Disclaimer: I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studios, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!
Authors Note #1: This has been one of those plot bunnies that has basically eaten my brain for close to three weeks. Sitting in the back corner of my mind and absolutely nagging to be told. Something that is really quite distracting when you are right in the middle of trying to finish a few other stories I might add. I am so so so sorry to those of you who are waiting on my other fics, but my muse is my master and I am as whipped as they come!
*I see this story as being able to fit in anywhere mid to end season 6 where you really get to notice how much Jimmy as a character has truly become a part of the team. He is not just Ducky's assistant anymore and you see him getting more prominent story lines and more integration with all the team characters. (Seasons 5&6 put me in my happy place for that let me tell you!)
Warnings: Violence, a bit of gore and language. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion, so count yourselves as warned. But really, nothing hugely specific other then the little tid-bits of trivia throughout and of course for the Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode, which obviously I totally adore!
Authors Note #2: Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first foray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.
It's a Rough Roadto Heroism
Chapter One – Prologue
"Is there a hero somewhere, someone who appears and saves the day? Someone who holds out a hand and turns back time?"
A few long hours previous...
It was late afternoon, with the sun laying low and stagnant on the horizon. It was the point in the day where the sun seemed to halt, pausing on the skyline and seeming to hold itself there for hours as the gradually dying day sucked back the sunlight. Only today it seemed to hang on longer, making one wonder if Helious himself had blown a chariot wheel halfway across the horizon, stopping the sun in it's tracks.
And if the Greek charioteer had cared to look down, he just might have seen a tall, red haired man, his arms laden with take out bags, and a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, his hair such a fiery red color that it could even rival the brilliance of a solar flare. It was a brilliant mess of striking auburn reds that showed the promise of curls despite his regulation style haircut.
Though obliviously a natural red head, the man literally embodied the ideal of what a true marine should be. He was young, well dressed, and well built, with a solid, muscled torso and well defined arms, his hair was cropped short in the usual military fashion, and he even sported a small but tasteful regimental tattoo on his right forearm.
His mere presence was intimidating, but yet at the same time he was one of those people that even a stranger could safely coin as a non-violent man at heart… It was his eyes, calm and sparkling with good humour, and the way he held himself that gave him away, his tread careful and soft-footed, as though he was perpetually concerned about accidentally stepping on someone, or something.
There was a definite quickness to his pace as he strode down the deserted sidewalk, a smitten grin on his lips as he balanced the two bags of Chinese take out and a brown paper bag in his grip, the long neck of the smoky glass giving away the identity of the expensive Cuvee Louise Brut champagne. Anyone and their uncle could tell that the man had it bad.
He took a left at the last intersection towards what seemed like endless row of warehouses leading towards the wharves. Shifting the duffel bag over to his other shoulder he looked left and right before passing through a few questionable looking alley ways as a short cut, his steps growing faster as he moved through the darkening afternoon shadows, dodging piles of industrial waste and mouldering trash bags, his nose wrinkling slightly as the smell hit him.
He was nearly out of the last alley way when his cell phone rang, the cheerful jingle sounding eerie in the near silence. Juggling bags he somehow twisted himself enough to reach into his service jacket, and pull out his ringing cell, his brilliant green eyes lighting up when he saw who was calling.
What he didn't see however was that the shadows behind him were now slowly moving. At the opposite end of the alley way three men had materialized from under the rusted overhang of an abandoned warehouse.
They were the kind of sort that just screamed trouble, decked out in ragged motorcycle leathers, heavy boots and dirty wife-beater tees. However despite their relative similarities in dress, they were all different in the way they held themselves, with each man inadvertently belaying his own standing through body language alone.
The dark haired one who took up the rear of the group was so green you could almost smell it. He was nervous, jumpy, and far too trigger happy, edging forward every few seconds as though he had springs attached to his toes.
The second from the lead sported a buzz cut and a mean look, standing close to the leader, alert to his every move, his experience all too apparent in the way his hands smoothed down the barrel of his berretta, and how he eyed the back of the red haired man with a calculating, and almost predatory glare.
But it was the man in front that was clearly dominant; it wasn't just his imposing, six foot frame, and football player shoulders. Nor was it his shaved head, his scalp and neck peppered with a mess of ugly red scars... it was his eyes. They were ice cold and unfathomably dark, the kind of eyes that truly put a chill down your spine, holding no mercy, warmth nor kindness in their black depths.
There was only one thing however that truly stood out between all three men other then their clothes and hard looks. It was the cruel looking tattoo that stood out on their necks like an angry brand. It was clearly a gang tattoo, but professionally done, inked in the design of a crimson upside down cross, and set in the imprint of a black hand.
Without speaking the leader turned around, setting the second with a steady stare and a barely discernable tilt of his chin, the action causing the second man to return the gesture as he used the hem of his shirt to muffle the click of his guns safety. The smallest one however was far mouthier and insolent.
"Are you sure?" He demanded aloofly, his voice going high pitched as his words gradually died off when fixed with the hard line of the second man's mouth. The leader, still partially obscured in the shadows only flicked his eyes towards the third man in irritation before gesturing towards the occupied marine with the butt of his gun.
"Take his dog tags for proof of the kill." He growled in way of reply, setting his cold stare on the younger man until he nodded, shifting nervously where he stood, unable to meet his leader's cold, calculating stare.
Operating in near whispers and crude hand signals they advanced from behind, all three surprisingly silent footed despite their heavy steel toed boots. But apparently not quiet enough, because for some reason, the red haired man suddenly stiffened, his voice cutting out in mid- sentence as he whirled around, his eyes widening as he took in the situation, assessing his options and what he was up against in a matter of mere seconds. And the faint laugh lines around his mouth tightened into a grimace as he fully realized his situation.
The phone lowered from his ear slowly, even as the person on the other end called his name questioningly, the tone turning worried and suddenly going silent when he finally spoke, directing his question to the lead man.
"What do you want? I have nothing worth stealing." He finally managed, his voice sounding much more calm and confident then he felt as he licked his bottom lip, taking a measured step backwards at the same moment.
But from the men advancing on him, he got no reply, only a menacing look as the two men behind him fanned out at his sides until he was looking down the barrels of three nasty looking guns. If he could have spared the breath he would have cursed.
He knew then that there was no getting out of this one. These men weren't just some punks out for wallets and Rolexes, these were professionals, and likely part of a gang if the matching tattoos were any indication.
He was only just wondering what the hell they wanted with him when the light bulb finally switched on in his mind, with flashes from the small snatches of news reports he had caught over the last few weeks running through his mind. Images of over a half a dozen dead marines raced through his mind, each one shot and beaten to death, their dog tags ripped brutally from their necks. Men, women, officers, sergeants, gunnys... men and women from every rank, all Marines, and all seemingly selected at random. Each victim had been followed from their respective bases and navy yards before they were attacked.
NCIS had been remaining relatively close-lipped about the investigation, but base-wide scuttlebutt rumoured that they were closing in on a strong lead. But the attackers were like ghosts. They had never been caught, and there were never any witnesses, never any traceable DNA or prints.
'Oh god.' He thought, a cold sweat breaking out the back of his neck, panic starting to bubble in his breast.
But all that vanished when the abrupt metallic clatter of his cell phone meeting the concrete reached in his ears, the sound somehow grounding him, bringing him back to reality and pushing down his panic as his military training came rushing back to him.
His eyes darted around, taking in the abandoned area, there were no cars, no people, no help, and no weapon save for the bottle of champagne he still held. He didn't even have his god damn boot knife. He was on his own. All he had was himself and his balls, and if he wanted to survive this he knew he had to get his head on straight. Come on Marine! Concentrate! Think! Act! Now!
In one quick move, the red haired marine swung around, pivoting on his heel as the take out bags fell to the pavement with an audible wet splat, swinging the duffle bag from his shoulder as he moved and whipping it at the men as he ran, his hand slapping to his hip, automatically searching for a gun and holster that was not there.
His move caught his attackers by surprise, and as he streaked across the road like a red-haired rocket, they cursed and gave chase, running after him as their long-legged prey weaved and ducked as he ran for the water front, still gripping the bottle of champagne by the neck like some strange sort of glass club as he moved, intentionally giving them a harder target to aim at.
But as fast as the marine was, he was out numbered and the leader was experienced, watching until he saw his opening before dropping to one knee as the man weaved into his sights, aiming down the nose of his colt and firing, the noise muted to a small pop with the aid of his silencer.
The first shot missed by mere inches, chipping out a spray of concrete right beside him, causing the man to tuck and roll to the right, skidding on a slimy patch on the pavement as he regained his footing. But those mere seconds were more damaging then he could have ever realized, giving the leader time to get his sights set on him again.
This time the shot did not miss, bringing the marine down in a crumpled heap as the bullet embedded itself in his left thigh. Despite his strangled cry of pain and surprise, the man tried to regain his footing, desperate now, hearing the thudding footfalls of his attacker's only meters behind. But his leg refused to hold his weight and he fell again, scrambling on the ground as he half crawled away from his attackers.
All three men surrounded him; the youngest man crowing victoriously as the leader viciously kicked the fallen man in the gut, the force of the kick throwing him flat on his back, as he tried to hunch into himself in pain. The leader stepped back then, reaching into his pocket for a polishing cloth as he nonchalantly set about cleaning the barrel of his gun, eyeing it closely as he wiped it down almost lovingly.
With a desperate snarl the marine lashed out with the bottle, grunting in pain as he shuffled backwards, crab-like across the filthy pavement, trying to stay out of reach of the other men's eager fists and feet.
But he couldn't hold them off, and they descended like a pack of vicious animals, cursing and taunting him as they beat him, pummelling him until he was barely hanging on, blackness spotting his vision as unconsciousness rushed forward, his limbs turning limp and weak, causing him to jerk and flop about like a rag doll as each kick and fist shook his broken body.
And if he could have heard anything above his grunts of pain, and the thudding sound of their limbs meeting his flesh, he might have heard the heart breaking crash as the bottle of Cuvee Louise Brut hit the ground, kicked from his hand and shattering on the ground in a hundred glittering pieces, the liquid gurgling mournfully as it spread across the pavement.
The sound of the bottle breaking echoed across the deserted lot much like the sound of the last desperate charge at a battles end. One where the loosing side knows that defeat is on the horizon but still refuses to give up without one more roar, one more defiant sound in the face of death, showing their teeth before the lights go dark and the death comes to claim them.
But then, just as he was kicked onto his stomach, a boot heel grinding into his rib cage, only disconnectedly feeling the shuddering crack as one of his ribs snapped, by chance he looked up, his eyes flickering to the nearest alleyway and towards one of the most surreal sights of his entire life....
The last thing he saw before unconsciousness washed over him, was the vision of a man barrelling towards him, his black cap emblazoned with the letters: NCIS, his mouth open in a yell that his ears could no longer hear, he could only watch as the man's mouth worked, his circular glasses glinting in the last rays of sunshine as his hands went for the unidentifiable shape at his hip.
The beatings suddenly ceased as his attackers turned their attention to this new threat, a man outlined in starbursts of color as his failing eyes vainly tried to see, trying to look through the encompassing darkness that was bleeding steadily into his vision.
And just as he slipped into unconsciousness, the world falling away with a percussive roar that followed him into the darkness, he watched as the man skidded in front of him, the abruptness of the motion spraying droplets of the spilled champagne across his lips as the man launched himself over him and at the second man with a wild, broken off yell that would have scared the pants off a better man then him, likely even his hard-ass CEO if he had heard it...
And then, mercifully, there was only darkness...
A/N #1: Well I am not sure how in demand this story will be so I will stop it here and depending on the reviews if people want see more I will decide whether or not to continue! Remember this is just the prologue; the real action begins in the next chapter.
A/N #2: Chapter title taken from lyrics from the Poets of the Fall's song: "Looking at the sun."
A/N #3: *Glossary for the two reference points: (Because lets face it, we all can't be as smart as Jimmy and Ducky!)
Helious: The Greek god said to ride out in the morning with the sun attached to his chariot to bring forth the day and ride back with it at sunset to make way for the night.
Cuvee Louise Brut: One of the top ten most prestigious champagnes. Produced by Pommery and generally aged from 1998. Cost: Around $185 smackers.. (Ouch)