Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for language.
Author's Note : Thank you for everyone who's read, fav'd and followed so far. Many, many thanks for the reviews. I love seeing what you guys think.
New chapter came faster than I thought. I guess this is what happens when I'm supposed to be editing my challenge story. Anyway, enjoy.
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5:14pm – Somewhere Near the Navy Yard –
The only other place where someone could recognize Tony in this topsy-turvy world is NCIS. Of course, someone he works with will be able to identify him and then everything will go back to normal. Kind of like in Freaky Friday where lightening flashed and the mom and daughter switched back to their original bodies. But not the updated version…Tony never did like Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis.
None of the guards in the NCIS garage have heard of a Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. They haven't even heard of a regular old Agent Tony DiNozzo. And no, they won't let him inside without his creds. Tony tells himself they just don't like his minivan.
While he pulls out of the parking garage, his mind whirls with possibilities at what could be happening. Maybe he's in a parallel universe. Or perhaps the guards put together an extremely elaborate prank to get him back for his spectacular April Fools' trick. Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Today, it's about the only thing that does. He'll just go inside and confront the ringleader, head guard Walter.
Tony drives around the block a few times before he finds a parking space. He tries to parallel park, but parking the van is more like mooring a boat. The car ends up, half on the curb with its nose pointing in the street. Since it isn't directly in traffic, Tony kills the engine and scrambles out. For a moment, he considers locking the van, but thinks better of it. Maybe he'll get lucky and someone'll steal it.
Without looking back, Tony stalks down the steaming concrete. The closer he gets to the Navy Yard the more familiar the passersby become. Just outside the NCIS headquarters, he pauses in the middle of the evening mass exodus. It's a phenomenon he always admired, but never got to be a part of: the ability to go home at a reasonable time. Hell, he would even appreciate getting to bed before the 11 o'clock news.
His eyes follow the people milling around him.
The dayshift woman from the armory floats past, followed by Nadine from HR and Ted from accounting. Meredith, the downstairs receptionist, flashes him a winning smile like she clearly doesn't remember their torrid affair the summer after Ziva left. When he ended it, she swore he was a dead man walking.
Tony turns away just in time to see a real dead man.
The sight of Chris Pacci talking animatedly on his cell phone sends Tony backpedaling. Rolling his eyes, Pacci continues with his conversation as though nothing happened. The crowd swallows him whole and Tony gapes.
I was at his funeral ten years ago…
After he recovers from the ghostly encounter, a short blonde with a tight body and an even tighter skirt – whose name he thinks might just be Alicia – saunters towards him. With how his luck is going so far, she would be the one to remember him.
He runs his hand through his hair, edges himself closer to the building. As soon as he's certain that she doesn't see him, he ducks inside the building.
The drab grey-walled interior, metal detectors, and guard stations almost bring tears to his eyes. The scent of stale air, burn coffee, and sweat socks tickle his nose, making him grin like an idiot. Coming home is far better than he ever imagined and he can't wait to settle back into his desk, fling some paper airplanes at Tim, recommend movies for Ellie, and harass Gibbs until he sends them all home.
With whatever personal existential crisis he currently experiences, Tony is thankful for the consistency and stability of his life at work. Year after year, nothing ever changes. And so far, that has never been a bad thing for Tony. At least, he likes to think so.
Anxious to get back to work and normalcy, he joins the line of people checking in for night shift. Gun and backpack go through the x-ray machine, step through the metal detector, and flash the creds and his winning smile. Then he'll be ready for duty.
He sets his gaze on the solitary guard manning the x-racy machine.
Gnarled and nearly bent over at the waist, Walter Walker probably should've retired twenty years ago. For the past ten, he has been the inside man to source obscure classics to feed Tony's movie addiction like a dealer to a junkie. If anyone in the building other than Gibbs will recognize Tony, it will be him.
Hope swells in Tony's chest as he steps in front of Walter.
But he hooks a crooked finger to the opposite side of the lobby. "Visitor's passes are over there, son."
"Come on, Walt, it's me." Tony taps his fingers against his chest.
Walter squints through his thick glasses. "And you are?"
"It's me, Tony." The blank look on Walter's face turns his stomach. "Special Agent DiNozzo?"
"I'm not familiar with the name, son. Are you a new transfer?"
Tony leans forward, wild and desperate. "I've worked here for thirteen years, Walt. You checkeme in every day and I don't think you ever took a vacation since I – "
"Just got back last week." Walter flashes his fake-white denture. "Aruba. First one in ten years."
"Wow, Walt, that's great. Congratulations, I guess." Tony bites his lip, shifts his weight. "Look, Walt, you've got to know me. Don't you remember all those movies you used to bring? The DVDs? I just watched I Was a Male War Bride last week. Great choice, by the way."
When recognition deepens the wrinkles on Walter's face, Tony's heart lifts.
Walter waggles his eyebrows. "That Ann Sheridan is quite a looker, ain't she?"
"So was Cary Grant in drag."
The old guard guffaws. "You got a great sense of humor, son. We could use more of that around here, but you still need a visitor's pass."
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, chuckles as though it could keep him from going crazy.
None of this is real. Everything that happened today has to be some elaborate prank put together by the guards for payback. From that moronic dachshund to getting hit by the car to the children, the guards are just getting their revenge. That's it, just revenge. Whatever he did back in April – and he sure as hell doesn't remember anymore – doesn't even compare to the level of planning this took.
He truly does admire them, but he'll do whatever they want to make it stop, even if they ask him to get down on his hands and knees to worship their superior pranking ability. Hell, he'll even go on record and admit it, as long as it gets his life back to normal.
"You got me, Walter Walker." Stepping back into the lobby, he grins up at the security camera. "All of you got me good. Nobody could pull off except for you guys in the security office."
Walter stares at Tony like he's insane. Walter squares his shoulders and moves his hand to the weapon on his hip as though an arthritic guard who can't stand up straight could be a threat.
"Who came up with this? You, Walt? Bravo." Tony claps. "Bravo to all of you."
"Son, I need you to calm down."
"Or what?" He laughs. "You'll call security on me?"
Unholstering his gun, Walter reaches for his walkie-talkie. Tony can't stop laughing as though getting gunned down in the agency lobby could be funny. When Walter squints at something over Tony's shoulder, he glances back to find a tall, thickly-built guard with dark hair. From where Tony stands, he thinks the name tag might read Terrence.
Terrence grabs Tony's upper arm. "I got this one, Walt."
"Good." Before he turns to the next person in line, Walter adds: "Nut," under his breath.
"I need to talk to Agent Gibbs," Tony says.
Terrence drags him back to the entrance. Tony desperately tries to free himself, but the vice-like grip on his arm doesn't budge. Once they're at the front door, Terrence meets Tony's eyes.
"It's a matter of life and death," Tony tries.
"You and I both know it isn't, Agent DiNozzo." Terrence's voice is as smooth as silk.
Tony's eyes widen. "Wait, you…you know who I am? Really?"
"Of course, I do."
"Then what the hell is going on?" Tony growls.
Terrence smiles like a used car salesman. "You have been offered a glimpse, Agent DiNozzo. To see what your life could have been if you made one different decision."
Tony barks hysterical laughter, the last traces of hope to return to his normal life fading into nothingness. "Oh Christ, what is this? It's a Wonderful Life? Was Clarence busy so I got the second string angel, Terrence?"
"You know that's just a movie right?"
The reaction only makes Tony laugh until his sides ache, until tears slip down his cheeks, until he is afraid he might split in two. Because the guards aren't pulling a joke on him, the entire freaking universe is. Nothing might've been easy before, but this is fucked up.
Eventually, his roars morph into quiet chuckles. When he's done, he scrubs his hands against his cheeks.
"So that's it?" Tony asks hoarsely. "I get hit by a car and the universe gives me what? A second chance to do something that I don't understand. Don't you think that's messed up?"
Terrence shrugs. "It's better not to ask questions."
"I just want to go home," Tony says.
"I'm sorry, but it's not that easy."
Tony makes a face. "Fine, then what do I have to do? Realize my family and my friends need me? Learn some idiotic lesson about myself? Learn to feel again?"
"I'm not here to tell you that." When Tony glares at him, Terrence offers an apologetic smile. "I'm only here to show you how when you're done with your glimpse."
After Terrence reaches into his back pocket, he produces a small pink and purple noisemaker. It looks like it would be more at home at Times Square on New Year's Eve, then the NCIS lobby in the dog days of summer. He offers it to Tony's hand like it's the Holy Grail.
"You use that when you're ready to go home," Terrence starts. "It'll – "
Tony whirls the noisemaker, not caring that everyone stares at him like he's crazy. Right now, he believes their perception might be turning into reality. He just might be going crazy. Closing his eyes, he spins the noisemaker with everything he has. He even taps his heels together three times for good measure. When he opens his eyes, Terrence's agitated face hangs inches from his own.
Tony holds the noisemaker out. "It doesn't work."
"If you'd let me finish." Terrence forces a smile through clenched teeth. "After you learn the lesson that your glimpse offers you, it'll take you home."
"And what's the lesson?" Tony asks.
Terrence sighs as though the conversation pains his very existence. "That's for you to find out. Unfortunately, us - " he actually uses air quotes " 'second string guardian angels' don't know as much as the higher ups do. So maybe you should ask Clarence." His nose wrinkles in disgust. "I'll see you around, Agent DiNozzo."
At that moment, Terrence tosses Tony back out into the summer heat. Tony stands there for a long time, glaring at the security guardian – angel, whatever the hell Terrence is. Even after Terrence points towards the parking lot, Tony doesn't move. When other guards begin to cluster around the door, backs straight and weapons in hand, Tony realizes he can't win this fight. While a night in NCIS lock-up would give him a place to sleep, it probably won't help him get home.
Sighing, he slinks away. He whirls the noisemaker the whole way to the van and of course, the damned thing doesn't work. And of course, no one stole the freaking van because no dirtbag wants it either.
Tony folds himself into the driver's seat, chucks the noisemaker over his shoulder hard enough that it almost breaks the back window. He stabs the key into the ignition as though it's responsible for all of his problems.
"G-damn it." He pounds his hands on the steering wheel. "What the hell is this?"
He throws the car in drive, wanders the traffic-filled city streets as he struggles to make sense of his situation. Alone in a world he doesn't recognize with a family he doesn't know. And for what? To learn some freaking life lesson. But all he has learned so far was that the universe was just as fucked up as everything else in his life. Oh yeah and that nothing could ever be easy.
I can't even die right. Instead of heaven, I get whatever the hell this place is.
Tony narrows his eyes at the sky.
Outside the car, the neighborhood around the Navy Yard blurs into the abandoned and rusted out factories of Southwest before blending into the lush green and monuments of the National Mall. More traffic, more cars than he remembers ever seeing before. He suddenly remembers one of the perks of not driving home at a reasonable time. No traffic, no people, uninterrupted views of the city.
Sighing, he makes a right off the main drag. He takes the back roads, away from all of the tourist crap and government buildings up to his apartment in Judiciary Square. When he's just about there, a familiar sight comes into view on the sidewalk. Smack dab between an upscale Chinese place and an androgynous clothing store with an identity crisis, it's a watering hole he knows far too well.
He hangs a U-turn into oncoming traffic, then attempts to parallel park again the van between a couple of Smart cars. Even on the second try, it's still more like berthing a boat than parking. He maroons it, half in traffic and half on the curb.
But he doesn't care because his attention is lasered on the art deco speakeasy.
As he ducks inside, he pops his collar up to ward off the chill from the air conditioner. He squints through the dim lights and soaks up the familiarity of the bar. The hint of a smile rises to his lips. The scent of fresh beer, peanuts, and Buffalo sauce come with every breath.
He exhales through his teeth, wonders how many hours of his life he spent wasting away here after Ziva. Shaking his head, he chases away the unwanted memories.
Tony claims a barstool and leans his elbows against the mahogany bar that's gone smooth from the countless people who have done the same thing. Bottles of alcohol line on lighted shelves glow like a boozy rainbow. He yearns for them.
The bartender, an older man with a handlebar mustache, heads over.
"What can I get ya, Detective DiNozzo?" he asks.
Tony blinks. "Detective?"
"Okay, fine, Pig-Head Detective DiNozzo. How's that?" The bartender laughs, rolls his eyes. "That's what all of the boys around here call you anyway."
Tony fakes a chuckle. "You know what, just bring me the usual."
He's still a detective.
Oh Christ, now he really needs a drink. A bottle of scotch or whiskey. Hell, he might even be able to get through one of Gibbs' bourbons without gagging.
He sure as hell doesn't expect the bottle of light beer that lands in front of him. But he drinks it anyway and it tastes like warm piss. He nurses the beer for what feels like forever. The bartender tries for conversation, but Tony ignores him. So he gets the booby prize of a basket of peanuts and another beer, the bartender gets a twenty dollar tip. Overhead, a television chatters away to itself about world events, sports scores, and the weather for the upcoming weekend. Tony only half-listens.
The post-news game shows are just starting when someone slides onto the adjacent stool. Tony catches motion out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't look over. He sure as shit doesn't want to talk to the person who decides it's a good idea to sit next to someone in a nearly empty bar.
Seconds later, the bartender brings a glass of white wine.
Only one person I know orders white wine in a bar.
When he glances over, Tony chokes into his drink.
Tim McGee wears an easy grin. "You're a hard man to find, Tony."
Tony gapes. "Tim? You know me?"
