Duty Calls
by channelD
written for: the NFA Weekly Writing Game; prompt: Duty
rating: K
pairing: Tim & Tony (non-slash)
genre: general
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disclaimer: I own nothing at all of NCIS.
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We'd had a long week, our team. Tony and I were feeling particularly put upon because of the extra work we'd had dumped on us. Ziva was attending a class in multi-lingual issues for federal foreign liaison officers all week, and Gibbs was temporarily heading up two teams, so we were on the go constantly. Today, Friday, we finished chasing down all the leads in Georgetown for the Rheinbokker case at 6:20p.m, and were looking forward to returning to NCIS to sign out and begin the weekend. (Thank heavens we weren't on call for either Saturday or Sunday.)
Then Tony's cell phone rang, and we froze. It couldn't be good. "Gibbs," Tony read on the display, but didn't answer it. He looked ready to pitch the phone, and I didn't blame him. The last thing either of us wanted was to be called to another assignment.
Still it rang. I stared at Tony in disbelief. Surely he would answer it. He had to.
But he didn't, and the call went over to voicemail. "You can't get rid of Gibbs that easily, you know," I said. "He'll just call back."
Sure enough, within a minute, just as Tony was about to put it away, it rang again. Of course it was Gibbs. I dreaded the day, not too far off, when phone caller IDs came with subject tags. This second call would probably go, "DiNozzo! Pick up the phone, you—"
And then of course my phone rang. Gibbs. Tony shot me a warning look. "Probie, don't you want to start your weekend when you're supposed to? We were going to go to watch the basketball game at that new sports bar and cry over the Nationals' chances when spring training starts."
"I know, I know," I said in misery. Normally I didn't hang out with Tony after work, but aside from the sheer weight of our assignments, he'd been in a relatively good humor all week. So I'd agreed when he suggested we have a few beers and watch the game after work. Neither of us had dates, obviously.
The call to my phone went over to voice mail, and I felt very guilty. Then my phone rang again. I was about to answer it, when Tony snatched it from my hand. "He can track us, you know," I pleaded. "The GPS locator. He might come after us himself."
"Not if we and the phones are separated," Tony grinned.
I rolled my eyes, positive I did not want to hear whatever wild plan he had. "What if it's something important, Tony? What if someone's in danger, and we're the closest agents? What if—"
"What is, what if, what if! You sound like a 5-year-old, McGee! There are other agents, legitimately on duty, who can take whatever action is needed. You and I were supposed to be off at 6! We do have rights, you know."
Not a lot, really. As law enforcement, we could be called up any time, pretty much. Still, Tony had a point. We should take a stand.
"Okay," I said. "I don't know what we're going to tell Gibbs, but I guess we have until Monday to decide. Let's go watch the game."
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The sports bar was not far away, and we lucked out by getting a parking spot within a block…amazing for Georgetown. The crowd was already deep into their standard beers and microbrews, along with the usual burgers, Buffalo wings, and chops. We got a booth in good position to a TV and ordered. The beer was great, and the food was, too. Soon the place would be "discovered" and become too crowded to get into, but for tonight, the crowd was just the right size.
To our left two guys who'd already had too much to drink were muttering to each other as they perched unsteadily on high bar chairs. We noticed them at the same time, sized them up quickly, and went back to our discussion of the game. The guys seemed harmless.
Even trained special agents make mistakes, though. When the bartender told them for the second time that he had to cut them off, they went ballistic. They started yelling and swearing…and then they drew their guns.
People screamed and ran or dove for cover. The guys began firing randomly. Two people fell before Tony and I could climb out of the booth with our sigs drawn. "Freeze! Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" we both called, our voices overlapping each other. They spun our way, still firing. My head suddenly hurt, and I became dizzy and fell down.
"Tim!" I heard Tony cry, and then he grunted. I couldn't see what was going on.
"Freeze! Federal agents!" a new, familiar voice said. Gibbs. I could see other NCIS jackets with him. Another grunt, and the firing stopped. I could tell that one of the gunmen had been hit, and another, seeing the new odds, had dropped his weapon in surrender.
Gibbs directed the other agents to see to the wounded—fortunately, there had been no deaths. He knelt beside me. "Don't you pass out, McGee," he said sternly. "You're not badly hurt. Just a bullet graze to the side of your head." He held a handkerchief to my head to stop the bleeding.
"Tony?" I asked.
"I'm okay, Probie," Tony replied, crouching beside me. "One of the guys shot the sig out of my hand! Lucky shot."
Gibbs frowned. "When you two idiots didn't answer your phones, I feared you were hurt or… dead. We did the GPS tracking and raced over here in two cars. Are your phones working, or not?! "
"They are," Tony admitted. "We were—it's Friday, boss, and we just—thought we'd had enough. I guess this is what we get for not doing our duty, right?"
"Maybe," said Gibbs, but his look had softened. "If you guys hadn't been here, the casualties could have been many more. So it all worked out."
"What were you calling us about, boss?" I asked, finding my voice raspy. Gibbs helped me sit up and Tony got me a glass of water.
"The Director had noticed that you two had been working really hard this week. She was giving you Monday off; administrative leave. She hoped you'd enjoy the long weekend, and rest up."
"That's great!" I said, thrilled with the thought. I started making a mental list of all the things I could do Monday, starting with sleeping in.
Tony's voice stopped my list. "Uh…'was'?" he said.
"Because of your little phone stunt, your admin day off is canceled," Gibbs snapped. "Be on time on Monday!"
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