Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for language.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed. As always, I'm humbled by the response to my stories. Thanks to everyone who left a review. I apologize about not getting a PM out, but it's been a crazy day between work and chasing the baby around. Not to mention, I'm hard at work on the next chapter in One Last Mission. And queenbee1711, I made your corrections. Thank you for the corrections. I appreciate it.
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For most of the week, Tony spends his days reviewing cold cases and finalizing a report for an upcoming court date. In his little down-time, he struggles to figure out the enigma that is Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Even though he shouldn't be, something about the other man just makes Tony so damned curious. If he can figure out what is under Gibbs' skin, Tony might be able to harness that energy too.
Not that a 92% closure rate isn't great. In fact, it's freaking impressive in any other area of law enforcement. But when the other guy is batting nearly a thousand…well, then.
In order to figure out how he does it, Tony starts investigating the investigator: Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Tony takes the long way to the head more times than he'll care to admit. Spends a little too long lingering in the lab flirting with Abby Scuito. Listens to one too many blustery tales from Donald Mallard. Forgets to push the elevator button while spying on Team Gibbs.
But by Thursday, he has nothing to show for it.
Desperate for some information, Tony breaks the cardinal sin of law enforcement. He pulls Gibbs' personnel file. Sure, he already looked into Tim—book smart, computer savvy, and just a little bit boring. There is a fine line between due diligence and snooping.
From what I've heard about Gibbs, pulling a personnel file is something he'd do himself. Heck, he might even respect it.
On the surface, Gibbs' file is almost as boring as Tim's.
Two tours in desert storm as a Marine Sniper. Honorable discharge in the early 90s for an undisclosed injury. Started at NCIS not long after and landed as a special agent in charge after only two years. The sheer number of accolades—both civilian and military—surprises Tony. For a man who is supposed to be a barely functioning alcoholic, Gibbs is surprisingly celebrated on these pages. Though for every note of praise, there are just as many negative reviews from Gibbs' superiors and agency psychologists: prone to fits of rage and a right old bastard and Tony's favorite, meaner than an unhinged, rabid junkyard dog when backed into a corner.
When Tony gets to the personal section, it takes three tries to make sure he isn't hallucinating.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs is married.
With a teenaged daughter named Eileen.
By all accounts, on paper, Gibbs appears to be an effective, hard-working man with the picture-perfect background to match. He should be on the fast-track to be director. Hell, he probably should have made director years ago, not a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from the agency-mandated anger management courses. Not torturing probies until all hours of the night.
Tony flicks his lower lip between his teeth.
All his search unearthed was more questions, no answers, and a burning desire to understand what went wrong in the man's life. Gibbs should have everything, but he acts like he has nothing but that dogged determination to work for.
What happened to you, Gibbs? How did you lose everything?
Later that night, Tony finds himself lurking just outside the bullpen. He meant to hit the head before going home, but he just ended up outside the Bullpen again. Now, he wants to watch Gibbs in action.
Standing in the middle of the Bullpen, Leroy Jethro Gibbs faces the plasma screen. His back is ramrod straight, his stance rigid from the years of military service he never left behind. That jarhead haircut is absurd, but it somehow fits Gibbs like everything else. His off-the-rack clothes—probably from Walmart's bargain bin—are a little too small, a little too tight, and really, really ugly. Plaid tweed, really?, Tony wants to yell at the top of his lungs.
For as calm and collected as Gibbs appears to be him, the world behind him might as well be burning to the ground. Tim McGee attacks his computer with a frenzied energy that explodes from him, boiling over before it has the chance to rip him apart. His jaw is as tight as a spring. Sweat sheens on his forehead. Two other male agents, even younger looking than Tim, work at their stations with the same amount of vigor.
I could see a Dr. Seuss book about this. McGee in the Hat with Probie One and Probe Two.
When Probie One glances over, Tony recognizes that wild, wide-eyed expression. It's the same one he sees when he corners a desperate suspect with nowhere to run, when a runner turns to find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun. Hell, Tony has even caught that expression on his own face once or twice. Usually when a girl uses that word he loves to hate: commitment.
Shit, Gibbs' team is terrified of him.
And a split-second later, Tony understands wy.
"Somebody tell me something!" Gibbs bellows.
Looking away, Probie One shares a commiserated stare with Probie Two. Then they both turn to Tim, who looks like he just got dropped into open water without a life raft. He takes a swig of the Pepto-Bismal that's at the corner of his desk.
"McGee!" Gibbs sounds like he's about to start shooting.
Tim flinches. Closes his eyes and sighs. Makes a few clicks of his mouse and stands up. "Petty Officer Jack Daylin was last seen – "
"We know where he was, McGee! Tell me where he is!"
Slipping deeper behind the cubicle, Tony continues to spy on them. How in the hell does Gibbs manage to keep his team together? If Tony spoke to his team like that, he's pretty sure Rosie would shoot him right in the ass. And he'd probably deserve it too.
When Tim glances at the other two agents for back-up, they turn away. Probie One takes to organizing the pens in his cup while Probie Two scans something on his computer screen.
With his fingers tightening around the plasma remote, Tim's expression turns betrayed. The silence blanketing the bullpen grows as thick as jungle brush and anyone crazy enough to breach it would probably need a machete to get through it.
Tony holds his breath. He is so not going in there.
Tim sighs like it's the last thing he'll ever do. "We don't know."
Gibbs whirls back to glare them down. "Family property near Lancaster, Pa. Been there for five—" he holds his fingers up for emphasis"—hours. And none of you found that!"
Only Probie One is suicidal enough to challenge that. "We didn't find any record, Boss."
"It's under his mother's maiden name." Gibbs makes a face like he's constantly surrounded by idiots.
There's a couple clicks before Probie One says: "You've got to be fucking kidding me." His cheeks blaze. "Sorry." He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry for breaking rule six again. It won't happen anymore." He looks to his teammates. "Why didn't we think of that, guys?"
Gibbs shoots Tim a withering glance. "Good question."
And suddenly, Tony understands why Tim is willing to take a demotion to transfer off this team. It's one thing to be the senior field agent in the firing line when something goes wrong, but being the scapegoat for an untrained team and cantankerous leader just isn't fair.
Without saying a word, Tim sinks back into his desk chair. He types murderously before he sends a picture of an idyllic white farm house against a pale blue sky up to the plasma.
He starts: "That's the Day – "
"Try Reid," Gibbs interrupts.
Tim nods defeatedly. "That's the Reid Family Residence. Just outside Lancaster."
With his brow furrowed, Probie Two curiously studies Gibbs. All he gets is an irritated "What?"
"If you knew where Daylin was," he says, "why didn't you say anything?"
"Was trying to give you three a chance."
Probie Two nods as though the explanation is good enough. "I guess it's a good thing you're here to set up straight, huh?"
Gibbs grits his teeth. "Ya think?"
Probie Two manages a bright smile before Gibbs' glare wipes it right off his face. So he settles back itno running down something on his computer. While they work, Probie One keeps sneaking glances at Gibbs as though he can't fathom how their boss reached that conclusion on his own. Without any warning, Gibbs strides over and slaps the younger man on the back of his head. The smack echoes through the Bullpen, all the way to Tony's hiding place.
Tony winces, rubs the back of his neck sympathetically. That would never have a place on his team.
He can't believe just how different his and Gibbs' teams are. When he and his agents discuss a case, they pull their chairs together into what he came to call a Camp Fire. Ideas flow between them like river rapids and for a moment, they are equals in their theories. Nothing is too ludicrous because some of the craziest thoughts—like those ensigns who thought they were going to be like Ocean's Eleven in Atlantic City—are the right ones. Motives, weapons, suspects, nothing is off limits during their brainstorming. If there is one thing that Tony has learned, it's the creativity is a huge part of the crime solving process. Some criminals are crafty bastards, so the people hunting them need to be even more so.
But while Tony's team is a modern-day democracy, Gibbs is part dictator, part overlord. He beats his team into submission until they think like him. And if they don't, he berates them with his conclusion and his methods.
For some reason, that just intrigues Tony even more. Nothing should make any reasonable person so angry, so agitated, so effective—there's another whack from the Bullpen. Tim, this time.
Peering around the partition again, Tony watches Gibbs loom over Tim's desk like he expects answers to appear from thin air. When Tim looks away, he stares straight at Tony. His face goes sheet-white, his mouth gaping. He shakes his head slightly, leans it in the direction of the Camp Ground.
Tony half-smiles to tell him If I leave now, Gibbs will catch me.
"McGee!" Gibbs snaps.
Confidence clearly shaken, Tim glances up at his boss. "On…on it, Boss. I'm on it."
Thinking his scare tactics are working, Gibbs nods. "I'm going to see Abby. Go pick up Daylin."
Tim swallows hard, desperate to look everywhere except where Tony is hiding. "Y-y-yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir!"
Tim closes his eyes. "Right."
Without another word, Gibbs swoops out of the bullpen. Inching towards the back of the cubicles, Tony holds his breath. When Gibbs rushes past, the air drops several degrees as though they're tinged with ice. As if on reflex, Tony mentally hums The Imperial March from Star Wars.
Does that make me Han Solo? I guess McGee would be Chewbacca then.
Oh boy, he'll love that.
Tony just rolls his eyes.
Back in the bullpen, Probie One and Probie Two stand, clearly awaiting orders.
Tim doesn't look up. "You heard the Boss. Go pick up Daylin."
"Uh, McGee, we don't know where to go," Probie One says.
Probie Two adds his two cents: "Yeah, Gibbs didn't give us the address."
"I thought you two would've…no, you know what…" Tim sighs like the conversation pains his very existence. "I'll text you the location. Just go get Daylin and come right back. No field trips."
"On it," Probie One and Probie Two chorus when they collect their gear.
Then Tim wags his finger at the two probies. "And taking the suspect to a drive through counts as a field trip. Especially when you don't get him any food. JAG didn't like that trick last time."
"But he said he wasn't hungry," Probie One says, voice bordering on a whine.
"It doesn't matter." Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just don't do it again."
Both probies share a dejected look like their plans were just destroyed. With their backpacks slung over their shoulders, they miserably head out towards the elevator. Probie One is too busy trying to clip his hoslter to his belt to notice Tony, who is still creeping at the edge of the cubicle. Once he hears the elevator ding, he feels someone trying to stare a hole through him.
Tim looms over the side of the cubicle, watching him.
Jumping to his feet, Tony laughs anxiously. "Did you just let those two go pick up a suspect? Alone?"
"They should be fine. Daylin is just an AWOL petty officer who told his CO where to stuff his job. The guy's a non-violent offender anyway." Tim shrugs. "Those two need to learn how to handle themselves some time soon. I won't be around forever."
Even though he isn't really listening, Tony nods like he is. He moves into the Bullpen for Gibbs' desk. Nothing is out of place, not that there is anything there to be. The surface is spartan and militaristic with only items that earn their keep having a home on it. Stapler. A single case file. One pen. No personal effect, no pictures. Not a single trace of Gibbs' wife or daughter.
It's almost like they don't exist…
"So Gibbs." Tony raises his eyebrows. "Yikes."
Tim rubs the back of his head. "Now, do you understand why I want to transfer to your team?"
"Absolutely. I've heard rumors, but – " Tony whistles " – I've never seen Gibbs in action. But do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Tim nods. "Go for it."
"How did you three miss the hidden family property? That's Dirtbag Hiding 101."
Tim sighs as he studies something on the Most Wanted Wall. "We just caught the case this morning. We're on punishment assignments. You know, AWOL sailors, missing uniforms because Gibbs pissed off the director again." Tim's expression sours further. "I guess I wasn't as thorough as I should've been."
Tony tilts his head. "How did Gibbs figure it out?"
Tim half-shrugs. "Honestly, I have no idea. He and I interviewed Daylin's roommate for five minutes. I ran a background check, but that farm didn't come up anywhere."
When Tim retreats to his desk, Tony can't bring himself to move. Suddenly, being here feels a lot like a condemned soul trespassing onto sacred ground. He hesitates as though he is suspended from the ceiling. He doesn't know what has gotten into himself this week. Poaching another team's senior agent, stalking the team leader like he is a sociological project to be understood, not an equal to work with. Something about Gibbs just captured Tony's attention. Perhaps it was the rumors— that he's a nasty drunk or that he lives at NCIS or that he does all the work alone. Or maybe, Tony managed to be seduced by Gibbs' surprising win percentage…a near perfect closure rate with the least experienced team in the building. Tony wants that kind of energy, that kind of drive, that kind of batting average.
I have to figure out how Gibbs does it.
Tony joins Tim. Unsurprisingly, the younger man's desk is as boring as his boss'. Even the stapler is a boring, industrial black. The only thing that gives any hint of a person, not a robot, using the space are a few pictures of exotic beach locations on the cubicle wall behind Tim's desk. On closer inspection, Tony discover they are postcards and computer print outs, not real pictures that Tim took.
Tony perches himself on the edge of Tim's desk.
Collapsing into his chair, Tim releases a world-weary sigh. "Did my transfer order go through?"
Even though it's been on his desk for two days, Tony still hasn't signed it. The thought of poaching—even though he is begging and pleading for escape—an effective, capable agent like Tim hasn't felt quite right to Tony. If he's going to steal Gibbs' man, he feels as though he needs to level the karmic playing field. And while he would never offer up any of his agents as a sacrifice to Gibbs, he still needs to figure out how to make things right.
"Not yet," Tony lies.
Tim makes a face, sighs again. "I guess I'll talk to HR again."
"Did you know that you aren't the first person who asked for a transfer from Team Gibbs?" Tony asks.
Tim looks like he might've heard it before.
"But you're the first one, I agreed to take on."
Tim's veneer cracks. "Ah," is all he says.
"Did you ever wonder why Gibbs pushes his people away?"
"Not really." Tim's expression darkens further. "Maybe he's just a bastard."
