Tony Quixote

by channeld

written for: the NFA Don Quixote challenge
rating: K plus
genre: humor
featuring: Tony, Tim, and the rest
author's note: I'm asking you to indulge me in this fantasy of the results of a blow to the head. It's not likely to happen this way.

disclaimer: I own nothing more of NCIS than I did 5 minutes ago, which is to say, still nothing.

Tony burst around the corner building on this retail block, gun in hand. The suspects had run this way, hadn't they? It was as nerve-wracking to him to have his gun in hand as it probably was to any civilians who might be in the area, for the same reason, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. And where was McGee? His partner, his back-up, the Robin to his Batman…

"Ungh!" He fell to the pavement as one of the suspects conked him on the head from behind. The bright daylight winked into starless blackness.

"Tony? Tony? Wake up!"

Someone was yelling at him. Yelling may not have been correct, but they were addressing him from entirely too close a range. "If you're going to get this close, introduce yourself," he said, sitting up with a groan, and a hand on his aching head. Something nearby smelled good. Delightful, in fact. But bearing a warning; an air of menace…

"Easy, Tony. You shouldn't move that fast, I don't think. Looks like you got quite a blow. I've called Gibbs, and—"

Tony eyed the earnest speaker. "Who are you?"

"Knock off the jokes, Tony." But the other man only stared at him. In exasperation, Tim waved his arms. "Okay. I'll play along. I'm McGee; your teammate. Satisfied?"

Tony considered. "My teammate. My sidekick. My companion traveler. My squire. Yes, of course I would have a squire. One of my class would certainly not be out on these mean streets alone!"

"Mean streets?" Tim looked a little worried now. This was a moderately upscale district of an affluent DC suburb. "Tony, I think you're a little discombobulated. What's the last thing you remember?"

Tony squinted at him. "What's your name again?"

"McGee."

"Not a good name for a squire of mine. I'll call you McSancho; how's that?"

"Fine. Whatever. Now, what's the last thing you remember?" Tim could have sworn that Tony's pupils were rising and falling in size, independently of each other. Maybe I should just call 911.

"I was—I was—on the trail of…knaves, who were—were—about to lay waste the fair kingdom of Villa DC! And I, Tony Quixote, am the sworn defender of the downtrodden!"

"You are Tony DiNozzo, a federal agent working for NCIS. Right now, I don't really trust your judgment."

Tony wasn't paying attention, though. His head was turned toward the brick building set inches away and he sniffed the air. "They are here!" he whispered.

"Who's here?"

"Giants!" Tony lurched to his feet, and with more speed than Tim would have thought possible, dashed around the corner and in through the doors of a bakery.

"Tony, wait! You shouldn't—" But all Tim could do was run after him.

"A-HA! Prepare to do battle, ye enemies of the knight-errant!" Tim heard Tony yell, and he gulped. Sure enough, Tony was discovered causing havoc inside the bakery, having hurtled the counter and now engaged in stuffing a tray full of giant windmill cookies in his mouth.

"Stop! Stop it, thief, before I call the police!" yelled the baker.

Tim flashed his badge, which always seemed like a good thing to do when you didn't know what else to do. "It's okay. I'll, uh, I'll pay for it. He's…well, it's hard to explain."

"And who are you?"

"I'm…Special Agent Sancho Panza." Tim held back a sigh. "His sidekick." Squire sounded too unlikely, particularly since they didn't have horses.

"Well, can you make him stop doing that?"

"I'll try," Tim said, while handing over a credit card. "Tony," he said, turning, "It's time to go. There are lowlifes out there to, uh, do battle with."

Tony stopped in mid-chew. "Verily?"

"Verily."

"Then let us not waste a minute, noble squire! ꜟVámanos!" He dashed out of the shop, giving Tim just a second to retrieve his credit card before giving chase. What next? Tim wondered.

There were screeches and honking horns as Tony ran across the street, heedless of the traffic. One car that barely missed him pulled over to the curb, and Gibbs and Ziva popped out. "DiNozzo! What are you doing?" Gibbs demanded, throwing a glance at Tim who was executing a more cautious route across the street.

Tony bowed deeply. "Your majesty! I am fighting to free our land of those who would mean the common folk harm. I—"

Then he saw Ziva, and dropped to his knees. "Fair lady! Dulcinea! Look, squire! I have sought her, sung her, dreamed her!"

Ziva glared, at him and then at Tim. "Is there such a thing as a Don Quixote syndrome?"

"I don't know, but you have it pegged," Tim said. "He thinks he's Tony Quixote. He's already eaten a dozen windmill cookies, thinking they were giants."

"All right. Get in the car, Quixote," Gibbs ordered. "Meet us back at NCIS, McGee. We'll see if Ducky can get to the bottom of this."

Ducky looked perturbed. "I am not entirely up on the treatment of 16th century knights," he said. "Couldn't you bring me someone from a musical set in the 20th century?"

"The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha is one of the greatest books ever written," Tim argued. "I know we think Tony is more likely to have sprung from a book like Tom Jones, but this is what we have to work with."

Ducky muttered something, and then addressed Tony, who sat patiently on a table. "Tony..." No response. "Sir Quixote…" That got Tony's attention. "I hate to shake your notion, but this is not Spain in the late 16th century. This is the United States of America, and the year is 2012. Your knight-errant duties are with law enforcement for this agency, and you have suffered a blow to the head."

"What are you trying to tell me, good Scotsman?"

"That there are no windmills to tilt at, or to eat—"

"So McSancho has informed me," Tony said remorsefully.

"—no farm girls to rescue, no one to do battle with in the way you are imagining."

"And McSancho is not my squire?"

The sadness in his eyes was too much to behold. Before Ducky could answer, Tim said, "No, that much is true. The term they use nowadays is 'Probie'. I'm your Probie."

Tony seemed comforted by this. "Good man, McSancho. Good man. With you by my side, I feel ready to take on…anything. But now…" he yawned. "I think I must rest." So saying, he stretched out on the table and fell fast asleep.

"It's all right," Ducky said, seeing Tim's alarmed look and Gibbs' raised eyebrows. "The notion that you shouldn't let a person with a concussion go to sleep is largely a myth. They just need to be watched. I'll look after Tony; you two can go back to work."

"I cannot believe," said Ziva later, in the squad room, "that Tony has read a classic novel written 500 years ago. I have, and I enjoyed it very much. But Tony?"

"He probably hasn't," said Tim. "But the movie, Man of La Mancha, is in his DVD collection. I've seen it there."

"Less speculation about addled gentlemen, and more work," Gibbs growled.

"Checking in with the local LEOs," said Ziva, reaching for her phone.

"And I'll do an update trace on their email and credit cards," said Tim. Yes, things could almost operate as normal, even without Tony.

"Jethro! Come quickly! Tony's on a rampage, and I can't control him!"

"On our way, Duck," Gibbs said to the video connection, and he, Ziva and Tim ran for the elevator.

It was a wild scene in Autopsy. Tony had Jimmy (recently arrived from a half day at school) cornered and was swinging away at him. He'd already gotten in a few blows to Jimmy's face, which was now bruised and bleeding. Jimmy, who had no fighting experience, could only put up his hands before his face.

"I can't even get in close enough to administer a sedative," Ducky lamented.

"It's okay, Duck. DiNozzo! Stop what you're doing!" Gibbs snapped. But Tony ignored him.

Abby fearfully stood on the sidelines. "It's Jimmy's glasses," she remarked. "Tony thinks he's an enemy; the Knight of the Mirrors."

"Palmer! Take off your glasses!" Ziva called, while trying to get into a position to fight Tony.

"But then I can't see!"

Distracted, Jimmy unwittingly allowed another blow to hit him…and knock off his glasses. "Hey!"

Tim tried to tackle Tony, but was felled by one of Tony's wild swings.

"Enough!" cried Abby. "Sorry, Ton-man." She cracked him on the back of his head with a microscope and down he went again.

A while later, they all sat around the table in Vance's office. Tony's hand kept going to the now-bandaged area on the back of his head, which ached. With the other hand he accepted the cup of water and pain pills from Ducky.

"Let me see if I have this straight," said Vance, who was not in a happy mood. "Agent DiNozzo, you acted as a knight-errant, tilting at windmills, swearing allegiance to Agent Gibbs, naming Agent McGee your squire and Agent David your cherished lady, and then attacking James Palmer for the crime of wearing glasses?"

"I don't know, sir," said Tony, looking at his thumbs miserably. "I don't remember a thing. If they say it's true, then I guess it happened."

"Do you want to press charges, Palmer?"

"Uh, not really, Director. I understand that Tony wasn't himself."

"Fine. Take the rest of the day off, and tomorrow, too. I don't know how you can even see out of those black eyes."

"Thank you, sir."

"Sorry, man," Tony said to Jimmy as Jimmy left.

Vance looked at the remaining participants. "Ms. Sciuto, are you in the habit of hitting people with NCIS equipment?"

Abby thought. "I suppose it depends on what's on ha—uh, I mean, no, sir."

"Dismissed!"

Vance turned to Ducky. "And how is it that you were not able to see this problem before it got out of control?"

Ducky looked affronted. "As I told the others, Director; I may be old, but I do not have personal experience with the 16th century."

Vance sighed and just pointed to the door. Ducky took the unveiled hint.

"Now as for the rest of you," said Vance to the remaining team members, "can you assure me that this is not going to happen again?"

"I don't even remember it," said Tony softly.

"It won't happen again," Gibbs said quickly.

"Good. Don't tell me how you'll make it that way; just don't let it happen again. Now get back to work; all of you."

Vance stared at his wall-mounted plasma screen after they had gone. Finally, he said to the empty room, "He could have chosen a happier musical. What about Camelot? Or Guys and Dolls? Or what about A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum?" He chuckled. "I always liked that one.

Something familiar,
Somethiing peculiar,
Something for everyone
A comedy tonight!

He snapped his fingers as he sang. Thankfully, no one else knew of his love for musical theatre. Yet.

Maybe he should trade experiences with DiNozzo sometime.

-END-