A/N: Oneshot written as a birthday present/hangman prize for sondheimmcgeek over on the NFA. It's just a short story set on St. Patrick's Day.
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS and I'm not making money off this story.
Lucky Day
by Enthusiastic Fish
By noon of the 17th of March, Tim had decided that he was boycotting that day for the rest of his life. He couldn't remember when a day had begun so badly...and had continued to be so bad.
His phone died in the night. (He had forgotten to plug it in.) His alarm didn't go off. (There was a power flicker at around four in the morning and all he saw when he finally opened his eyes was a blinking 12:00.) The water heater wasn't working and so the shower was cold. (The shower was fast at least.) His coffee maker broke. (And he was so far behind schedule that he didn't dare stop anywhere on his way to work.) He forgot his bag...and then his jacket...and then his phone (his dead phone)...and then his badge...and then his gun. After all the running back and forth he'd done to get his stuff, he was even more behind schedule...and he was tired. The traffic was horrible on the roads, meaning that he fell even more and more behind schedule.
It was after eight by the time he finally reached NCIS...more than an hour late. He stopped at the entrance to NCIS, dreading going up to the bullpen and confronting someone who was likely to make him regret living at all. ...unfortunately, the doors to NCIS were automatic; so they opened whether he wanted them to or not.
Tim sighed and walked in. The security guard looked amused by Tim's arrival, knowing what Gibbs might have in store for him. He went through, got on the elevator and then groaned when it stopped midway up. He couldn't even blame it on Gibbs...since he wasn't there. The elevator was stuck for 20 minutes before it finally continued on the way up.
The doors opened and he got out.
Gibbs wasn't the first thing he dealt with.
He was the second.
"Probie's not wearing green!"
Next thing he knew, Tony had descended and pinched him on the arm.
"What?" Tim asked.
"It's St. Patrick's Day, McGee! You're not wearing green! Your last name is McGee! You should know better!"
Tim glared at Tony, but couldn't think of a single thing to say...besides, Gibbs fulfilled his role of making his life even worse.
Thwack!
"Where have you been, McGee?"
Tim thought about trying to explain how everything had gone wrong, but he didn't think there was a chance that Gibbs would let him get more than a word out.
"Sorry, Boss."
Thwack!
"We don't have time to get you caught up. Stay here and figure it out. Next time, try to get here on time."
"Yes, Boss."
Ziva and Tony ran out with Gibbs, leaving Tim alone in the bullpen, not knowing what was going on or what the case was or...anything besides that he didn't think he could hate his life any more than he did at that moment.
He was alone in the bullpen, figuring out what was going on with the case and how he could try and make up for his tardiness...and his mood wasn't improving any, particularly after Abby came up and gave him a pinch for not wearing green. She didn't do it hard, nor particularly maliciously, but it was just rubbing salt in the gaping wound of his discontent.
The long and the short of it was that, by noon, Tim hated everything about St. Patrick's Day and was ready to reject its existence for the rest of his life.
He looked at the clock at one-thirty and no one was back yet. He hadn't even heard a peep from them...which was kind of a downer since that meant they weren't even thinking about him enough to irritate him.
"All right, McGee," he said to himself, ignoring the fact that talking to himself was kind of strange, "enough self-pity. Maybe you can make things a bit better by getting lunch for the others. Leave a little note, letting them know where you've gone and then get what they like."
It sounded like a good idea to him...if he did say so himself; so he took his allowed lunch hour and headed out, remembering at the last minute to grab his phone, just in case. He put it in a small pocket which hit just about at the center of his ribcage. It was a strange place for a pocket, but he thought that, since it was there, he might as well get some use out of it.
The lines were long at the falafel place he decided to hit up for lunch...and he'd found himself at the very end of the line. Figured.
Tim took a long slow breath, trying to keep himself from getting irritated...when a sound from out in the street attracted his attention. Someone was shouting...someone else was screaming. Worried, he walked out rather than stayed inside.
A man had his arm around the neck of a very frightened woman. He was standing in the middle of the street shouting that he was going to kill her, that she deserved to die. He had a gun to her head. She was screaming, begging for him to let her go.
A car was empty in the middle of M Street...or almost empty. Tim could see a small child, perhaps three years old, strapped into a car seat, also crying. People were running away as the man fired twice into the air.
Tim noticed all this in a second. The next thing he knew, he was drawing his own weapon and shouting.
"Federal agent! Put your weapon down and let the woman go!"
The man was enraged. "Is he another one of your lovers, you slut?"
"Please, please, Michael...I never...not once!" the woman screamed.
"Liar!"
"I said put your weapon down!"
"You first, cop!"
Tim hoped that someone would call for help, that one of these dozens of witnesses would think to dial 911...or something. He didn't think he could diffuse the situation on his own.
"I can't do that, Michael. You probably know that. You're threatening to kill a civilian. As long as you're armed, I have to stay armed." He walked forward into the street. "Let's talk about it. Let her go."
"Not a chance!"
"Is that your son in the car?" Tim asked, gesturing slightly to the sobbing child in the back seat.
"Yes," the woman whimpered.
"Shut up!"
"Is this what you want your son to see?" Tim asked. "You want him to see his father killing his mother? Is that what you want?"
"I said, shut up!"
"Michael, this doesn't have to end badly. You put down the gun, let your wife go...we can all be okay."
The woman struggled slightly and Michael tightened his arm.
"Michael, Michael!" Tim shouted. "Don't do this, man. You know what I'll have to do if you hurt your wife. If you kill her...I won't have any choice. I'm not going away. I'm not putting down my gun."
The standoff lasted for what seemed like forever. Tim meant what he said, even though he was terrified. He'd never faced a situation like this without backup.
St. Patrick's Day. Some saint. Drive the snakes out of Ireland and then make my life crap, Tim thought to himself. This is the worst luck day of the year.
"Michael! Put down the gun!" Tim ordered.
Suddenly, his wife freaked out and elbowed Michael right in the gut. It must have been a hard shot because he doubled over and let her go. She began to run...not away from the scene but back to the car where her son was. Michael growled. Tim had never really heard a human being growl, but Michael did. He sounded like an animal as he turned around to kill his wife. Tim saw it happen in slow motion.
"Michael!" he shouted and began to run forward.
Michael turned back toward him and fired. Tim shot as well, but only got off two rounds before his body was thrown back and he hit the pavement, his chest on fire. He couldn't breathe and his head was swimming from the force of hitting the ground. Things started to go black, and Tim wondered if he was dying.
...then, as if from a great distance, he heard someone shouting his name. Multiple someones.
"McGee! Can you hear me?"
"Where are you hit?"
Tim tried to blink, and was glad that his eyes actually did what he told them to do. He was still struggling to breathe but his diaphragm appeared to be functioning again after being stunned into inactivity.
He managed to get his eyes open enough to see the rest of the team leaning over him, all looking very worried. Gibbs opened up Tim's jacket...and to Tim's surprise, rifled through his pockets. Then, Tony started to laugh, although it was a very relieved laugh, Tim thought it was just a touch out of place under the circumstances.
"McGee..." Tony said, "you have the best luck in the entire world."
"What?" Tim gasped, taking a real breath.
"Can you sit up?" Gibbs asked.
"By...myself?" Tim asked.
Gibbs smiled. "Ziva."
Tim felt himself being lifted up slightly, giving him a much better view of what was going on. His limbs seemed to be functioning again.
"Look at this, Probie," Tony said, pointing toward Gibbs' hands.
Tim forced his eyes to look. There were the remains of his phone, shattered by the bullet Michael had fired at him. He then felt his chest where the pocket sat.
"No penetration, McGee," Ziva said with relief. "You are fine."
"Wow."
"Where is he hit?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"I think you'll need to check his head," Gibbs said with some degree of amusement. "The bullet broke his phone."
"I..." Tim tried to think of something to say. "I...paid a lot of money for that phone," he said finally.
"Buy another one, Probie. Keep it handy. Better than a vest."
The EMT was less amused. "Not if he'd been any closer. That was close to getting through. We'd better get you to a hospital for an examination."
"Okay," Tim said, ready to acquiesce to anything that didn't require physical activity on his part. His head was still spinning unpleasantly.
Gibbs helped them get Tim onto a gurney and he was shipped off to the hospital. After an MRI, an X-ray, and a thorough examination, the doctor proclaimed that Tim had a concussion and that he should take a few days off, but other than that, he was fine.
"You're a lucky guy, Agent McGee. That bullet was close to getting through your phone. It helped that it was at a relatively low speed to begin with."
Tim nodded, feeling the impact even hours later. It had been a close call. (His mind supplied the inappropriate laugh track to his pun.)
The door to the room burst open.
"Tim! Are you all right?" Abby asked, running to him.
"I'll be fine, Abbs."
Abby hugged him tightly.
"Boss, is that lady all right?"
"She fine. Says that this was the best St. Patrick's Day she's ever had."
"What about her husband?"
"Dead. You got him, Probie. Good shot."
"Lucky shot," Tim clarified.
"Maybe," Ziva said, but her expression was much more impressed as she pulled out the bagged remains of Tim's phone. "This is a miracle, I think."
Abby grinned. "I think you should be our good luck charm now. How lucky can you get?"
Tim looked at the shattered electronics. "I think this was my lucky day," he said and smiled.
Maybe St. Patrick's Day wasn't so bad after all.
FINIS!