Days like this?
Special Agent Timothy McGee really hated his job.
The bullpen was almost completely quiet except for the background dissonance of phones ringing and voices chattering that had long since become white noise. There was very little movement in his specific area, and the dullness was starting to grate.
Though, admittedly, he was glad to be back at his own desk.
He and the rest of the team had arrived in DC from Tel Aviv the day before yesterday, having made the trip from Cairo back to Israel as soon as the doctors had seen fit to release Ziva. They spent only half a day in Tel Aviv, which, despite the short stay, left everyone more one edge than was truly warranted – Ziva especially, though McGee chose not to ask her about it.
The flight home had been uneventful, save for he, Tony, and Agent Krieger (whom he had found a good friend in over the past few weeks) conspiring about what both their bosses could possibly be talking about at the front of the plane. Ziva slept almost the entire time, and – surprisingly – not once did Tony try and mess with her. Had they not gone through a shitstorm together, he'd consider it odd.
Being back at the airport was a different story, of course. He'd pleaded with Abby – multiple times – not to make a big deal, on account of morale still being pretty low and the long road to finding normality still ahead of them. In true Abby fashion, she only half-listened to his requests.
No balloons or party hats or cakes this time, but between the Caf-Pow and the separation anxiety it was impossible to stop her from showering Team Gibbs with squealing and hugging and tears of every kind. Her warm welcome was even extended to Fornell and company, something she normally only conceded to when Vance warned her to play nice.
The only tradeoff to this enthusiastic ordeal was that it forced Ziva to reveal her distant disposition, simply by contrast. Abby had expressed concern about it in the car, words tumbling over each other so quickly that McGee considered pulling over. And then he lied, politely claiming he didn't notice, because how could he blame Ziva for being distant?
And here he sat, 36 hours later, his mind wandering all over the place.
He felt – off – like he was stuck, at a dead end. He had no idea which direction he was headed, which step was the way forward. His coworkers had been dealt a cruel blow, and his search and agonizing waiting and hoping had been no picnic, but what next? He just needed someone to tell him what to do, and he'd do it.
But here he sat, alone.
Gibbs was somewhere, coffee run probably, but still – a two man team was no team. It was almost surreal sitting here, surrounded by empty desks, feeling like three seasons had passed since he was last here. Had it only been a month?
(Maybe even more than that? Whatever. He lost count somewhere in the hospital.)
It was selfish, maybe, but he'd rather have Tony and Ziva here – fucked up and aloof and hurting maybe – than have them not here at all.
The elevator dinged and it jolted him out of his thoughts, thinking it was his boss was returning from wherever.
But it wasn't.
(The universe had strange timing sometimes. Maybe.)
"Tony? I thought Vance told you not to come in," he prompted, not quite able to mask his surprise, stupid though it was to not expect something like this.
"He did," replied DiNozzo, setting his coffee cup down on his desk and pulling out his chair, not bothering to make conversation with the currently confused junior field agent.
"So…"
"So I had nothing to do and I wasn't gonna sit at home all day."
"Come on. You're on leave and your first idea is to come to work? What about Ziva?"
"Doctor's appointment," Tony replied sharply, having already anticipated that little probe. When it was clear there would be no further elaboration on that point, McGee shook his head, brushing it off.
(He didn't think he could stomach hearing about Ziva's medical problems anyway. Nor was he partial to shoving his hand through a wall.)
"Gibbs is just going to send you home again…" he warned casually, turning back to his computer.
"I'm hung-over, Probie, cut me some slack."
Now he turned his attention back to his coworker, who was slowly unpacking his things.
"Seriously? Bar crawling is your idea of recovery?" he asked incredulously, his eyes narrowing into that characteristic mixture of surprise and annoyance.
"Tim. It was a joke," replied Tony lowly, keeping his eyes on his desk as his monitor booted up.
"Oh. Right."
Tim?
"Are you okay?"
"I can guarantee you won't be if you keep staring at me like that."
McGee frowned and turned back to his work (eh – musing at the screen?), not wanting to provoke a clearly agitated DiNozzo.
The silence that passed was shorter than he expected.
"McGee. I didn't mean that. Just had a rough morning is all."
"Don't worry about it. I meant what I said about Gibbs though."
"Where is he anyway?" asked Tony curiously, peeking above the bullpen barriers as if Gibbs would suddenly appear and stride around the corner as he so often did.
"Not sure. Probably getting coffee with Fornell," answered McGee thoughtfully, typing away at his keyboard.
"FBI still hanging around? They've really got their jaws clamped tight on this one huh?"
"DiNozzo."
"Shit," Tony hissed before he could stop himself, spinning around in his chair and plastering what he hoped was an innocent and endearing smile on his face. "Hey Boss. You scared me."
"What are you doing here?" he asked without preamble, tone not altogether friendly.
"Well, you know – home is…home, and I was told to stay there but –"
"Yeah so why didn't you?" interrupted Gibbs, now moving towards his desk.
"Thought I could help with the case."
"Oh?"
"Uh. Yeah. Let McGee do all the computer stuff and maybe I could run down some leads or…something. I am yours to command."
His boss just looked at him, appraising, fixing him with that stern look he usually saved for suspects trying to lie themselves out of a corner.
Then, he just nodded.
"Gear up then. Tobias just gave me the go ahead on picking up Walker," he explained to the two of them, reaching into his drawer for his gun.
That wiped the stupid smile right of Tony's face.
"Walker?"
"Forget him already?" joked McGee, though it wasn't really a joke at all.
"No no PFC Walker – the Marine who took a shot at Ziva. You found him?"
"FBI's been sitting on him for weeks. Just waiting for us to call it in," answered Gibbs promptly, drawers slamming behind him.
"Waiting for what?"
"You."
Tony cringed in confusion.
"But…technically I'm on leave."
"Uh huh."
"So then why…"
"Just about to call you in, DiNozzo."
"Oh," replied Tony, understanding enough to continue packing up his bag.
McGee only managed half an eye roll before Tony snapped out of whatever headspace he was in.
"You're just jealous you're not valuable enough to be called into work even when your leg is still recovering from serious injury," he said knowingly, low enough so that Gibbs wouldn't hear him.
"Keep telling yourself that," replied McGee sarcastically, stepping next to his boss. Tony cleared his throat as they stood, waiting for the elevator.
"So really. Why do you need me for this Boss? Already miss me?"
"Thought you could help with the case," replied Gibbs slowly, quoting Tony's own words back at him with a smirk.
"How?"
"You're running point on interrogation. Let's go," he said firmly, stepping into the elevator with steeled determination.
The kind of determination that meant rough mornings all around.
Three men stepped out of the navy blue Charger, each one already primed with a hand on their weapon and a hardened look that did not inspire fucking around. They stepped away from the sedan and silently observed the small gray house in front of them, taking note of the windows and doors – possible escape routes.
(This guy should be so lucky.)
"DiNozzo," came the command from Gibbs, stopping the younger agent in his tracks. "Stay here and guard the car," he said, nodding towards Tony's barely healed leg as a sign of explanation. Tony frowned, but nodded. He was technically already overstepping his bounds by being here at all.
He pulled his windbreaker a little tighter over his vest at the slight chill in the autumn air.
"McGee and I will take the front," clarified Gibbs, though at this point they were already making their approach and hardly needed it.
The two reached the front door in continued silence, signaling each other with a light tap on their earpieces. McGee nodded, and Gibbs knocked on the door forcefully.
No answer.
Both drew their weapons.
"PFC Walker? NCIS, open the door!" called McGee loudly, stepping forward to shout through the thick wooden door. After a few more tense moments of waiting, Gibbs lightly motioned for him to step aside and nodded.
The door was kicked open within seconds.
"Check the upstairs," said Gibbs quietly to his other agent, moving through the dining room area, gun held ahead of him and eyes ready. McGee nodded and headed for the staircase over to the right, slowly and quietly making his way up the carpeted stairs. Gibbs moved through the living room into the kitchen area, where he took a second to notice the half-eaten plate of pancakes and glass of orange juice sitting on the small wooden table. His shoulders tensed instinctively – still around here somewhere.
When he turned the corner of the living room area, the crack of a gun sounded and he quickly ducked behind the wall as two bullets whizzed by his right arm. He took a second before turning the corner again with his weapon aimed and ready, only to see the back of a dark blur running and the creak of a door swinging open.
Outside, Tony immediately straightened at the sound of gunshots. He drew his own weapon and began heading for the front door when Gibbs's voice sounded through his earpiece.
"Coming around the back, watch your six," warned his boss, sounding pissed and stressed at the same time.
Upon hearing the indirect command, Tony ran forward to the edge of one of the corner walls and pressed himself against the side, hoping to surprise the Private when he made his escape towards the street.
Three seconds passed.
He gripped the warm metal of his gun in his hand, a part of him aching to use it.
Two more seconds passed. Heavy, panicked footfalls and loud breathing sounded from the side yard. He sucked in a breath, senses extended as far as they would go, body ready.
A man appeared in Tony's peripheral vision, and instantly he stuck out a leg to trip up the fleeing suspect. Walker let out a yell of surprise and flew forward, face and elbows skidding onto the pavement of the driveway with a painful thud. Whatever weapon he was holding fell from his hands and out of his reach.
Tony was on him in a second.
Even with one knee pressed between his shoulder blades and the other pinned to his side, Walker still squirmed and fought to be released from the unrelenting grip. Tony pressed his knee harder into Walker's back.
"Get off me asshole!" yelled the Marine, face turning red in his taxing effort.
"Try again," remarked Tony coolly, pressing his Sig into the back of Walker's head. Immediately he stilled, defeated by the threat of the gun aimed at his skull.
Gibbs turned the corner of the house and slowed himself down as he saw Walker on the ground and DiNozzo holstering his weapon. He made his way towards the two men, taking out his own cuffs to assist his senior field agent.
With the cuffs snapped tightly around his wrists, Gibbs pulled him roughly to his feet.
"Jason Walker?"
"Yeah who the hell are you?"
"NCIS. You have some explaining to do. Let's go," he ordered firmly, pushing Walker ahead of him with his infamously gentle Gibbs-touch and headed towards the car, Tony close behind.
"McGee," he said into the small microphone on his wrist, keeping one hand on his prisoner. McGee's affirmative came quickly through his ear. "Call for another team to bag the evidence and meet us back at the car."
By this time Tony was loading Walker into the car, still too pissed to smirk as the severely flustered Marine tried to nurse a stinging scrape on his face without using his hands.
Gibbs whipped out his cell phone to make a call, dialing a familiar number. He nodded at McGee as he approached the car and stepped into the backseat on the other side of the car, ignoring Walker and his minor yet obvious injuries.
"Abs," Gibbs said seriously into his phone after the third ring, his tone stopping his favorite scientist from interrupting with a babble of questions before she could start.
"I need you to pick up Ziva," he continued in his vague yet light tone reserved for Abby. He hung up the phone mid-rant, knowing she got the message. He wanted Ziva to be there when they interrogated her would-be assassin.
With that thought and all of the bullshit that accompanied it still fresh in his mind, McGee silently conceded that Walker was lucky that the door to the car didn't accidentally slam on his face as he entered it.
(Tony wondered what it would feel like when he made this idiot cry.)
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