Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the typos.
Title: Picking Up the Pieces
Summary: Team leader Tony DiNozzo is used to having Jethro Gibbs' agents beg to join his team. But when Gibbs' Senior Agent Tim McGee is willing to take a demotion, Tony decides to find out why Gibbs pushes everyone away. The deceased daughter, Tony could've expected, but the estranged wife is just the tip of the iceberg. A What if Shannon Lived AU. Already complete. One chapter/day.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers for the series. Mild language. Child death. Unhappy childhood mentions.
Author's Note: This work was written for the LJ Reverse Bang and inspired by a beautiful piece of artwork by musichick2004. Without her amazing picture, this story would never have come into being. So thank you for all of your hard work and your beautiful picture that helped me tell a story.
And thanks to solariana for all of her hard work for continuing to run these challenges.
This story is already complete. I'll be posting one chapter per day.
The one thing you really need to know about this story is that Tony is a team leader. So it's a 'what if Tony hadn't met Gibbs, but still worked at NCIS.' I took some liberties with Tony's childhood. in this, Senior was a crappy dad.
Enjoy.
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Tony DiNozzo should have left the office hours ago.
On a Tuesday night—long past the time any reasonable person would call it quits—he still toils away. Usually, he stays because his inspiration tends to burn brightest when those overhead lights dip to night levels, when everyone in Washington is tucked into their best, when even those lost souls have long overstayed their tenuous welcome. And he never learned how to ignore that little voice that whispers I'm the right lead, just follow me down the rabbit hole and we'll solve this case together.
He is already knee deep in a cold case that he just knows he can crack. With a little more time. With a little more elbow grease. And with maybe, just a little luck.
Thankfully, he is on his own this week. His senior agent, Rosie Wilkos, is honeymooning in the Caribbean while his junior agent, Steve Potter, just transferred to Okinawa. Tony is the only one from Team DiNozzo in the Camp Ground. While he week could be—and hell, should be—filled with early nights and dinners at home and his first date in…
Shit, I can't even remember the last time I got laid.
None of that really matters when there is a job to do, where there are cases to solve. Because cold case victims are lost in the shuffle of the living and the active and rarely, if ever, find justice. As a team leader, he appreciates more than anyone the importance of giving a voice to forgotten. And if that means forgoing some—okay, a lot of—his personal time. So be it.
Absently, Tony reaches for a piece of fossilized pepperoni pizza that rests in the box next to a heap of files. He has actively ignored that pile since Potter put in a transfer request two months ago. If he acted like they weren't there, maybe he wouldn't have to pick a replacement. After all, he really doesn't want to review the personnel reports of a bunch of probationary agents, overly eager and nipping at his heels and green as the fucking grass over a septic tank.
I probably should look at them. It's not like junior agents fall out of the sky.
Tony's eyes skirt back to his cold case file. A familiar sense of excitement kicks up deep inside of him. His heart beats a little quicker, that sound of blood whooshing in his ears. The thought of arresting a dirt bag who was convinced that he'd gotten away with murder leaves Tony almost giddy.
Piecing together the puzzle a long-forgotten crime is so much more fascinating than reviewing an agent's college transcripts and accuracy at the gun range and graduation rank at FLETC. By now, Tony has learned that none of it was a true measure of a man—or woman. You just couldn't know who would have your six until you were staring down the barrel of a gun with that person by your side.
Some things just aren't in a personnel file.
Tony turns back to his case.
Maybe the agent fairy will leave me a shiny new junior agent under my pillow tonight.
He is busy reviewing a witness statement when he hears soft footfalls of someone nearing his desk. It's probably just the night janitor, doing his damnedest to sneak past on tip-toe. When the hairs on the back of his neck rise, Tony realizes he is being studied like a lab rat.
When he glances up, Tony finds a man standing in front of him. With the baby fat still on his cheeks and dirty blonde hair and off-the-rack brown suit that hangs in all the wrong places, the man resembles a little kid playing dress up. Tony figures he is probably just a lost intern until he notices the badge clipped to the man's cheap brown belt.
Jesus, NCIS started recruiting high schoolers. We must be getting desperate.
Baby Agent's earnest eyes jump between Tony and somewhere near the elevator like he is rethinking his midnight transgression. He toys with the edge of a hideous tie: fat green and blue stripes on a diagonal. Unconsciously, Tony's fingers find his black, silk Zegna number. The smoothness comforts him in the wake of the fashion crimes being committed here.
"Excuse me, sir," Baby Agent says quietly.
Tony's brow furrows. "No need for the sir, kid. I've never been in the military."
Baby Agent's expression turns panicked. "Okay, um. Uh, Agent DiNozzo?"
"Most people around here just call me Tony."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you'd like, sir." The flush creeps over Baby Agent's face. "I'm sorry, Agent DiNozzo. Sorry…Tony." Wincing, he swallows hard as though he just broke some unspoken rule. "It won't happen again."
Tony half-nods. "And you are?"
Baby Agent laughs anxiously. "I guess I didn't introduce myself. I'm Timothy McGee. People always call me McGee. And sometimes, Tim."
" 'There are those who call me, Tim,'" Tony crows in a bad, fake British accent.
Tim stares at Tony blankly.
Tony's eyebrows jump. "Haven't you ever seen Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail?"
When Tim shakes his head, Tony makes a face. Fiddling with his coat sleeve, Tim starts casing the exit. And suddenly, Tony realizes why the name sounds so familiar.
He gives Tim his full attention. "You're Gibbs' senior agent."
Licking his lips, Tim nods quickly. Then he glances back in the general area where Team Gibbs works.
I think they call it the Bullpen, which is a stupid name. The Camp Ground is infinitely better.
To everyone not associated with Team Gibbs, the Bullpen was better known at the Revolving Door. It was the place where probationary agents landed just long enough to get experience before spreading their wings to fly to better jobs…with saner bosses. While Gibbs had a reputation around NCIS for being a hardass—those two B's stood for Ballbuster and Bastard—his knack for whipping stumbling, bumbling newbies into proficient investigators was unmatched.
I'd bet that's why the Director lets him stay. Even if he isn't sober half the time.
"I know you aren't here to discuss movies with me," Tony says before Tim decides to bolt.
Tim glances around like Gibbs might be eavesdropping from wherever he is. "I heard there was an opening on your team."
Tony tilts his head. "It's for a junior agent position."
"I'd like to apply." A half-second later, he adds a desperate, "Please."
"Do you realize that it's a step down from your current position?" Tony is completely dumbfounded as to why anyone would willingly apply for a demotion.
Tim nods like his life depends on it. "Yes, I do."
Shifting back in his chair, Tony looks—really looks—at the younger man. For the first time since Tim arrived, Tony notices the dark bags under his green eyes, the sickly yellow tinge to his cheeks, the defeated slouch in his shoulders, and the wrinkles permanently pressed into his worn-for-days suit. In front of Tony stands a man with barely enough time to change his clothes, let alone enjoy his life.
So that's what it looks like to be worked to death.
"How long have you been on Gibbs' team?" Tony asks.
Tim stands up straighter. "Eight months as junior agent. And as senior, five months, two…" When his voice trails off, Tony is pretty sure Tim keeps count down to the second.
If other team leaders who took on Gibbs' agents say that six months was better than ten years at FLETC, Tim McGee has had an entire career's worth of training. To stick with Gibbs for so long told Tony the kid has a tenacity that most agents could only dream of. Despite his soft and youthful exterior, Tony would bet Tim has a lion's heart with the loyalty to match.
I guess agents do just fall out of the sky.
Tony eyes the pile of other candidates.
Tim clears his throat. "Tony?"
Tony nods. "File your transfer request, McGee. I'll approve it as soon as I get it."
Tim's eyes widen slightly as he steps back, clearly not expecting Tony to agree so readily. After a long moment, he recovers. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."
"Call me Tony." When Tim flinches, Tony laughs. "And I expect nothing less."
With his head bobbing, Tim slips his gaze towards the Bullpen. "Uh, Tony. I need to get back before…"
"Gibbs realizes you aren't in the head and rips you a new one?"
Tim genuinely laughs. "Something like that."
When Tony checks his watch, he groans. Just after eleven. "What is your team still doing here? I thought you made your arrest this morning."
"We got the guy on his way to work." Tim shrugs, smiling half-heartedly. "We've been finalizing our reports, double-checking that the forensics match the case details, confirming the autopsy results, waiting for…" At the slip-up, he stiffens. Then he sighs. "Basically, we're waiting for Gibbs to tell us to leave. But I'm starting…well, we kinda think he lives here."
Tony cocks a crooked grin. "I've heard that Ducky lets him sleep on the autopsy slabs. He even converted one of those body freezers into an apartment. Do you think he's got a mini-fridge in there to keep his beers cold?"
Even though he tries his best not to laugh, Tim fails miserably. When a shout echoes nearby, Tim nearly jumps out of his skin. He peers over his shoulder, then back to Tony, who nods his blessing. After a quick handshake to seal their deal, Tim scurries off in the direction of the Bullpen.
Turning to his computer, Tony loads a file calls shipjumpers. After one of Gibbs' agents came to him looking for a job three years ago, he started keeping a tally of the agents who left. Some might consider it childish and juvenile. Stupid, even. To Tony, it is a litmus test of how well his rival team holds together compared to his. While Team Gibbs has a more impressive closure rate and quicker solve time and takes on more cases, Tony hasn't lost a member in over two years.
There is so much more to success than the closure rate.
Tony scrolls to the bottom of the list, then types: #11 – T. McGee. 14 months. Transferred to Team DiNozzo. When he skims the other transferred agents, his eyebrows rise. Their tenure on Team Gibbs ranges from just two weeks—Tony couldn't justify counting that one who didn't make it past the lobby—to Tim's fourteen months.
For the first time, Tony considers just how Gibbs manages to keep up those stats with his turnover rate. For the looks of things, the team is hemorrhaging from the inside out. Most of them aren't around long enough for anyone to learn their names, let alone long enough to become part of the team and work together and figure out the hell to be an agent. But somehow, they did. And Gibbs closed almost every single case that his team took on.
"It's almost like he's doing all the work himself," Tony whispers.
Sure, the probies could do the grunt work: pictures, bagging and tagging, and suspect interviews. For everything else, there would be Abby Scuito and Donald Mallard. But the bulk of the investigative work would fall right onto Gibbs' shoulders. No one should have that kind of drive, energy, or determination.
"No one should be that good…"
Unless they aren't human.
Of course, it is possible that Gibbs is a cyborg like Arnie in The Terminator. Or that he could be hooked up to a thought crime network like Minority Report. Could it be that Gibbs is a vampire? That one doesn't quite add up either. He could use his undead experience to hunt down dirtbags and infinite energy from the blood of his probies. Tony is almost onto the idea until he remembers that Tim didn't have any visible bite marks on his neck and Gibbs does go outside in the sunlight.
But there is just something about how Gibbs works his team to the bone, cuts them to the quick that doesn't quite add up. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't go home. He just keeps working and working and working like he is running away from something. Like he is trying to forget.
Maybe it's as simple as Gibbs not wanting people to find out his secrets. Not wanting them to know about the demons that keep him moving like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
But then, who doesn't have those?