Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Title: Apparition
Summary: Kate died, but she never really left. Team fic. Light case. Ghost!Kate. Angst.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers through Season 4. Mentions of death and some violence.
Author's Note: The story is complete. Written for the NCIS Reverse Bang on LJ. It'll be up in full with art on Monday on AO3. A chapter a day until it's done here.
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If you told me I would return to work after I died, I would've laughed. Sure, heaven is probably out of reach. I was a good person, but certainly no saint. Maybe I should've ended up in hell. Maybe.
But work?
Come on. What could be worse than work?
Yet, here I am. Invisible, unable to interact with my coworkers, and still working.
I sit at a desk that is largely unchanged and watch life—my life—continue without me. I don't know how long it has been since Ari Haswari…well, you know. A week, maybe two? A month, though it could be more. After I died, time stopped moving like it should. It comes in fits and starts. I blink out at a moment's notice and return time later. Here one moment, gone the next. The only thing that changes is the slowly growing pile of Post-Its on my desk, a chaotic rainbow stretching from end-to-end in disorderly piles. Every time I return, there are more.
My thoughts are interrupted by Tim McGee's voice.
"What are you doing, Tony?" he asks quietly.
Frozen mid-step, Tony DiNozzo clutches a lime green Post-it in his left hand. He worries the sticky tape with his index finger, keeping his back to Tim. While his black suit—some designer he raved about constantly, but I can't remember their name—is impeccably put together, his features are tight and exhausted. I wonder whether those black rings below his eyes are a permanent fixture.
Tim works at his computer, face as drawn and pale as Tony's. His hands hover over the keyboard, a word half-typed and likely forgotten. He moves to flatten his palms against his desk.
They remain silent for a long time.
Tony fiddles with the Post-It.
Tim tries, "Tony…"
"I'm keeping Kate up to speed," Tony says, a little forcefully.
Tim flinches as though he's been smacked. Eyes back on his computer and fingers hovering over the keyboard. He sighs quietly, resigned to what appears to be Tony's constant bad mood. Since I died, Tony DiNozzo morphed a shell of his former self. Gone are the movie quotes, the spitballs, that playful attitude, his trademark shit eating grin. He is baleful, impatient, and twisted tighter than a spring. I miss the old Tony more than I care to admit.
Tony's expression slackens as though he might be sick. The only noise is his fingers flick-flick-flicking the Post-It. It sets my nerves on edge.
"Kate's gone, Tony," Tim whispers. "She isn't coming back."
At that, I smirk. If only he knew…
"I know." Tony licks his lips, eyes searching the ceiling. "It's just that…this helps sometimes."
From the reams of Post-Its covering my desk, it has to be more than sometimes. I want to count the cases they've worked, but my fingers glide through the candy-colored paper. Just like it always does. My heart drops straight into my stomach. I wish I could scream and tell everyone that I'm here. And I did for the first few days—or was it weeks?—but no one even noticed. Not even once.
So here I am. Stuck at work.
Why?
I have no idea, but it feels as though I'll never find out. I worry that I won't be able to move on.
"Is it really helping?" Tim asks.
Suddenly bursting to life, Tony wheels around to point an accusing finger at Tim. I bound out of my chair to watch the closest thing to a fight these two have ever had. I slide into their line of sight, but they stare right through me. Oh yeah, I'm invisible. How could I forgot? Every time I remember it feels like a punch to the gut. I hug my arms to my chest.
"You still bring her tea," Tony spits out.
Tim's lips tighten into a firm line. "If she didn't drink it, I wouldn't buy it."
Tony eyes him skeptically.
Tim throws his hands out. "What? I leave it on her desk and it's gone by lunchtime. If she isn't drinking it, then who does?" He narrows his eyes at Tony. "You're not taking it to mess with me, are you?"
"She'd kill me if I did."
I flinch violently at that phrase. As soon as the words leave his mouth, Tony scrubs a hand over his face. He looks away, face drawn.
"If not you, then…" Tim's gaze skirts to Gibbs' empty desk.
Tony shakes his head. "If it doesn't contain caffeine, Gibbs doesn't believe it's a beverage."
Tim wrinkles his nose in thought. "Does Darjeeling have caffeine?"
"I don't even know what that is. So it's safe to say, Gibbs probably didn't touch it."
"Then maybe Kate is drinking it…" Tim lets his voice trail off.
Without even acknowledging Tim's reply, Tony approaches my desk. I follow him as quietly as I can because I don't want to disturb him. He adds the lime-green Post-It to top of a pile of pink. Now that I look at it, there are six different colors in the paper rainbow. They've worked more cases than I thought.
Tony lingers by my desk, staring at my vacant chair. I throw myself into the seat and wave my arms like a madwoman. Frustration bubbles up inside me.
"I'm right here, Tony!" I yell.
What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face if I could say, boo. Instead, nothing shows on Tony's face except for heartbreak and a yearning for what used to be. A longing for us all to be together again.
Tim props his arms on his desk, earnestly watching Tony's back. His face is a portrait of open and hopeful and caution. He shifts his weight, obviously having an idea and being too afraid to verbalize it. He wants to help, but he doesn't want Tony to bite his head off. I forgot how easy Tim is to read. I smile at the memory of how Tony and I used to harass him in his probie days. Not that it was right, but he was like the younger brother I never had.
"We could, you know, talk to her," Tim offers.
Tony glances back, clearly interested.
Tim grows emboldened. "I don't think we should expect her to read all those Post-Its. Why don't we tell her about the case instead? It'd be easier."
Tony's face cracks into a genuine smile. "That's the best idea you've had all week, Probie."
"It's Tuesday morning," Tim retorts, but he is smiling too.
"And it's a great idea." Tony points the plasma. "Fire it up, McOneHitWonder."
At the McNickname, Tim rolls his eyes, but the smile remains on his face. He searches his desk for the remote. I guess they haven't been using it. While I wait, I glance up at the plasma. There is a special report silently playing on ZNN about Hurricane Alfonso working its way up the coast. It is, currently a category three storm, expected to make landfall near DC within hours.
"What's taking so long? Kate's waiting." Tony's aggravated tone is back.
Tim slams a desk drawer. "There, I found it. We haven't used it since…you know."
I died, Tim meant to say. If you want to be technical, my head was blown apart by an Israeli asshole hellbent on revenge. Come to think of it, I never liked technical.
Tony's features pinch. Tim lowers his gaze.
After a couple of clicks from the remote, the image of the angry-looking hurricane bearing down the East Coast vanishes for a picture of a corpse on an autopsy slab. The corpses flesh is swollen and mottled grey, a photo of a head wound appears beside it. No matter how hard I try, I can't rip my eyes off the dead man. I never had a chance to see my body after I died, but to think I looked that…well, dead and broken and gross.
Jesus…
"That hits a little too close to home," I say.
No one can hear me, but the sound of my own voice makes me feel better. Like I could still be alive.
Checking the plasma, Tony blanches. "Read the room, McGee."
Glancing around, Tim finds the space empty. Not entirely empty because I'm here. Though neither man knows it. From Tim's perspective, Tony is the only one in the bullpen. Half-nodding to placate the senior agent, Tim makes a few more clicks. The photo of the corpse is quickly replaced with a very much alive, young man in dress whites against an American flag. He looks much better.
I sigh with relief. Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my desk and rest my chin on my hands.
"Alright, Katie." Tony stops suddenly.
I roll my eyes dramatically. "I hate when you call me that, DiNozzo."
Tony leers as though he might've heard me. "I know, Katie. Anyway, the deceased is Ensign David Johansson, 23. He was found floating in the Atlantic on Sunday afternoon. He was serving on the destroyer, USS Telluride. The destroyer was set to deploy tomorrow, but a little storm named Alfonso is gumming up the works."
Tim clears his throat. "I'd hardly call a category three hurricane, 'little.'"
"Big storm. Little storm. Medium storm. It's still a hurricane. Does it really matter how big it is, McWeatherMan?" Tony shrugs. "Back to our case, Johansson was never reported missing. Whoever it was hoped they could kill him and ship out before his command discovered he was missing."
"True," Tim concedes. "Or if his body was found, they thought it would be ruled a suicide."
My eyebrows lift. "What makes you say that, McGee?"
Oh yeah, they aren't listening because they can't hear me. That doesn't matter much because for the briefest of moments, I feel very much alive. I am back at NCIS and working a case with my team.
Tony nods quickly. "I was getting there, McGee. That's the best part. It looked as though Johansson simply fell off the destroyer until you take a closer look at the body. The head wound isn't consistent with anything he would've hit on the way down. Abby confirmed it with…" He checks with Tim, who offers a shrug. "Yeah, Abby confirmed it with some test. She said the size and shape of the head wound was consistent with a large piece of metal. She thinks maybe a pipe. Ducky ruled the COD as blunt force trauma at least two hours before. Johansson was dead when he hit the water."
Tim jumps in where Tony left off. "Abby is still running tests on the head wound. She found some kind of chemical. Her first instinct was oil, but she wanted to run it through the mass spec to narrow it down. Her first take on the trajectory was someone threw Johansson off the boat. Ducky agrees with the consistency of the wounds on the rest of the body. Bruising was post-mortem."
Tony rocks on his heels. His face as excited as a kid in the proverbial candy store. I have always hated that analogy, but Tony is basically an oversized man-child. So somehow, it works here.
"You forgot to tell her about the cocaine, McGee," he blurts out excitedly.
I bite my lip, considering. "Johansson used cocaine?"
Both men suddenly go stark still, their eyes slide to my chair. I believe, for a just moment, I am real again. Alive, whole, made from flesh and blood and bone. I hold my hand up, but I am still that weird faded see-through light blue I have been since I came back. My arm looks like a piece of gauze held up to the bullpen, but I can see the plasma through myself.
Tim tilts his head slightly as though he could see me. Then, he shakes his head as though to chase the thought away. Tony's face remains sullen as he watches my chair.
Tim starts moving first. He clicks the remote a few times to bring an image of an empty suitcase on the plasma. Barely visible is white powder coating the interior. The close-up resembles beach sand.
"Abby thinks this was full," Tim says, his voice heavy.
Tony smirks. "That looks like a lot for a casual user, huh? And we didn't find any paraphernalia with his belongings. Just residue in the bag. His toxic screen was clear. Which means – " he motions with his hands for dramatic effect " – we're dealing with smugglers."
"Dead smuggler," Tim corrects.
Tony's jaw tighten. "A dead smuggler and the accomplice who cleaned him out."
I frown at the exchange. It isn't the first time I noticed Tony barely swallowing down—what is that? anger? resentment?—towards Tim. The tension always held back so easily simmers just below Tony's outwardly relaxed appearance. Tony teeters at the edge of a very serious meltdown. Blinking, Tony takes a steadying breath. If Tim notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.
With another deep breath, Tony finally moves to affix the Post-It to my desk. They are clumped together in Tony's trademark "organizational" system. Chaos cross-referenced by anarchy filed under disorder and finally, color coded. There are five separate groupings of Post-Its. With the way Tony's brain works, it could be five or twenty-five cases. I rest my hand on them.
I never thought I would miss the chaos.
To keep myself from crying—not that I can cry, but whatever it is I do in place—I run my hand over the Post-Its. The corner lifts gently, fluttering under my fingertip. I jerk my hand back to my chest. Tony must've seen it too because he audibly gasps. I glance up at him, but he is staring slack-jawed at the Post-It. Then his eyes slowly move to the chair. If he could see me, I swear our eyes would meet. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
"I don't know how I did that," I whisper.
Tony doesn't say anything. He leans forward to invade my space. He waves his hand across the chair. His body heat cuts through me like a knife. The heat from his touch pours off in waves. I feel the pull of the blood coursing through his veins, the pound of his arteries, the beat of his heart. Tony backpedals as though he's been burned. He clutches his hand to his chest, his eyes darting from it to the chair.
I close the distance between us until I am standing beside him. For the first time since I returned, I felt the touch of someone alive. I am as confused as Tony. Maybe more so because there is a craving for that touch again. I can't explain it, but I want to feel his blood pumping through him again. I want to tell him that I'm here, that I won't hurt him like those ghosts in those black and white movie he loves so much.
I just want to feel alive again.
I walk through the desk until I am toe to toe with Tony. His wide eyes are still locked with where I was, not where I am. I don't touch him again because I don't know what it could do me. To us.
"Huh, that is weird," Tim breathes.
And just like, the moment is over.
"Tell me about it," Tony whispers.
Tim blinks as though he forgot Tony was here. "About what?"
Tony quickly changes gears. "What's weird? You can't just say that and not tell me what you found."
"Well, I thought it was strange no one reported Johansson missing yet. I mean, it's been almost 48 hours. Someone had to notice, right?"
"Unless he was on leave."
Tim bobs his head as though he hadn't considered that. "I checked the Agent Afloat's bank records."
Tony wheels around. "You pulled financials on a member of NCIS without authorization?"
Tim looks up, brow furrowed. "I thought you told me to investigate any financial discrepancies for the crew. Find out who could've been working with Johansson on the suspected coke ring. I checked into Olivier Palisades' financials because, well…okay, he isn't technically part of the crew. He was on the ship and I had a hunch…" He visibly deflates before my eyes.
I bite my lip as I watch the exchange. Tim McGee, ever the boy scout and by the book, finally grew a pair after I left. And yet, his own investigation turns out to be extremely damning for the team. If Director Shepard finds out about it, Tim will likely be reassigned to some dark basement.
Tony scrubs a hand down his face. "…and?"
"I screwed up, didn't I?" he asks, eyes widening.
My expression softens. "Just a little, Timmy."
Tony shrugs as though nothing matters anymore. "If we're going to get fired, you might as well tell me what you found."
Tim squares his shoulders. "Agent Palisades has been receiving semi-regular deposits from random bank accounts over the last five years. The payments range from five to fifteen thousand dollars. Their timing always lines up with a tour he took as Agent Afloat." Tim wears a self-satisfied smile. "Hinky, huh?"
"Definitely hinky," I agree.
My voice sounds weird to my own ears. Hoarse and throaty like a strangled whisper, but louder than I usually speak. The men's eyes dart to the spot where I stand beside Tony.
"Did you…" Tim's voice trails off as he gestures at Tony.
The senior agent shakes his head. His eyes don't leave the spot where I stand.
"Definitely hinky," Tony concludes.
Half-nodding, Tim lifts his desk phone. "I'll call the director and – "
"Tell him our best lead was illegally obtained."
Tim freezes, phone in one hand and the other hovering over the number pad. The color drains from his cheeks as he presses his lips into a bloodless line. His shoulders slump as he sets down the phone.
"It sounds bad when you say it like that…" he whispers.
Tony grimaces. "It kinda is, Tim. We'll go talk to Agent Palisades off the record. Maybe there's a good reason for those deposits. Go get the car ready."
Tim hangs back as though he might just question Tony. In the end, Tim gathers his gear silently and deliberately. Gun holster on his belt, creds in his pocket and backpack over his shoulder. He understands the severity of his mistake, that much is obvious on his face. I often forget how young and green he is. After the year I worked with him, I came to respect him as much I respect Tony.
Once he is gone, Tony turns his attention to the bullpen. He sniffs and slowly walks around the space. Searching for, well I know exactly what he is searching for.
Me.
Sliding into the middle of the bullpen, I watch him move in a tight circle that we use to search for evidence. What he looks for is right there, but he'll never find. Even if I try, I can't explain it. Somehow, I exist and yet, I don't. Tim would know the name for this. He explained it once in the middle of a long, long stakeout. The Smurf Cat. It was there, but it also wasn't. All at the same time.
Eventually, Tony stops right beside me. He crosses his arms, staring in the direction of the Most Wanted Wall. He heaves a broken sigh. Seeming to accept he is alone, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
He whispers something that sounds like, "I'm losing it."
Then he straightens with another sigh. He heads to his desk to grab his gear. He holds his cell phone for a long moment, studying the blank screen and frowning. I know exactly what he is thinking. He is debating about whether he should call Gibbs.
"Tony," I warn. "You need to tell Gibbs where you're going."
With his eyes locked on the phone, Tony whispers: "I can handle this, Gibbs. Just get the bastard"
Pocketing his cell, Tony strides out of the bullpen. I reach after him, but my fingers glide right through his shoulder. He stops suddenly and turns back. He stares at a point beside me.
"Leave me alone, Kate." His voice is barely audible. "Please."
I hug my arms to my chest. He rushes away from me. I start to follow, but a familiar feeling rises in my gut. Roiling bubbles burst in my stomach like I had bad Mexican food and a stomach bug all rolled into one. My ears start to ring and sparkly, white-black spots dance in my vision.
The world blinks out.