Author's Notes:
It's been a while. And that there is the understatement of the century. Before I get much further, I want to profusely apologize to anyone who was waiting for an update on my LOTR story. I never rolled around to completing it. I also want to apologize for anyone who I reviewed for on a regular basis, I know it seemed like I just dropped off the planet.
Needless to say, after over four years, I'm back on . I've been reading stuff from here in those years, but I haven't written any solid fanfiction until I decided to challenge myself with a big bang on LJ. This story is comlete, I just need to work through the complicated process of uploading the chapters. However, it is posted all in one place on LJ, you'll find the link below. Also art is provided by the lovely chatona (which you can also find the link for below).
And, as much as I would love reviews, I understand not having the time to drop a line. :3
Title: Gas Mask Required
Author: Dha (twentytil12)
Pairing: None, but there certainly is subtext for any pairing
Rating: T (mainly for the nightmare in the last chapter and a little bit of language)
Word Count: 20,277
Spoilers: Set mid-Season 5, so anything pre-Internal Affairs
Warnings: Mainly just for the nightmare: Gore, disembowelment, etc.
Summary: When Ziva and McGee witness a murder first-hand, they and their team must work against the clock to prevent a bioterrorist attack that may claim the life of one of their own.
Notes: There's a little cameo by the SRU from Flashpoint (another CBS series), but you don't need to know who they are. Also, I am not a scientist but I have worked hard to make the "science" in the fic as factual and realistic as possible. And finally, I try to mimic the choppy style of the show and yes I decided just to post it in two giant posts because I was too lazy to separate it further Chapter 5 is split into two pieces.
Link to Fic: Part 1: " twenty-til-12. livejournal. com/ 3791. html#cutid1
Part 2: twenty-til-12. livejournal. com/ 4032.html#cutid1
Link to Art: community. / shorikurai/ 24222.html
Act One:
McGee was grateful when the time for his lunch break finally rolled around. The day had been slower than usual, with the team working only cold cases, and the constant annoyance of paper balls from Tony had steadily grown to a full-out war, which Ziva was winning, despite her initial protests to getting involved. The officer snuck around with guerilla tactics that the geek had only seen a few times prior during cases, but he could easily see her expertise in the area. He wished for something, almost anything to break up the monotony of the day. Holding up his hands, McGee attempted to negotiate a cease-fire, for the sake of their stomachs.
"Is anyone else getting hungry?" he proposed, standing up from behind his desk, hands still held up.
A paper ball from Tony hit McGee square on the temple.
"At the buzzer and DiNozzo makes it!" the older agent cheered himself on, fist pumping in triumph.
"DiNozzo," came the familiar warning as Gibbs turned the corner and strode into the bullpen, coffee in hand. "Is there a reason why you aren't working?"
"No leads on the cold cases, boss, but I'll keep looking," Tony said quickly before pulling to his desk one of the large brown filing boxes that littered the bullpen.
Gibbs glanced over to McGee, who was talking to someone on the phone rather quickly, before turning to Ziva, who filled out paperwork while checking some of the other papers that covered her desk. Smirking a little at the effect he had on his people, the older agent strode over to his desk to begin work on his computer.
"Take an hour for lunch McGee," he said, stealing his eyes away from the computer for a few moments to direct the order to the younger agent.
"Boss?" the computer expert asked before Gibbs gave him The Look. "Right, taking an hour for lunch."
"Ziva!" Gibbs called over the space between their two desks.
"Yes, Gibbs?" she asked, wondering what Tony had potentially drug her into.
"Go with McGee."
Ziva got up from her seat, grabbing her bag and her gun as she went and joined McGee on the way to the elevator, smirking at Tony as she passed him. Tony looked up from his desk, wondering when he would get his own personal invitation to go get lunch.
"You're with Duck, DiNozzo. He needs some help with moving the new equipment around, check with him for details, " Gibbs continued before turning back to his computer. "You can get lunch later."
"But Boss--" Tony attempted, glancing from the pair stepping into the elevator and his boss.
"DiNozzo," Gibbs had the impressive ability to tame even the most wayward of agents with a single word.
"Going to help Ducky, right. On it boss."
Tony quickly hurried to the elevator, whose doors were quickly closing. Sticking a hand between the two metal plates in a way he had seen Ziva do, Tony halted the doors and as they slid back open, he clambered onto the elevator, ignoring the grins on the other agents' faces. Ziva, especially, took a certain joy in knowing that Tony would be performing some menial legwork when he constantly bragged about being the senior agent.
"C'mon Tony," McGee said, still grinning in spite of Tony's dark glare. "Helping Ducky won't be that bad."
"Yes, he is always full of such invaluable knowledge," Ziva added, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over one of her shoulders. "You never know what you might learn."
Tony turned to reply but the doors opened behind him and he heard Ducky call, "Is that you Anthony?"
"Have fun," McGee said, picking at Tony as the older agent left the elevator and trudged into autopsy.
Ziva barely restrained a snort of laughter as the elevator doors closed again and the car moved down towards the parking lot. It was incredibly fun to poke at Tony, especially since he dished out as much as he took; there were few days when the Italian did not say something borderline inappropriate. Some days it was all she could do to not smack Tony upside the head in a fashion not too different from Gibbs. However, the boss bore the uncanny ability to know when Tony said something head-smack worthy and normally handled the comment in a manner most appropriate.
"So where to for lunch?" McGee asked when the doors opened, revealing the bright sun on a very hot day in D.C. "As long as it's air-conditioned, I don't care."
"Tony told me about a restaurant on K Street," Ziva replied as the two walked through the lobby of the building, their shoes clacking a little against the faux-marble floors. "Between 1st and 2nd streets, I believe. Called the Kneel�"
"Yeah, I know the place," McGee continued as he flashed his badge to the security officer at the checkpoint. "It's The Keel, which is another name for a boat. A real popular place for those who work here at the Navy Yard or across the river at Anacostia Naval Station."
"Is it any good? Most of the places Tony recommends are fast food."
"No, The Keel actually has some pretty good food. I've been there once or twice. Mainly serve the typical American foods like hamburgers, chicken fingers; we can probably bring something back for Tony."
"And miss him whining like a little snitch?"
"Uh, Ziva, the term is--"
"I know the term, McGee. I am trying to be nice."
.:NCIS:.
Ziva and McGee sat at a table in The Keel, a nautical-themed restaurant that had little to boast about. Despite the typical upscale look of many D.C. restaurants, the small pub looked more like it had suffered some blows from a decrease in business. The wallpaper peeled slightly and the tables wobbled a little when leaned on, but overall bore a much homier feel than many of the other venues in the area. All over the walls were pictures of people with boats, taken by patrons who regularly ate at the small restaurant. Some of the photographs were faded and yellowing from time, but some were new and McGee could swear he saw one of Gibbs and an unfinished boat in a basement.
Despite the hour, the traffic in and out of The Keel was light. Ziva and McGee were two of only a handful of people in the restaurant. One civilian worked on a laptop with a fervor that intrigued McGee while a couple uniformed officers sat at another table, talking good-naturedly about the new uniforms the Navy was issuing that year. One of the servers addressed a dark-haired officer among the bunch before placing one of the restaurant's brass mugs on the table.
"Have you worked anymore on your book?" Ziva asked as she tore off a piece of her chicken finger and put it in her mouth.
"I was supposed to, " McGee admitted, munching a little on one of his fries. "My editor's deadline was a few days ago but I can't get anything out."
"We are not inspiration enough to you?" the Mossad officer commented, more in an attempt at humor than an accusation.
"It's not that Ziva," McGee defended, feeling a little insecure about the insinuations of her comment. "The muse is a tricky thing to deal with."
"And who is your 'muse,' McGee?" Ziva tore another chunk off of her chicken finger.
"It's more of a what than a who," the geek continued, his face turning a little red as he remembered Tony's reaction to his pipe.
"Your pipe?" Ziva recalled an incident when her co-worker had accidentally brought the item from home, much to the delight of Tony, who made fun of it to no end.
McGee did not reply and instead turned his attention to the table of petty officers. The dark-haired officer he had seen drinking from one of the brass mugs was rubbing his chest a little. Another of the petty officers, female and redheaded, glanced at her colleague with concern but continued to engage her fellow officers in the conversation. Ziva, however, interrupted the geek's gaze.
"Do not let what Tony says bother you," the Mossad officer accosted, finishing the chicken finger and leaning across the table a little to steal a fry from the agent. "He does it to cover his own ass, which is not that good-looking in the first place."
"Trust me Ziva," he replied, pulling his food away from the woman, although he got a feeling that it would not matter how far it was from her. "What Tony says doesn't bug me."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Ziva retorted, smiling as she still managed to steal another fry. "What is it that Tony calls you? Probie?"
However, their conversation was interrupted by the loud coughing of the dark-haired petty officer, whose companions were doing a mix of patting him on the back and asking him what was wrong. As the man began to lose the ability to breathe, the coughing cease and the petty officers became more fervent in their attempts to figure out what was going on with their colleague. Ziva glanced to McGee before the latter pulled out his cell phone as the Mossad agent got to her feet and hurried over to the table where the petty officers were sitting.
"We have a petty officer who is experiencing difficulty breathing, and--" McGee began before the mentioned petty officer fell out of his chair and began to seize. "He is seizing. We need an ambulance right away to The Keel at K and 1st street."
"He's not breathing!" the redheaded woman shouted from where she knelt on the floor near her convulsing colleague.
"Stop shouting," Ziva ordered, trying to take control of the situation. "Move the tables, we need to give him some room. Does he have epilepsy?"
McGee continued to talk to the emergency dispatcher as he took quick glances between the other patrons of the small restaurant and the troupe of naval officers who were now clearing some of the tables from the vicinity of their convulsing friend. Ziva was moving the incapacitated petty officer into the recovery position, gently turning him on his side and trying to keep his head from hitting the floor with his spasms. The dark-haired petty officer vomited and the Mossad officer turned away as the substance splattered onto her clothing.
"Victim just vomited, and we think he might not be breathing," McGee added as he heard the dispatcher calling to another to 'hurry the hell up and get an ambulance over to The Keel.'
"Sir, I need you to stay on the line for me," the dispatcher replied calmly when she returned to the conversation."
"McGee, he's not breathing," Ziva said as loud as she dared.
"My partner has just confirmed the victim is not breathing."
"Do not administer mouth-to-mouth," another voice came on the line and McGee assumed it was a paramedic who joined the conversation from a headset on the ambulance. "I repeat. Do not administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."
"Ziva," McGee called over to the Israeli, who was trying to move into a position where she could help but not be vomited on. "Paramedic says to not administer mouth-to mouth."
The convulsions started to cease and Ziva reached to the man's neck to feel for a pulse. When she found no beat under her fingers, she turned the unconscious man to his back and tilted his head back a little before moving her hands to his breastbone.
"McGee, beginning CPR," the Mossad agent said as she initiated chest compressions.
"My partner is beginning CPR," McGee relayed to the dispatcher and the paramedic.
"Alright, but do not administer the rescue breathing," the paramedic ordered before explaining. "We believe that he may be another among a series of deaths resulting from a mystery illness we've been encountering. Our ETA is two minutes."
"ETA is two minutes. And he may have been exposed to some mystery illness, they think."
"Great," the Israeli muttered as she finished her first round of thirty compressions before touching her fingers to the side of the man's neck again. "Still no pulse. Beginning second round of compressions."
When the ambulance finally arrived, the besieged man was too far-gone and was pronounced dead on arrival. McGee's stomach dropped out of him as he realized that his wish had been granted. Ziva , despite being decently covered in vomit, established a perimeter before making the call to her boss.
"Gibbs, we have a case."
