I own nothing. 'Nuff said.
This basically the result of watching four NCIS episodes in a row and getting on a huge emotional high for the characters. *sigh* This is set during Episode "Probie" in Season 3. *sigh* Poor McGee... So, in light of the events of the episode, and the question of what McGee was actually working on, this little vignette was born. :P
He closed his eyes, forcing the thoughts away. The substance in the pan was boiling, scalding, but he'd long since forgotten what he was cooking. All he could think about was last night and the events that had transpired, spiraled out of his control.
McGee turned away from the stove top, flicking the burner off. He wasn't that hungry anyway. He caught sight of his desk of computers, and farther away, the typewriter. It sat there invitingly, a testament to the nights he'd spent hard at work.
Night after night, he'd worked on emptying the day's events onto the page. Closure, he supposed, something his psychological teachers would have told him. Everyone needed closure. For McGee, it was writing, the steady clicking of the typewriter's keys in the silence of his house.
He pulled out the chair and sat down, staring at the blank page already set and waiting for him. He curled his hands into fists, fingers itching to touch the keys, to move. His novel sat untouched on the desk next to him; he'd finished chapter twenty three the week before. The outline lay on top, his ultimate plan for the work he'd been weaving together for months. He should work on it… He'd been hoping to start sending it to publishers by the end of the year, but…
His gaze strayed over to the bulging folder on the bookshelf, the notes he'd taken over his years with his team. It'd become more of a habit the more he was with them. He'd documented every case, no matter the events, as a sort of release at the end of the day.
McGee sighed and positioned his hands on the type. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, and then started to write.
My name is Timothy McGee.
And I am a murderer.
He stopped, hands poised just above the keys. McGee chewed on his lip for a moment and then began again.
They say I did it, and maybe I did. I'm not even sure anymore. I saw a gun in his hand, and I heard the shot. It seems no one believes me anymore. I don't believe me anymore.
I killed a man last night, a Metro City officer- an undercover officer. I don't know what he was doing there, and when I identified myself… I wasn't expecting him to shoot. Did he even shoot?
Maybe Director Sheppard is right. I overreacted and killed a man who wasn't doing anything wrong. He never was holding a gun, and I never heard a gunshot.
I am a murderer.
He stopped, glancing at the door. Of all things…
Tony really didn't know how to quit.
If you can spare a moment, review? :)