things. First, Fornell has way more hair than usual. If he’s gone and got plugs Tony will never let him live it down. He’s somehow got hold of an NCIS jacket and wait, it’s not Fornell at all but Gibbs looking strangely - is that panic? It looks foreign on his face, crooked and ill-fitting like a cheap thrift store disguise.
Don’t forget to leave the carrots out for the reindeer, he thinks he sees not-Fornell mouth from his position looming over him, the sky grey and heavy with promised rain above his head. He can’t remember when Gibbs got so tall. Tony would… would… something...
His thoughts are jumbling, tripping over one another like his feet.
Gibbs reaches toward him. Something explodes just outside his field of vision, burns through him in a blur of refracted noise and heat. He can’t bear to look.
There’s a blistering hurt and godawful pressure growing in his hip and arm that he’s only just starting to notice from before; he must have jarred them when he tripped because he’s not gaining any ground on the pavement that feels like he’s running in midair but Tony and Ziva are still out there and they’re hurt and they need him, they trusted him to watch their six (twelve?) and… and -