Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, favorited and followed.
To Guest: Thank you. I appreciate the advice regarding IA investigations. I don't have a background in law enforcement and all my information is from way too many detective shows, mystery novels and an overactive imagination. So, I wasn't aware that a disabled agent couldn't be IA. Thanks again for the correction. I'll file it away for the next story.
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For Tim, the rest of the day slides past like sand through an hourglass. Steady and quick, so that every time he glances at the clock, he is losing hours. He walked into the sub-basement during a DDOS attack on the main NCIS website. Vance wasn't kidding when he said it was all hands on deck. Even the supervisor, Simmons, has jumped into the fray. The entire sub-basement crackles with nervous energy, clacking keyboards, and whirring computer fans.
The task: shut down the attack and determine the culprits. From there, the field agents will go and arrest the errant hackers. Tim used to be on that side.
Somehow, the lights steadily grow brighter. A pressure kicks up behind his right temple that feels as though it's trying to push eye from its socket. No matter how many times he closes his eyes and rubs at the side of his head, the ache just won't let up. Maybe the doctors were right about him needing a full week to recover. When he came back this morning, he couldn't stomach the thought of another day while staring at his bedroom ceiling in the dark and listening to the din of traffic.
I should have listened.
Tim hunches down, deeper against his workstation and closer to his computer screen. He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes while he tries to chase away the ache in his brain. Being banished back to Cybercrimes is exactly like he remembered. It's exactly like that summer when Vance split up the team. It isn't work, it's prison.
The windowless sub-basement is still lit up by the same fluorescent lights. Down here, there aren't any windows so every time of day looks exactly the same. For all he knows, it could be the zombie apocalypse outside. Even the air is too hot and thick because the computers expel a ton of heat and most of the air conditioning is diverted down to autopsy. He hears other people, snippets of conversations and low voices and frenetic typing, but he hasn't seen another soul since he arrived.
Right after the lunch he forgets to take, Tim receives an internal message request from Schuyler Harris.
Please meet me in Conference Room Three when you have a moment, Agent McGee.
When he gets a moment, Tim almost laughs at that. There really isn't even a moment to breathe in the middle of DDOS attack. He manages to pull himself away and tell the supervisor about the meeting. All he gets is a distracted nod and the wave of a hand.
And that's enough to pull Tim back upstairs to the land of the living.
He takes the stairs to get his blood flowing. After a most of day spent chained to a desk, his legs are unaccustomed to the movement. His muscles are screaming with each step. Six floors up and by the time he hits the fourth floor, his lungs are protesting and his knees are shaking. Maybe he should have taken the elevator. Maybe he should have eaten lunch. Maybe he should have…
Upstairs, the lights are too bright. The pound in his right temple has its own heartbeat now, but he pushes forward. One meeting, one interview, and he'll head home. He should stay to help sort out the DDOS attack, but he'll just explain the situation to Simmons. Then, it'll be back to his doctor's advice of his bed and lying still in the dark. After all this, he can manage that until Monday.
The sunlight filtering through the windows is something Tim never thought he would miss. Blinding and shimmering, a bright and brilliant yellow. He shields his eyes on the way to the conference room.
When he finds the door to Conference Room Three, he slides inside. He closes the door behind him, sealing off the light that makes him want to cut off his own head. Thankfully, it's darker here. A few of the fluorescent lights are burned out and what's left glow almost blue. The walls are wood paneled with dark wood, the furniture what one might call an appealing shade of espresso.
Schuyler Harris waits at the long table. His notepad and what looks like a tape recorder are in front of him. There's a darkened laptop at the far end. He looks up, his face stuck somewhere between affable and standoffish. Tim tries—and fails—not to glance at the man's dead eye. If he notices, Harris doesn't even flinch. He just blinks at Tim.
"Nice to see you again, Agent McGee." Harris tilts his head, concerned. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
Tim narrows his eyes. "I'm fine."
Harris nods, unconvinced, as he gestures to an empty chair. Tim sweeps his hand across his forehead, almost surprised to find it wet. This room is as hot as the sub-basement. He slides into the chair across from Harris. Once he is seated, he apprises the man. Tim wants to believe the man is here to help him, but he can't help feeling like there might be something else.
Why am I so nervous?
Harris must notice because he leans forward. "We're just here to have a conversation, Agent McGee. You don't have anything to be worried about."
Tim can almost hear the unspoken yet.
Even though he nods, he doesn't fully believe Harris. For all the stories he heard from Tony, Internal Affairs isn't someone whose bad side you want to be on. The team has been there before. Quite a few times, in fact. Usually, Gibbs does something borderline illegal, Internal Affairs shows up to sniff around, and the director chases them off. This is the first time Tim has needed to sit down with an agent to have a conversation.
Harris offers an encouraging smile. Tim swallows hard.
Harris pokes at a button on his tape recorder. Then he says: "This is Agent Schuyler Harris, Internal Affairs. I am interviewing Special Agent Timothy McGee." He glances over at Tim, who is failing to appear nonchalant. "Is that right?"
Tim clears his throat. "Yeah…yeah, yes, this is Tim McGee."
The sympathetic look in Harris' good eye only fuels Tim's anxiety. He leans back in the chair, hugging his arms to his chest. Tim's head is still pounding. There is a full glass of water by his seat. When Tim takes a sip to steady his nerves, he accidentally spills some down his shirt. Mercifully, Harris doesn't seem to notice.
They're only here to talk about the incident, but he hasn't really thought about it since it happened. It was something in the past, almost like a dream. Something that happened to a stranger.
"We're going to be discussing your assault." Harris throws Tim a concerned look. "Will that be alright, Agent McGee?"
Tim barely nods. "Yeah, it's fine."
Harris takes the words at face value. Drops his eyes to his notepad.
"What were you doing on Monday? The day of the assault?" Harris asks.
"My team and I – " When Harris motions with his pen for Tim to elaborate, the junior agent cringes. "My team includes Gibbs, Tony DiNozzo, and Ziva David. I was working an undercover op while my team was outside. They were supplying back-up." That word makes him flinch.
Harris starts writing in his notepad. "What was the operation?"
Tilting his head, Tim feels a little surer. "I was undercover as an IT specialist in a small computer company. We were trying to find the suspect during our murder case. Someone at the company had sent an encrypted e-mail to our victim. I was checking each employee's computer until we discovered who our victim was working with. Once we found the computer where the e-mail came from, we'd find the killer."
Harris flicks through his notes. "Based on my information, there are over a hundred employees at the office. How did you narrow it down?"
"We didn't," Tim explains. "We had been working on the case for a week. I forget the exact number we had checked, but we were about halfway done. Gibbs wanted everything wrapped up by Friday." He laughs nervously. "Well, today. We were supposed to be done today."
Shifting in his seat, Harris looks up. His good eye searches Tim's face. Tim's heartbeat quickens. If the man is trying to make Tim nervous, it's certainly working. For some reason, Tim wonders if Harris is going for helpful and trying to calm him down. Trying to make him less anxious.
"And you were chosen to go undercover…" Harris' voice trails off. It's a question hidden in a statement.
"Because I'm good with computers," Tim says. "While Agents DiNozzo and David might be more experienced and better equipped, I know the subject matter. You can't pose as a computer specialist, if you can't fix a computer. And I knew how to find what our murderer might've tried to hide."
Harris just looks at him.
"This isn't something I can walk an undercover agent through over a comm," Tim finishes.
Nodding, Harris makes a note on a pad. "Tell me about your undercover op."
"It was standard IT work," Tim says.
When Harris gestures for him to elaborate, Tim sighs quietly.
"Someone would call with a problem," Tim says. "Virus. Blue screen of death. Windows Update got stuck." He makes a face. "Forgot to plug the tower back in. Internet wasn't working because the Wi-Fi was turned off. And I'd fix whatever the service call was for. Then, I'd poke around a little bit and see if I could find any evidence of communication between their computer and our victim's. If I didn't, my team would cross them off the list."
"Okay, and what about David Robins?"
At the name, Tim's heart nearly races out of his chest. He remembers the man who looked like Santa Claus, all joviality and cheer, until his face twisted with malice. That face was the last one Tim saw before the man jumped Tim and, as far as Gibbs said, leaving him for dead in a dumpster. Tim read both Tony and Gibbs' reports since he got back and by all accounts, Robins and his friends appear to be the murderer of their Petty Officer. Case closed.
Except for the part where Tony said Ziva turned off my microphone and ditched me.
Tim reaches for his water glass. His hand is shaking, so he put it back down.
Harris just watches him cautiously. His posture is easy and relaxed as if someone draped him over the chair. He flicks around his pen. The picture of patience and not wanting to push too hard.
Tim sighs, long and low. "I think he had a blue screen of death. Sorry, but I'm still a little fuzzy on the exact details. I completed my assignment, but I didn't find anything."
"So, you didn't suspect him?"
"Not at all," Tim says. "I wasn't onto him, but he must have made me. He told me about a birthday party. Said everyone was meeting in the conference room and…"
As Tim's voice trails off, his cheeks begin to blaze. Harris is still sitting there, just watching and waiting. When the silence stretches a little too long, he leans forward to put a hand on Tim's arm. Tim shies away.
Tim drops his gaze to his knees, saying quietly: "We met up with another worker, Lloyd something. I didn't really know the layout of the office. We ended up in a small room. They jumped me, started asking me questions about their operation and how much I knew. Who I worked for. I…"
"There's something else," Harris says.
"Yeah, I called for back-up." Tim licks his lips, shaking his head. "No one came. First, I used the code word and tried to maintain my cover. When I knew I was blown, I called for help." He worries his fingers together. "Before we started, my team and I, we ran drills to see how long it would take for them to get into the building. Three minutes was how long it took during our drills."
Harris is watching him, contemplative and quiet.
Tim is trying his best to keep his voice level. The panic of knowing his cover was blown, trying to fight back and not being able to. The hope that someone was coming, quickly replaced by a gut-wrenching fear that he was entirely on his own. Alone. Then, the shock of waking up in the hospital and not knowing what had happened. Not even knowing where he was.
Harris starts, "I understand, Agent McGee. I – "
"No, I don't think you do," Tim chokes out.
"I do." There's a certainty in Harris' voice that Tim can't question. "I listened to the recording. It took them eight minutes to find you."
Grimacing, Tim looks away. "I thought it was longer. Eight minutes sounds like nothing."
"Under the wrong circumstances, even a second is a long time."
To that, Tim doesn't have a response. There is more behind Harris' statement, but Tim doesn't want to ask. Right now, that isn't his place. As much as he doesn't want to, they're here to discuss him.
Harris gestures with his pen. "And then?"
Even though Harris isn't specific, Tim understands what he expects.
Tim sighs deeply. "Robins punched me. I woke up in the hospital. I have no idea what happened."
"Right," Harris says, nodding.
For a long moment, Harris makes notes onto his pad. His pen scritch scritch scritches across the paper. He flips back and forth between a few pages as though he might be cross-referencing another interview. Forward and back, then back again. Eventually, he glances up, his good eye fiery.
"You know why your team didn't come." Again, it's a statement, not a question. "Someone told you."
Tim's face pinches as he tries to bury that feeling all over again. That feeling of complete and utter helplessness, of being completely and utterly alone. Tim knows Ziva turned off the microphone. Gibbs told him that much in the hospital. In as few words as humanly possible, but Tim understood.
Tim knows it, but he can't bring himself to believe it.
Harris takes Tim's silence as uncertainty.
He huffs. " I can't believe no one told you. Agent DiNozzo has maintained that Agent David turned off the listening device during your undercover operation. During the time you were being assaulted by Robins."
Tim nods. "I'm aware. What did Ziva say?"
"It was a device malfunction." Harris clicks his pen a few times. "Do you believe the allegations, Agent McGee?"
Tim stays quiet for almost a full minute. Eventually, he whispers: "Why wouldn't I? Tony doesn't lie about things that are important."
Harris pinions Tim with his stare.
"It was brought to my attention that this might not have been an isolated incident," Harris continues.
Tim swallows hard. The pounding behind his right eye takes on a life of its own. His skin grows too hot as though his clothes have suddenly become two sizes too small. Sweat pricks to his skin. He loosens his tie, rubs at the spot on his right temple.
He manages to choke out, "I…I…I don't follow."
Harris rolls his pen between his fingers, leans back in his seat. "There are allegations that Agent David turned off the recording device during previous undercover operations."
"Operations? Plural?"
Harris nods. "Yes."
Squinting at Harris, Tim desperately tries to figure out what the IA agent is playing at. All he receives is a grim-faced, tight-lipped expression. Tim makes the mistake of looking at Harris' dead eye. It chills him straight to the bone. He looks away.
"I wasn't undercover before," Tim says.
That's when it hits him like a sucker-punch.
Harris leans forward, still playing with that pen.
"Oh," Tim whispers. "Oh."
Harris' good eyebrow jumps, just a little.
Before he can stop himself, Tim blurts out: "Are you accusing me of something, Agent Harris?"
Harris shakes his head. "Not yet, Agent McGee."
That provides little comfort to Tim, who jumps up from the table. Harris watches him, mildly interested in Tim's reaction. He keeps his posture light, back straight and his body facing Tim. Right now, Tim's heart is trying to escape through his sternum. His hands are in fists at his sides, and he might be able to run ten miles without stopping. Hell, he could do it without even breathing.
Setting his jaw, Tim struggles to appear calm. He is only one level below a full-blown panic attack.
Tim meets Harris' good eye. "Agent Harris, I think I'd like my association rep here when we continue this line of questioning."
Harris turns off the recording device without breaking Tim's gaze.
"Given where this might be headed, I think that's prudent."