Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos. Oh and the OCs.

Warnings : Rated T for language, violence and mayhem.

Author's Note : Thanks for all of the follows/favorites so far. And many thanks to everyone who has left reviews. I'm hoping that FF gets the glitch figured out so I can reply to everyone individually sooner rather than later.

If you're not following the story, but reading along. Yesterday's chapter didn't bump the story up to the top of the list, so make sure you're on the right chapter.

Enjoy!

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WASHINGTON, DC – So it turns out that Tony DiNozzo's trip to our Nation's capital might be more complex than we originally reported. Online sources show that he was at NCIS Headquarters giving autographs to one of the security guards. No further details were known at posting time, but we will keep you updated as we find out more information about this strange situation.

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4:44pm – 6234 R St. SW, Washington, DC – Southwest Neighborhood – Peter Michaels' Apartment –

Tim never understands why Washingtonians waste their time trying to reclaim the past and repurpose—repackage, he decides is a better fit—it into something fancy, shiny, and new. Old crack houses in drug-riddled neighborhoods turned into stunning multi-million dollar townhouses for the sake of gaining 'property value', condemned buildings transformed into luxury apartments, and factories becoming industrial-style lofts. Maybe, Tim thinks, it's better to trade out the old for something brand new.

Tim pulls the Charger up to the curb in front of Peter Michaels' apartment building.

Worn letters that read Callahan Silk are barely legible through the years of wear on the pock-marked, aging stone above the frosted glass, double doors. The building's exterior on the first few floors is a sparkling white and their windows are pristine while the upper levels are still a pollution-grey with more broken glass panes than whole. A bright yellow banner advertising Live Among the Clouds in The Loft of Your Dreams flaps haphazardly in the breeze from a broken tether. Decay and rot collides headfirst with some developer's attempts to recover—repackage—the past.

Gentrification just seems like a waste of time to Tim. Some neighborhoods, like the rougher pockets of Southwest, are best left untouched.

Tim puts the car in park to study the building, but Tony draws his attention to the activity on the street corner. Three young men exchange a wad of cash for what looks a hell of a lot like drugs.

"You really know how to show an out of towner a good time," Tony says.

Tim laughs. "Believe it or not, there are a lot worse places than this."

"Really?"

"You have no idea."

Half-nodding, Tony continues to watch the drug deal on the corner. "What do we do about those…" Tony purses his lips "…dirtbags?"

"Forget about them."

Tony tilts his head. "But why? They're breaking the law, right?"

"Small fish," Tim explains. "We've got bigger ones to fry and paper clips to find. Plus, those guys are Metro's problem, not ours."

When Tony stares at him as though he's speaking a foreign language, Tim rolls his eyes and climbs out of the car. As soon as Tony follows, Tim locks the sedan behind them. He really hopes that when they get back the Charger won't be sitting on cinderblocks and missing its tires.

"So let me get this straight," Tony asks, "you let some criminals go?"

Tim bites the inside of his cheek. "If it means catching an even bigger one, then yes."

"But MacGregor arrests everyone. Don't you remember in chapter fifteen when he caught so many criminals that one of them had to sit shotgun?"

"Of course. I wrote that, remember?" Tim crosses his arms. "That's fiction and this is real life."

"But – "

"Where are you going to ride when I arrest the entire neighborhood? In the trunk?"

Tony presses his lips together as though he hadn't considered that possibility. Two of the young men from the drug deal amble towards them. They look barely old enough to know what drugs are, let alone sell them. Tim hits the remote lock on the sedan a few more times.

When they get closer, Tony puffs his chest out. "Afternoon, gentlemen. How are you two doing today?"

Tim holds his breath.

I'm going to kill Tony. If those guys don't finish the job first.

The two teenagers stare Tony as though they're trying to figure out what place his designer suit and expensive Aviator sunglasses have in their world of baggy jeans and oversized hoodies. They share a glance and gesture at Tony, laughing to each other as they size him up. When one of them steps forward, Tim reaches for his Sig and Tony starts to ball up his fists for a fight.

But the teen shakes Tony's raised hand. Tim and Tony freeze, completely dumbfounded.

"Hey Chris," the teen drawls, slow and steady, "I told you it's really Tony Fuckin' DiNozzo. How the hell are ya, man?"

Relief washes over Tony's face. "Good…great."

"I'm Nate and that's my buddy, Chris." When Chris looks like he has no idea what's going on, Nate punches him in the shoulder. "Don't you remember that movie last year? The one about the guy who couldn't fall sleep until he went on a cross country road trip to find that scientist chick to fix him?"

Confusion still flashes in Chris' eyes. "Yeah…"

Nate slaps a hand against Tony's back. "This is the guy who stayed up all night!"

Chris tries to grin, but he ends up just baring his teeth at Tony. "Shit man, I loved that movie. It needs a sequel. When is there gonna be a sequel?"

"Maybe," Tony says, shrugging. "But – "

Chris elbows Nate. "Did you hear that? Man said there's gonna be a sequel! We better be in the front row on the day that it comes out."

"Damn straight," Nate says. "You think you can score us from free tickets?"

"Maybe I could get you an advance showing in jail," Tony mutters.

Nate tilts his head. "What was that?"

When Tony motions for Tim to swoop in and slap cuffs on them, the agent holds his hands up and shakes his head. If Tony wants to arrest his adoring fans, he is on his own. Tim will provide support to the citizen's arrest when it turns ugly. But since Chris and Nate stare at Tony like he's a national hero, Tim suspects they'd follow him straight to jail like rats tailed the Pied Piper right to the river.

Tony shoots Tim a dirty look. "I said I'll see what I can do, guys."

Nate and Chris share a high five. "We're gonna be Tony D's special guests of honor at his movie."

Suddenly, Nate eyes Tony suspiciously. "What are you doin' down here anyway?"

"Community outreach," Tony replies.

Both Nate and Chris nod as though it's something they both respect. Maybe that's what they consider their drug dealing: keeping gentrification at bay so other lowlifes can continue to prosper with cheap rent and low police presence.

"If you need a quote for somethin', I'll give one," Nate offers.

Tony smiles tightly. "I think we'll be okay."

Clearing his throat, Tim jerks his head towards the building. "Mr. DiNozzo, we're going to be late for our…outreaching."

"Man's got himself a personal assistant and some shit." Admiration drips from Chris' voice. "Can we at least get an autograph before you bounce?"

Tony nods. "Sure, do either of you have a pen and some paper?"

Both men pat down their oversized hoodies and four sizes too big jeans. Despite all of their bulging pockets, they don't have one. When Tony snaps his fingers at Tim, the agent rolls his eyes. He pulls out his notebook and a spare pen.

As he hands them to Tony, Chris' eyes go wide and he points to the badge of Tim's belt.

"Shit! Tony D's personal assistant is a cop!" he yelps. "Run!"

Chris and Nate bolt down the street, hitching their pants up continuously to keep them from falling down their ankles. Speechless, Tim and Tony watch them dart down a back alley.

Tony sighs. "Nice job on the subtlety, Tim. We'll never get to arrest them now."

"We – " Tim gestures between him and Tony " – were never going to do anything. I would have been the one arresting them, but I'm already in the middle of another case. You're here to observe. Don't worry though, Metro will catch up with them sooner or later."

"But drugs are so much cooler than paper clips." Tony's voice borders dangerously near a whine.

Tim shakes his head. "You don't pick the case."

"The case pick you, MacFortune Cookie."

Tim instantly wishes that he had skipped putting that annoying joke of changing MacGregor's name into nicknames in his book. When his publisher told him that he needed humor in the otherwise dry story, he had the brilliant idea to have a character play with MacGregor's name. Even though it was a hit with the book critics, he still regrets the choice.

Making a face, Tim leads the way up the slate steps into the apartment building. Somehow, the lobby is more austere than the outside with off-white concrete pillars, exposed cinderblocks, and a poured concrete floor so polished that it resembles a still lake. He ignores his and Tony's upside down reflections that bob after him on the way to the elevator.

Conflicted, Tony seems unable to decide whether he should chase down his new friends or follow Tim. He lingers by one of the pillars a bit too long and only slips through the elevator doors right before they close. When they reach the second floor, Tim doesn't think that he and Tony are even in the same building anymore. Up here, the place borders on cozy with its soft, green-grey walls, recessed lighting, and prints of factory landscapes in gilded frames. An antique brass lamp on a credenza greets them.

"Swanky digs." Tony lets out a low whistle. "Who knew peddling black market paper clips could be so lucrative?"

"Crime never pays," Tim replies.

Tony snorts. "You never seemed like the type of author to use clichés."

Ignoring him, Tim double-checks the apartment number on his cell phone. They stop at the end of the hallway at a sleek, brown door with the number 205 in gold.

Tony is the first to knock—well, pound like he might just rip the door of its hinges. When he shoots Tim a proud grin, the agent reaches for his badge. Seconds later, the sound of several locks clicking echo.

The door opens just enough to frame a man's round face. He pushes the sweat-slicked blonde hair off his forehead and wipes his beefy hands on his work-out pants. Perspiration stains underneath his arms highlight the grey T-shirt that reads, Property of The USN.

His cautious, brown eyes flick between Tim and Tony.

"Can I help you?" he asks, glaring at Tony.

Tony helplessly glances at Tim, who sighs.

"Peter Michaels?" he says.

The man's eyes land on Tim. "Who's asking?"

Michaels takes a step in the hallway. Tim barely manages to stop himself from gaping. The petty officer's photo didn't relay just how big the man is in person with several inches—and more than fifty pounds of pure muscle—over Tim. Tony slinks towards the wall while Tim stands his ground.

Tim flashes his badge. "Special Agent McGee, NCIS. I'm here to – "

Before he has a chance to finish, Michaels shoves Tim backwards into Tony before bolting down the hallway. The sound of the door to the stairwell slamming cuts through them like a gunshot.

Tony recovers first. "What….what do we do now?"

"Follow him!" Tim yells.

Tim lopes after their suspect with Tony hot on his heels. As soon as they reach the stairwell, Tony starts down the steps. Tim pauses to listen for Michaels' footsteps. For some idiotic reason, their suspect is heading up, maybe two or three flights. A door slams somewhere above them and Tim chances that it might be the fifth floor. Right now, he doesn't have anything else to go on.

Unholstering his weapon, Tim climbs the stairs. When Tony starts to follow, he turns back.

"I need you to stay here, Tony." He protests, but Tim holds his hand up. "That's an order. You're an unarmed civilian. I can't be responsible for your safety and my perp."

Tony's face pulls into a frown as he nods. "Be careful."

"Always am," Tim says, smiling.

And with that, Tim sprints up the stairs. His heart pounds from the exercise; his breath comes in stilted gasps. He slips out of the stairwell on the fifth floor, eases the door closed behind him to not alert Michaels that he's been followed. Tim hopes to hell and back that he chose the correct floor because if he's wrong. Well, he doesn't want to think about the busy work that Gibbs will have for him if he fucked up their case again. Even if it is something as menial as missing office supplies.

This world is nothing like the cozy space that welcomed Tim below. Here, the floor is an active construction zone with wood frames built to show individual apartments and more power tools than a home improvement store. Sheets of plastic wrapping hang from the ceiling, flapping in the breeze from the broken windows. The cold air burns his lungs.

Tim eases it to the side to move into what should be the hallway. He levels his weapon in front of him as he slinks onto the floor. Sweat blossoms on his palm and he grips his Sig tighter.

I should've called for back-up.

Somewhere worlds away, he hears the anxious cacophony of the traffic.

He moves deeper into the building, desperately searching for any sign of Michaels in the empty, deserted space. His dress shoes scrape against the metal shavings and unfinished concrete. He clears framed apartment after framed apartment.

The hair on the back of his neck rises. His heart sinks straight into his gut.

I shouldn't have left DiNozzo alone.

He starts to backtrack to the stairwell.

At that moment, a noise—metal skipping across concrete—echoes nearby.

Before Tim has a chance to turn around, someone grabs him from behind. Tim begins fighting before he even is fully aware what is going on. Someone's hand grabs his tie and yanks him backwards, while the other lunges for his gun. Tim struggles to breathe and keep hold on his weapon. When his attacker rams Tim's left arm into wood stud, the gun skitters away into the darkness.

Tim rams his elbow into his attacker's gut, but it doesn't do anything. Another jerk on his tie takes what little breath he had left away. He gears up for another attack.

But it stops when a blade comes to rest on Tim's throat. It's rough and corrugated against his skin and he bets it's a hunting knife. Because that's a great fucking way to die.

Tim bucks in the hold again.

Tim's attacker digs the blade against his jawline to prove that he isn't afraid to use it. Tim hisses at the burn and the blood starting down his neck.

"Easy, man, easy." Michaels' voice is calm and collected like he is the one in control.

And that scares the hell out of Tim. "Petty Officer Michaels, just think about what you're doing. It can't end well for you. Back-up's on the way right now."

A third pull on his tie draws Tim even closer to Michaels. Tim struggles to swallow and the blade flirts with his skin.

Michaels' breath is hot and rancid against Tim's ear. "Then you better play nice. If you want to live."