Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

Summary: Tim McGee has work catch up with him at a comics convention.

- - - - -

- About time you got here. Do you have the money?

- I have it. Suck toads with it and die, you –

- Oh, you're charming when you're mad. No, don't go away until I count it. You wouldn't want me coming back to you for more, would you?

- No! It's all here, I swear it! But don't make me give it to you out here, where someone might see. Let's get behind these trees.

- - - - -

NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee stared at the man holding the large, powerful-looking gun. He met the man's eyes: purposeful, dangerous, merciless. Something was going to happen…

He turned the art page over. The page below it in the stack of penciled and inked art, some in color, clearly didn't follow what happened next in the story of adventurer Dwight McFright. "Where's page 4?" Tim asked, turning back to the powerful page 3.

The traffic of this, the opening day of Rockvillecon ("Maryland's largest comics convention!") , ebbed and flowed around him as he stood at the 'E' table. A small boy and girl pushed in front of him, their convention program books open, to get autographs from the artists and writers seated there. The spot Tim was at was labeled 'E11', a blip in the many spots of the six large rectangles of tables that made up Artists' Alley. There comics artists and writers sat, hawked the comic books they'd created, sold sketches and pages of art, and chatted with fans.

Breaking off his conversation with the guy on his left, the beefy, bearded man at 'E11' signed the kids' books with a big smile and a flourish, and then turned to Tim. "Page 4? Oh, that was sold a little while ago. It had a pretty girl on it. Pages with pretty girls go fast."

Tim admired the fact that the man said pretty girl instead of some of the coarser terms he'd heard at other comics conventions. He looked at the man's fancy, hand-drawn tent card: Dodo Runkel / artist / seeker of truth / Indeedeecee Comics / featuring Dwight McFright, all-terrain hunter.

The art was good; the man (appearing to be about Tim's own age) clearly had talent. Tim enjoyed looking through the pages of larger-than-life heroes and villains doing battle.

"Everything's for sale," said Dodo, piercing his reverie. "Discounts on purchase of four or more pages."

Tim paused. "Uh, I'm just looking to see what you do," he admitted. "I'm sorry for taking up your time."

"Oh, no; that's quite all right. Look as long as you like. But you look perplexed about page 3, there."

"Well, it's just…" How to say it? "…your character, McFright. He's not really holding the gun right."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"For a gun that size, a larger revolver, while it's possible to shoot with one hand, for accuracy's sake he should use both hands. Particularly if he's expecting to fire more than once. The recoil, you know."

"Even with a super-light gun?" asked the dreadlocked man to Dodo's right at spot 'E12'. Like Dodo, he wore a Hawaiian shirt. He was James Vaughn / artist & writer / wiseass / Sharkfin Productions, according to his tent card.

"There's no such thing in this time," said Tim. "Not in revolvers that size. Laws of physics. A gun has to be reasonably heavy to work with bullets of a size to do the kind of damage needed in lethal force. Otherwise, you might as well use a BB gun."

"There you go again, Dodo; breaking the laws of physics," chuckled the bespectacled man on Dodo's left at E10, Kim Silberwald (writer / raconteur / Indeedeecee Comics).

"Yeah, I've racked up tons of breaking-physics tickets. Sooner or later they're gonna revoke my permit to use gravity," Dodo sighed. He looked at Tim, then back at page 3. "I dunno. It may not be accurate, but I think it looks kinds cool."

James looked around for a suitable prop, then settled on a small packet of cheese and crackers, which he tossed to Tim. "Hey, pal. Show me how you'd hold that, if it were a gun."

It wasn't a gun, of course, but Tim gamely held the cracker pack vertically with both hands around it, left hand on top, fingers in position, feet in the proper stance, eyes focused on a foe in the distance.

"Whoa!" said James. "You know what you're talking about!"

"Unlike the rest of you," snapped the blonde woman around the corner of the table block from Kim, at spot 'E09'.

"Mind you own business, O'Hara," Kim retorted. She harrumphed.

James ignored this. "Come on around here," he beckoned to Tim. "I want to sketch your hands like that." He grabbed an empty chair and indicated an opening in the rectangle, next to Kim.

Tim obliged, while hoping he wouldn't regret this. He didn't want to make his knowledge too evident. Today, a warm May Friday, he was off work and just another comics fan in t-shirt, shorts and sandals. Not an NCIS special agent.

"I'm James Vaughn," said the man, shaking his hand.

"Tim McGee. Pleased to meet you. I picked up issue #1 of your Safari to Star Ten last year, and liked it a lot."

"Thanks! Issue #2 came out right after the con – darn those printers' schedules – and #3 will be out in July in time for ConAlexandria in July. I hope! But, anyway. Hold your hands like that again…are you paying attention, Dodo?"

"Yes, sir! I want to be a real artist, just like you, sir!"

"Shut up," James laughed. To Tim he said, "He's called 'Dodo' because he's a large, extinct, flightless bird."

"Hardly extinct," Dodo sniffed. "There's lots of me to go around. And not flightless – I did fly here from Indianapolis, after all." He paused for effect. "And I only had to touch down to rest every 200 miles. Nice to meet you, Tim. Are you enjoying the con?"

"Definitely. This is my third year at Rockvillecon, but just my second year concentrating on Artists' Alley. You indee creators really exhibit the imagination it takes to do something new."

"Well, I like to think everyone working in comics does," Dodo said kindly, "be it for the major companies like DC and Marvel, for little independent companies, or as self-publishers, like us. The difference between the big guys and us is that we can take more chances because we have less to lose."

"But, working for yourself – it, ah, doesn't pay very well, does it?"

The three creators laughed. Kim said, "You might say that for most of us, Artists' Alley is a Don't-Quit-Your-Day-Job support group. In my real life, I teach music at a high school. Dodo says he writes code, which makes him either a spy or an IT guy; he won't tell us."

"That's on a need-to-know basis," Dodo said mysteriously.

"And I'm the least respectable of all," said James. "I'm a…lawyer." The other two made a show of visibly shuddering.

Don't volunteer it – Change the subject – Move it along… "Producing creative things, like comics, for the love of it – that's fabulous," said Tim. "You contribute to the arts. James, here's $3 for your issue #2. And Dodo? Kim? Which? Let me buy your latest issue. I may be back for more."

"Good enough, Tim. Thanks!"

Tim slipped the comic books into his backpack and headed out of Artists' Alley, past the aisles of booths of comic book retailers, his eye on the far wall of the ballroom, where the hotel had a stand selling sodas, coffee, snacks, and sandwiches. It's getting crowded and warm in here…

"Excuse me, uh…Mr. McGee, was it?"

It was Dana O'Hara, the attractive but acerbic artist/writer who sat around the corner from Kim. "Yes?"

"You, um, seem to know guns really well."

"I, er, uh…"

"Are you in law enforcement?"

I'm in hell; that's where I am. "Um…yeah."

She sighed, relieved. "Oh, good. I feel I can trust a comic book fan. Comics people are good people. I knew I had to tell somebody, but I was so afraid."

"Tell them what?"

"This morning," she took a deep breath, and then bent in close and whispered, "before the con opened…I think I saw someone being murdered."