Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Title: Riptide
Summary: When Gibbs takes a bullet, the hunt for his shooter leads back to one of their own. Tim and Tony friendship. Not for Ziva fans.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General series spoilers. Some minor descriptions of a shooting and violence. Angst. Lots of feels. Not for Ziva fans, at all. Might be considered bashing?
Author's Note: The story is complete. It was written for the LJ Reverse Bang. It'll be posted in full with art on AO3 next week on Thursday/Friday. I'll update here as I'm able to. I owe a lot to LJ user solariana for creating wonderful art for the story and helping to beta the story. She pointed out a few things to help make the story stronger, so I'm super grateful for her help. And the art is amazing!
This story is not for Ziva fans. Like, at all. It might considered bashing, but I'm not sure.
I hope you enjoy it.
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"I should've known there was a problem when she didn't know who Cary Grant is," Tony DiNozzo grouses. "That was strike number one. Who doesn't know about Cary Grant?"
Tim McGee decides not to tell Tony that he hasn't heard of Cary Grant either. Pressing his lips together, Tim struggles to tune out Tony's long-winded rant about old movies and their importance. The buildings of Chinatown whip past them, depressing and utilitarian concrete structures, until they find the small residential patch. The houses were once proud—little Craftsmen with slate shingle roofs and meticulously repaired shutters—before decades of drugs and crime and neglect took hold.
Tony is still talking. "Then, strike number two. She asked me who Audrey Hepburn was. Audrey Hepburn. That's like someone not knowing Chewbacca."
It's a bait Tim refuses to take. Everyone knows Chewbacca.
"We almost made it through dessert before she hit strike three." Tony shakes his head forcefully. "She won't watch anything longer than a YouTube clip. Three minutes, McGee. That's it. Nothing longer than three minutes." He slaps the steering wheel. "We could've had something special, but she won't watch any movies. Only three minutes…"
"A lot can happen in three minutes," Tim offers.
The gripping silence tells Tim he was found out. Only the peppy crooning of Frank Sinatra pumping out of the speakers from the crackly AM station fills the car. He cringes inwardly, turning slowly in the seat. His weapon digs into his hip. In the driver's seat, Tony wears that famous grin.
"You were listening," Tony says, almost gleefully.
Tim sighs, long and loud. "I always listen. It's a matter of whether what you say is worth a response."
Even though it wasn't a joke, Tony chuckles. Then, he glances at the world around them. They're heading further and further from the well-traveled DC streets and deeper into crime central. On the corner, two men are openly engaging in a drug deal. A huge wad of cash and small bags of white powder change hands in the open. Tony makes a face at them. Tim notes the address and their descriptions. He'll pass it on to Metro later because drug deals—this one anyway—aren't their jurisdiction unless the culprits own a pair of dress whites.
"Remind me where we're going," Tony says.
Tim is certain Tony already knows where they're headed. He double-checked twice before they left Headquarters and three more times on the way over and again before his movie rant. Tony probably just wants the conversation, just wants the noise and the attention. Tim would be perfectly content to listen to the staticky music Tony spent most of the ride trying to find.
Tim checks his notepad. "87724 P Street NW."
"We're already on P Street," Tony points out.
"I don't see Gibbs and Ziva yet."
Tony waggles his head back and forth. "What do you think the P stands for, Probie?"
Tim ignores him.
As they pass the mailboxes, Tim watches the numbers slowly rise. They glide straight past an old, rotten wood post that probably once held a mailbox. The numbers are missing, but sun-bleached shapes—87724—are burned into the wood. Tim unbuckles his seatbelt, freezing when Tony doesn't even slow down. He gestures at the side-view mirror with his notepad.
"You just passed it," he says.
"Did I?" Tony asks, feigning innocence.
Tim glares at him, but Tony raises his eyebrows as he looks ahead. After further narrowing his eyes, Tim follows Tony's gaze up the street. Another Charger is parked up the block, half-hidden from view by two cars that don't appear to be street worthy. The tires are flat and there's more rust on the side panels than paint. Jethro Gibbs and Ziva David are already here.
Of course, they beat us.
Tony makes a tsk tsk tsk noise. "You don't park in front of the house you're about to bust, Probie. Remember Gibbs' Rule Twenty-four. Don't let the dirtbags see ya coming. What are they teaching at FLETC these days?"
Tim narrows his eyes into tiny slits, but he stays quiet. As much as it is warranted, they don't have time for him to take a swipe at Tony. They're about to bust a petty officer, Tyler Morgan, during a drug deal with a buyer. It's a small-time crime for the MCRT, but they've been working it for the last week and a half. Tim is ready for the case to wrap up.
Tony guides the Charger to the first parking space he finds. He glances in the rearview, nodding slightly. How he can see Gibbs down the street, Tim doesn't understand. He can barely make out the car behind them in the filthy side-view mirror.
But the signal went through because Jethro Gibbs and Ziva David slip out of their car. Tony darts out of the driver's seat, easily loping down the sidewalk to join his team. Tim scrambles, trying to put his notebook away and unholster his weapon and appear that his wits are about him. He nearly faceplants on his way out of the car. Then, he slams the door hard enough for it to echo across the neighborhood.
Gibbs skewers him with a glare. The flush creeps across his face as Tim smiles as blandly as he can.
The cold air slips around him like a cat rubbing against his ankles. The sky is as grey as the concrete of the sidewalk. Just beneath the grimness, there's a promise of icy rain clinging to the air. Tim tucks his jacket closer to ward off the sudden chill creeping down his spine.
Tony pulls out his weapon, bouncing back and forth on his heels. All caffeine and nervous energy like he usually is before a bust. Gibbs lightly cuffs the back of Tony's head. Tony stops for a moment before starting up again. Off to the side, Ziva carefully inspects her weapon. She's quieter than usual and scanning the streets for activity.
"Who's ready to bust some drug dealers?" Tony croons.
Gibbs makes an aggravated face, his mood souring even further. Tim does too, but then, he smiles slightly at the thought. No matter how many times they do it, catching criminals never gets old. The high point almost makes the hours and hours of paperwork worth it. Almost.
Giving them a once over, Gibbs nods decisively. As though he has decided they are ready. The air around them turns more serious and the agents grip their weapons tighter. Even the lightness dissipates from Tony's eyes as he puts on his game face.
Tim tries not to let the anxiety creep into his gut. Something niggles below the surface, but he can't put his finger on it. Tony said the case should be a slam dunk and they'll have their reports filed by dinner time. With any luck, Tim might just make the game session he set up with his friends.
Gibbs sets his jaw. "DiNozzo, McGee go around back. Ziva, you're with me."
With their precisely rehearsed movements, they set off in opposite directions. Gibbs and Ziva slink, shoulders down and weapons ready, towards the front door. With Tony in the lead, Tim trails around the side of the house. The concrete is broken and chipped away in places. With how quickly as they move, Tim almost trips over a few loose pieces.
They reach a patch of knee-high grass peppered with dried husks of long-dead weeds in the back. They half-climb over a fallen chain link fence. Tim wraps his hand with his jacket sleeve as he goes because he'd rather not catch tetanus from the rusty fence. Just outside the backdoor, an old piece of flagstone settles into the mud. Tim sinks into the ground when he slides to his spot behind the door. Tony leans up against the house, trying to peer through a grimy glass window.
Tim keeps his attention on Tony's face, awaiting the signal.
Tony's features are tight and anxious, worried even. As though he is taking a mental countdown. Trying to calculate how long it'll take for Gibbs and Ziva to head through the front.
The seconds tick past. Every single one is long enough to cut straight through Tim's bones. He keeps his eyes fixed on Tony, but the older man leans his head against the side of the house. His gaze searches the interior through the window. Tony sets his jaw.
Whatever Tim is feeling, Tony must be too.
Or maybe Tony is waiting for that signal from Gibbs. That weird signal that Gibbs throws out that Tim never hears nor understands, but it could send Tony running to the other side of the city. The two share some kind of eerie ESP that Tim doesn't really believe in or understand. He just figures Tony knows Gibbs far better than he ever could.
Suddenly, Tony's body tightens.
It might not be the signal, but Tim moves anyway. He wrenches the door open, but it grinds on its hinges. The door is stuck fast on the frame. No matter how hard he pulls, it won't open. Tim throws his weight behind it, but the door won't budge.
A shout reverberates from inside.
Tim yanks harder.
"Come on, McGee!" Tony yells.
"It's stuck," Tim pleads.
Another shout, louder this time. Tim thinks it might be Gibbs telling a suspect to freeze.
Muttering a nasty curse, Tony shoulders Tim aside. Tim stands there, dumbfounded. Tony deftly jimmies the door, rocks it on its hinges. Shoves one foot against the house and wrenches backwards with all his strength. Finally, the metal hinges shriek and scream before the door swings open. Tim backpedals to avoid being hit.
Tony bolts inside, snaking through the kitchen. Tim follows closely, rushing inside with his weapon ready. To him, it feels as though they are moving in slow motion. Like he is stuck in something thick and viscous like maple syrup. No matter how quick they're going, it isn't fast enough.
They slide through a kitchen that's full of old and abandoned stainless steel cookware with remnants of Tupperware all over the floor. Something wet and slimy drips on Tim's head. He glances up to find a gaping hole in the ceiling with exposed pipes and rotten wood. Whatever that was, he doesn't want to know. The place looks like it's long abandoned because it's full of old books and broken furniture, bits and pieces of a life lived before being forgotten.
As they round past a dust-covered dining room table with broken chairs, they come up on the scene. Gibbs and Ziva are by the entranceway with their weapons raised. Two men, one he recognizes as Tyler Morgan, and the other he doesn't, stand in what should be the living room. They are both armed as well. Their weapons are raised at Gibbs and Ziva with their backs to Tim and Tony.
"Drop your weapons!" Gibbs barks.
Tony moves to the dining room, poised to shout at them and –
Blam!
Gibbs' body suddenly jerks. His expression turns bewildered as he backpedals. He presses a hand against his stomach, pulling it back and it's covered in red. His brow knits deeper in confusion.
Oh my G-d, one of them shot Gibbs!
Then, Gibbs slams onto the ground. Tony stops short, his weapon falling to the floor.
Tim's brain struggles to process everything he witnessed. He stands there, mouth gaping. The silence surrounding them is so deafening Tim thinks the world stopped.
This can't be happening. This can't be –
"Boss!" Tony's anguished yell breaks the silence.
The raw emotion in Tony's voice shakes Tim from this dreamlike moment. The world catches up, hard and fast, like a sucker punch to the jaw. Shucking off his jacket, Tony rushes towards Gibbs. He shoves the jacket against the wound, muttering something that sounds like, You'll be okay, Boss. I promise.
Tony is a tangle of limbs as he holds his jacket against Gibbs' stomach with one hand and fumbles with his cell phone in the other. Blood is seeping through the jacket into Tony's hand. His hand is shaking as he struggles to dial the phone.
"I'm calling for a bus!" Tony yells. "McGee! Ziva!"
Suddenly, the two men bolt in different directions. One out the front door, right past Ziva, and Morgan through back. His body slams into Tim as he goes. One shoulder hard against Tim's chest and it sends him flying towards the nearest wall. It brings Tim back to the moment as rage rushes through him. He springs to life, turning on his heel.
"I got Morgan!" Tim yells. "Ziva, get the other one!"
"I am on it!" she replies.
And without looking back, Tim bolts through the kitchen and back into that grey, misty day. Since they entered the house, it started to rain. Those big, fat pieces of sleet rain that look almost like snow. The suspect is up ahead, loping through the wet, knee-high grass. Tim isn't fast by any means, but Morgan is even slower. Tim tackles him and they go down hard. It doesn't take much to slap the cuffs on him.
Tim hauls Morgan to his feet, more roughly than he should. However, this is the man that might've just shot Gibbs. He deserves far more than Tim gripping the back of his jacket too hard. The sleet runs in rivulets across Tim's back, dripping into his coat and freezing in his hair.
Tim drags Morgan back into the house. Once inside, he orders Morgan to sit on the dining room floor where Tim can keep an eye on him.
In the living room, Tony keeps pressure on Gibbs' stomach.
Gibbs is unconscious, his skin going stark white as a wide pool of blood blossoms across the floor. With his phone on the floor, Tony is red-faced and yelling at it as he pleads for an ambulance.
"There's an agent down!" Tony yells.
"It's on its way, Agent DiNozzo," a tinny female voice relays on the phone.
"I need it faster!" Tony yells.
At the sight of Gibbs, Tim swallows hard. How badly Gibbs was hit hadn't registered for Tim before he took off after Morgan. He noticed Gibbs' wound was a gut shot, but he didn't fully understand until this moment. Dropping to his knees, Tim places his hands on the jacket to help Tony apply pressure. Gibbs' blood works its way through the jacket onto Tim's fingers. The liquid is thick and tacky, hot and searing onto his flesh. As much as he wants to, Tim can't let go.
Tony suddenly speaks. "He'll be okay, right."
Somehow, it's a statement and a question all rolled into one. Tim keeps his eyes fixed on Gibbs' slack face. His skin is chalk white, his lips bloodless. The blood licks against Tim's knees. He clenches his teeth and presses harder, trying to keep as much of it inside his boss as possible.
"He'll be okay," Tony repeats, a mantra. A prayer.
"He'll be okay," Tim agrees.
Tim clasps Tony's hand and together, they apply as much pressure as they can against the wound. It feels like a losing battle as the blood continues to flow from the gunshot wound.
Tony hiccups. When Tim glances at Tony's face, there are tears clinging to his cheeks. Tim doesn't say anything, and Tony won't look at him. Tony is murmuring under his breath. Maybe a prayer, maybe his mantra, but it's so quiet Tim can't hear it.
Gibbs will be okay.
Tim doesn't believe it.
But maybe, just maybe if he repeats it enough, it could be true.