Disclaimer : If you recognize it, I still don't own it. All characters remain intellectual property of CBS and their creators
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Leroy Jethro Gibbs waits patiently in forensics lab while Abby Scuito nervously flits from one machine to another like an over caffeinated butterfly. He has an extra Large Caf-Pow in one hand and a patient expression painted on his face. He forces himself to tune out the drone of chainsaws and death screams in the pounding music. After what his agents went through, it doesn't help with his mood. But if it helps Abby think, he would let her listen to anything.
She darts to the opposite side of the lab bench, pausing just long enough to glance through a microscope. Then, she darts to the mass spectrometer. She is nothing more than a blur of black pigtails, lab coat, and skull-patterned mini-skirt jumpsuit thing. She makes a point not to look at Gibbs.
"You aren't supposed to be here," she announces for the umpteenth time.
He nods. "I know."
"And you know I can't talk about Tony and McGee's case," she murmurs as she makes her way back to the lab bench. Picking up a pipet, she transfers a blue liquid between vials.
"I know."
"I'm only allowed to discuss things with Agent Barrows and his team."
He half-smiles. "I know."
Abby moves the liquid to three different vials. Then, she scrunches her nice like it wasn't what she expected. She scratches a careful notation in her report.
"But you aren't going anywhere, right?" she blurts out.
"Do you have to ask, Abs?" Gibbs replies.
With a comforted smile, Abby falls back into her work. And it's not like Gibbs has anywhere else to be right now. Well, he technically should be in the bullpen to separate Tim and Tony until the investigating IA officer arrives. Because if he knows Tony, the first thing he'll do is ask Tim to talk. Make sense of things. Get their stories straight. Figure out something that wouldn't end with his Senior Field Agent thrown in jail for being a mutant and impersonating a federal officer.
He warned me this could happen.
When Gibbs met Tony in Baltimore, the younger man came clean about being telekinetic. He confided in Gibbs that he never learned how to control his abilities, just bury them enough to appear human. Being a mutant himself, Gibbs recognized Tony's potential. After he joined the team, Gibbs always stayed open step ahead to prevent Tony from using his abilities. But he always knew there would be a time when Tony would use his abilities and accidently out himself. They came close when Kate nearly died.
Then, someone tried to kill McGee.
Abby moves more of that blue liquid around. She clucks her tongue. Makes a disapproving face. She holds the tray of vials up to the light as though it could make them change color. All of them are a transparent, sky-blue. She frowns before rolling her red lips into a grimace.
"I don't get it," she mutters to herself. Then, she raises her voice: "It doesn't make any sense. It is supposed to make sense. Why won't it make sense, Gibbs?"
He just stares at her.
"This is science I'm talking about, Gibbs. Not the case." Her uncertain eyes meet his. "Things, crimes, dead people, whatever happens at a scene. Bad people leave clues. They always leave clues. It doesn't matter how smart they are. Or how smart they think they are. They always leave behind a trace of something, a hint, something. And it's my job to find these clues and put them together so you–" she gestures at Gibbs "—can go catch the dirt bag."
"I know," he says.
"But every crime scene has made sense." When she bites her lip, his chest tightens. "Until this one."
Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "I thought you weren't supposed to talk to me."
Abby opens her mouth for a moment before she snaps it closed. Wringing her hands, she slips around her lab bench. Her expression is pained, her eyes wary. When he offers her the Caf-Pow, she whines about how she doesn't deserve it. Then, she thinks better of it and pulls a dreg through the straw. She lets out a loud Ah! when the caffeine hits her blood stream.
"That's the thing," she continues. "I'm not talking to you. I'm working through my problems with…Bert." She hooks her thumb at the stuffed hippo on the shelf next to a bottle with a skull. "Yeah, Bert. It's how I figure out things when I'm stuck. We talk it out and then, inspiration hits me –" she raps the side of her head "- like a bolt of lightning. You should try it, Gibbs. Talking, I mean. It might…"
He stares at her.
"….help. Um, yeah." She looks away. "Or not."
At that moment, Abby holds up her right index finger and moves back to her computer. On the screen, there are several pictures of the scene. He barely got more than a glance last night because Barrows' team was assigned to clear it. Three dead bodies with their handguns lying on blood-stained sand. The tide from the lake laps at the victim's bodies.
"Okay, Bert," Abby starts. "Meet Paul Miller, 28. Lance Armistance, 33. Jeremy Jackson, 23. While these three weren't criminal masterminds, they were well-versed in all levels of – "
Gibbs clears his throat.
"Good point, Bert. I should get straight to the hinky part in case you have something more important to do." She displays three photos of handguns, all laid by a corpse's side as if thrown there. "Each man was killed by his own weapon. Mass suicide, you might say, but you would be wrong." She holds her index finger up as she flips through more photos. "Maybe they just got mad and killed each other. But you'd be wrong again, Bert. I tested the swabs of their hands from Ducky. Negative for gunshot residue. Not even a little, teeny weeny bit of gunshot residue. None of them fired a gun for days."
That familiar pit forms in Gibbs' stomach. It feels a lot like the day Kate almost died.
With her back to Gibbs, Abby is busy having an animated discussion with Bert. "You would be right to think Tony and McGee fought back, Bert. They can handle themselves." She holds her hands to her chest in a pretend swoon. "And since Barrows hasn't taken their statements yet, you might think we have no idea what happened." She pauses. "Okay, you might be right there, Bert. We don't know exactly what happened. But I can tell you they didn't kill these guys either."
When she darts around the bench for her blue vials, Gibbs follows.
"There wasn't any gunshot residue on their hands either," she says. "So we've got dead three guys, but who shot them? Because no one there did. Obviously."
"Maybe one of them was wearing gloves?" Gibbs throws out.
Abby turns to him, stricken. "If one of them wore gloves, where did they go? Tony or McGee wouldn't remove them because that's tampering with evidence." Her frown deepens. "They would never do that. You taught them better."
Gibbs straightens his back. "Fourth man?"
"Maybe." She shrugs with one shoulder. "But the only footprints on the beach belong to those three, Tony, and McGee."
"Unless his footprints washed away with the tide." Gibbs gestures at the photos. "Look how far the water came in."
Her face brightens as though she can cling to her last bit of hope. Even though Gibbs knows he is giving her a fake lead, it'll buy him some time to bury what the truth. He should feel guilty, but he doesn't.
She beams at her hippo. "I'm glad we talked things out, Bert. You always have such great ideas."
Gibbs kisses her cheek. "Call me as soon as you find anything else, Abs."
"You know I can't talk to you, Gibbs."
He chuckles. "I know."
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Tony and Tim end up at a quaint, little diner around the corner from NCIS. The sprawling booths with cherry red, vinyl seats and white linoleum tabletops have the charm of the 1950s. A chrome jukebox by the window pumps out The Bangles' Walk Like An Egyptian. A heavyset waitress with a nasty limp leads them to a booth near the back. Even though Tony and Tim face each other, they look everywhere else.
The walls are coated with faded posters advertising the specials—hamburgers, Reuben sandwiches and the "Hungry Man Breakfast"—pictures of local sports teams and framed old newspaper clippings. He makes a mental note to read the one from a few years back about how the Loch Ness Monster cruised the Anacostia for months.
The one thing to catch Tony's attention is a large sign by the cash register. It says No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service with a handwritten addition on printer paper: No Mutants. There is a crude drawing of a humanoid frog with a blazing red X through it.
If only they knew we look like everyone else.
Tony and Tim sit in silence until a waitress comes to take their order. Since he hasn't even looked at the menu, Tony orders the Hungry Man Breakfast with extra bacon. Tim asks for coffee. Just coffee. Like he doesn't plan to stick around. When Tony clears his throat, Tim quickly orders scrambled eggs and wheat toast. The waitress sweeps away their menus, quickly returning to drop off their drinks. Without even tasting his coffee, Tim dumps a bunch of sugar into it.
Tony slowly sips his coffee. Its bitter and acrid, almost undrinkable. Why Gibbs travels past a half-dozen Starbucks and doughnut places to get his coffee here is something Tony will never understand. He takes another sip, wishing he had Gibbs' knack for knowing exactly what people seem to be thinking. While it would be helpful for interrogating suspects, it would be positively life-saving right now.
Tony starts, "McGee…"
When Tim's eyes meet his, Tony makes a face.
"Look, Tim, about what happened."
And suddenly, Tony's gift of gab eludes him. He doesn't know what to say right now because every single word died up on his tongue. What is he supposed to say to Tim? That yeah, he's a mutant and part of a group banned from working in federal agencies. But it's okay because well, he is Tony DiNozzo after all. And what is going to say when Tim asks about last night? Will he really believe those guys shot themselves in the head? Even with the head injury, that is a stretch.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Tim runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek before glancing out the window. He stares blankly at a pair of joggers on the sidewalk.
"Tony, it isn't about what you are."
The phrase—what you are—makes Tony flinch. Tim might as well have shot him. And in some ways, a bullet might be kinder. Thankfully, Tim recognizes his mistake. He flushes fiercely. Putting his hands up, he turns his attention to Tony. His mouth is moving a million miles an hour before the words pour out.
"I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't mean that. Look, you know that wasn't what I meant. It's just that I don't know what I'm supposed to say right now." He puffs his cheeks out when he exhales. "I don't care who are you are. The thing bothering me is that you didn't tell me about your abilities. You expect me to put my life in your hands whenever we go out into the field. And I do because I trust you." He fiddles with his napkin. "But you didn't trust me. How do you expect me to feel?"
"To be fair, I didn't really tell anyone," Tony says quietly.
"Does Kate know?"
Tony shakes his head.
"What about Gibbs?"
When Tony stares out at the street, Tim gets his answer. Leaning back in the seat, Tim straightens his jacket. Tony tucks into his coffee.
"I feel like you should have told me," Tim says. "I could've been walking into a potentially deadly situation with a ticking time bomb."
Tony's eyes widen. "It's not like that."
"What about that bank robber who turned into a human torch last week?"
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's a bad example, McGee. He didn't know what he was doing. Most of us manifest our abilities as children. After some practice, using them becomes second nature. It's like learning how to walk or talk."
"Do you know how to control your –"
When the waitress heads over with their food, Tim points to his temple before wiggling his fingers at Tony's fork. When Tony thinks about them, his fork and knife vibrate, rattling and plinking against the table. Scooping them up, Tony dunks them into his coffee. The waitress places Tim's plate in front of him and Tony's four—pancakes, sunny side up eggs, bacon, sausage and toast—by him.
She shoots Tony a questioning glance. "Is there something wrong with your silverware, honey?"
"I like dipping it in my coffee first." Tony plasters his best flirtatious grin. "It makes everything taste like coffee. It's way better than a regular breakfast."
"Whatever floats your boat." And with that, she's gone.
When Tony scoops up his silverware, he places them back on the table. He watches them for a long moment, but they aren't moving anymore. He picks up the fork and plunges it into the pancakes. Every so often his skin crawls like someone is watching him. Tony's eyes anxiously dart around the restaurant. Even though he has never felt so conspicuous in his life, everyone is too involved in their own food to notice him and Tim. Tony decides it must be the eggs—sunny side up always did look like eyes. When he goes to move them, they slide away before he even touches them.
Tim gapes at him. "Did you know you're doing that?"
Biting into a piece of bacon, Tony shakes his head. "My abilities are more like a party trick now. I was trained to limit them. I can only do little things. And even then, it's not all the time."
"Like?"
When Tony concentrates on Tim's plate, it lifts an inch off the table. On reflex, Tm snatches it out of the air and slams it back down. He leans on it protectively as though it might fly away again. A lady at a neighboring table shoots them a dirty look.
"He doesn't want to share his homefries." Tony shakes his fork at Tim. "He never learned manners as a kid. Raised by wolves. Big, hairy ones."
"Tony," Tim hisses. "Knock it off."
"You should hear him howl at the moon." When Tony pretends to be a werewolf, Tim grabs at his forearm. Tony just shakes him off and keeps going.
"Tony," Tim snaps.
But Tony's plan works because the woman just turns back to her own conversation. Tony gestures at her with raised eyebrows. It earns him an eye roll from Tim.
Once they are sure no one is eavesdropping, Tony turns serious and continues: "I never learned how to use my abilities, Tim. After I manifested, my dad…" Tony pokes at the sunny side up eggs until the yolk oozes"…sent me somewhere to learn how to be normal."
Tim's eyebrows jump. "Why would he do that?"
"He decided it was a disgrace to the DiNozzo family name when I accidently knocked the house down on my mother," Tony says, smiling ruefully.
Tim's breath catches in his throat as though he doesn't know quite what to say. All he offers is a sympathetic expression and a quiet, "I'm sorry, Tony."
But Tony just shrugs. He has heard it all before from the so-called grief counselors at the "gifted" schools and other students and random strangers. He always claimed it was an accident because that meant a ticket to freedom as soon as he hit 18. If he admitted he was trying to kill his father—the man was in the middle of beating his wife, after all—Tony would've been institutionalized, at best. At worst, the government would have taken him into custody and turned him into a weapon.
As they sink into an uneasy silence, they work at their breakfast. Tim actually eats while Tony only pushes his around the plate.
Tony is first to speak up. "You know, IA is coming to interview us."
"Kate told me this morning. I just— " Tim stares at Tony earnestly "— what I am supposed to tell them?"
"The truth," Tony says without hesitation.
Tim's fork clatters to the table. He gapes at Tony as though the thought of telling IA exactly what happened, that saying Tony is a mutant never crossed his mind. He scrubs his hand across his face, the color draining from his cheeks.
"Do you know what happens if I do?" he asks. "You could be convicted of murder. You could go to jail. You could…" He sneaks a furtive glance before he drops his voice "…you could be executed."
Tony shrugs. "And you'll go to jail if you lie."
Pushing his food away, Tim slumps back in the booth. He stares intently out the window.
"Is that why we came here? So you could present me with the Kobayashi Maru?" Tim asks.
Tony blinks. "The what?"
"It's a Star Trek test with a guaranteed no win situation. You're a commander of a ship where you pass a passenger vessel called the Kobayashi Maru. They're about get annihilated by Klingons. You can either keep going and leave them to die. Or try to fight and get yourself killed in the process." Tim exhales. "Basically, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't."
Tony laughs. "Don't admit you know that if you ever want to get laid again."
Tim blushes severely. It takes him a long beat before he says: "You saved our lives last night and without your…" he nearly whispers "…abilities, we wouldn't still be alive."
"Yeah, but – "
Tim holds his hand up. "Look, Tony. I don't know whether we're friends, but we are partners. We always have each other's six. No matter what."