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.
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As soon as he bolts from Conference Room Three, Tim heads straight for the bullpen. Whatever is going on, he needs to talk to Gibbs. Right now.
It's a mistake, that's what all this is. A simple mistake that will be easily cleared up as soon as he talks to Gibbs. Everything will be alright after he talks to Gibbs.
The bullpen is empty, so he tries Gibbs' usual haunts. Staff lounge. That spot on the roof with the view of the parking lot that Tony likes to joke about how Gibbs still practices his sniper targeting skills. The men's room. That little alcove where the sound carries from the bullpen. Gibbs likes to make everyone think he's a mind reader by showing up at just the right time. Tim has known about the hidey-hole for years.
Tim comes up empty.
Frustration settles into his throat as it threatens to choke him. He could call Gibbs, but he doesn't know quite what to say over the phone line. Gibbs is all actions and facial expressions. If there is something that Gibbs won't say in words, Tim needs to see it on his face.
He doubles back for the elevators, readying himself to submit himself to another few hours in Cybercrimes. The DDOS attack is still ongoing. He touches the temple where the bruise is. His head is pounding, and he feels as though he could keel over right here in the middle of the cubicles. A surprise interrogation where your career is on the line is a surefire way to shave a few years off your life.
Just as he arrives at the elevator, the doors slide open. Tim figures that it's fortuitous, fate and kismet and destiny all rolled into one. It can't be a coincidence because Gibbs doesn't believe in those.
Instead, Tim is nearly trampled by Agent Brahe, her partner—the fashion victim he calls Agent NotTony—and Gibbs.
Brahe clutches his arm. "Agent McGee! Sorry about that! I didn't even see you there."
When Gibbs clears his throat, Brahe just stays there, holding Tim's arm. Gibbs shoots her aggravated look, but that doesn't work either. Apparently, someone hasn't been paying attention to the rules.
"I should be allowed to apologize," she bleats. "I almost knocked him over."
"Rule Six," Tim says on reflex. "It's a sign of weakness."
"McGee," Gibbs says, a knife-like edge to his voice.
Tim swallows hard. "Boss."
They just stare at each other before Gibbs glares at Brahe and NotTony. When they still don't move, he releases an actual growl. NotTony looks he wishes he was anywhere else in the world while Brahe stands her ground. She's still holding onto Tim's arm, her fingers are warm.
"Don't you have something to do?" Gibbs barks.
Brahe's eyes glide over Tim and Gibbs, her rounded face pulled into a contemplative expression. Tim has never felt more exposed in his life. Hell, he probably would do better if he were naked in the bullpen. Eventually, Brahe relents as she grabs NotTony's shoulder instead. They head back to the bullpen, discussing their case in hushed tones. In that instant, Tim misses his old job more than anything.
Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "McGee."
"Can we talk, Boss?" Tim asks.
He eyes the cold steel box of the elevator as a wordless invitation. The doors are still open because Tim jammed his foot inside before Brahe tried to run him over. Tim stands there, awkward and holding his breath, eyes wandering between Gibbs and the elevator. When Gibbs doesn't step inside, Tim moves his foot. The doors slide closed and the air hits Tim's face with a whoosh.
"I talked to Harris," Tim says quietly. "I think he's accusing me of something, Boss. I don't even know what he thinks I did."
Gibbs' face twists with surprising anger. It's so sudden that Tim takes an instinctive step backward. Seeing Gibbs angry is a normal occurrence for Tim. Just like seeing the man slug coffee like its water, placate Abby with sugar and caffeine, and act like Vance is merely an annoyance, not his boss. Though, seeing the anger targets at himself makes Tim feel as though his entire world is burning and the air around him turned to ash. His stomach does a weird somersault thing.
"What's going on?" Tim whispers.
"Harris thinks you turned off Tony's mic," Gibbs says.
"Why would he think that? Who said – " And that's when Tim understands the narrowed eyes, the set jaw, all that anger. "You can't think I did that, Boss. I won't do that. Not to Tony."
Gibbs leans forward. "Then what happened, McGee?"
Tim opens his mouth. Chokes on air. The words are stuck, deep down in his throat, but he can't dislodge them no matter how hard he tries. He is a terrible liar, but he would never even try with Gibbs.
He freezes, as still as an effigy, and Gibbs looks ready to set Tim ablaze.
When he doesn't speak right away, Gibbs turns his back. He strides to the bullpen, leaving Tim alone by the elevators. Tim hugs his arms to his chest. When Gibbs walks away, the temperature plunges several degrees. The chill traipses lazily down Tim's spine. The skin on his arms turns to gooseflesh.
He heads back towards the sub-basement, mind already working on his next step to help quash the DDOS attack. That is real and tangible with a possibility for success. Nothing like trying to shove the broken bits of his team back together. They are shattered into such tiny pieces that they'll never fit together again.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The hour is early, far too early for Tony DiNozzo to be awake on a rare Saturday off. The sun is awake too, but just barely. The light is that beautiful orange yellow where the sun hasn't fully risen yet. That's one of the side effects of working in law enforcement, Tony figures. The weird hours make it nearly impossible to sleep in even when he has the rare opportunity to.
Or maybe a day off is one of the surprising benefits to being suspended. His team can't be on call when they've been broken up, suspended and reassigned. This weekend was supposed to be their turn on-call, but Barrows' team had to step up instead. When Tony offered to help, Barrows just laughed and told him to enjoy his weekend.
Except Tony can't.
He pulls his car up against the curb in the residential neighborhood of Kingman Park. For how often he is here, he should have a parking sticker. It looks strange in the daylight. The angles of the houses are softer, more inviting and homier. Only a few people are crazy enough to be awake this early on a Saturday. A few joggers, a man walking a dog that looks like a bear, and a harried young mother pushing a stroller.
Tony sits for a long moment, wondering whether he should even be here. The world is starting to go jagged at the edges, the claws of a hangover just starting to dig into his brain. Maybe his jaunt across the city was ill-advised. Stupid, even.
But still, I'm already here…
Tony slides out of the car, surprised to find the air is faintly warm. It's that last gasp of summer before fall will force him to pull out his cold weather clothes. He loosens his tie and for the first time, he realizes he is still wearing yesterday's suit. He never made it home last night. After work, he hit a bar, found a date, had a great time, and snuck out while it was still dark out. It wasn't one of his finer moments and he should—by now, at least—have outgrown these frat boy activities. Just after everything, he craved—no, he needed—some human connection, however miniscule and fleeting.
I'm glad I didn't leave my number. I bet she was a psycho.
Heading down the sidewalk, Tony almost walks straight past his target. In the sunlight, he doesn't even recognize Gibbs' house. He needs to double-check the number to ensure that he's in the right place. He usually only comes here under the cover of night for clandestine meetings—he likes to think of them as cloak and dagger like he is a real secret agent—where he and Gibbs work on a boat and drink bourbon. Once or twice, they discussed things like their lives or the team. But usually, it's just silence and sanding and bourbon. So much freaking bourbon.
As Tony heads up the driveway, it strikes him that the front door is cherry red.
How did I never notice that before?
He is on his way to the door when someone clears his throat.
Tony nearly leaps out of his skin, reaching for the spot on his right hip. His hand is halfway there before he remembers that he no longer has his weapon.
Gibbs is right there, sitting on a white rocking chair on the porch. Tony tries for cool and calm and collected, all secret agent and clandestine meetings. He puts his hands on his hips, raises his chin.
Gibbs shoots him a bemused smile before sipping from his coffee mug. He invites Tony to take the empty rocking chair next to him with the tilt of his head. Once Tony collapses into the chair, it creaks under his weight. He leans back to rock it, feeling more like Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy than James Bond.
Gibbs hands him a faintly-warm coffee mug.
Tony quizzically glances down. "What's this, Boss?"
"Figured you'd be here eventually," Gibbs says.
Not knowing what to say, Tony takes a hearty sip. If it's the usual brew, Tony will need to down it quickly because like all things Gibbs, it's an acquired taste. Except while Tony has grown accustomed to the man, he will never get used to the coffee. It always tastes like burnt battery acid that was scooped off a driveway.
The alcohol assaults his tongue before burning its way down his throat. Then, there is the creep of the coffee's acid against his uvula. He gags into the mug, barely able to keep it down. He takes another deep drink before he loses the will.
Who the hell puts bourbon in coffee?
Without saying a single word, Gibbs settles back into his chair to watch the sidewalk. Once Gibbs isn't looking, Tony slips the mug to the ground beside his chair. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll knock it over while he is rocking.
Gibbs appears oddly comfortable on his porch, watching the world wake up around him. To Tony, the entire scene is strange and off-kilter. They should be doing something. Discussing a murder, standing together in the bullpen, kneeling over a corpse, sanding a hole in a boat hull.
Tony isn't one to stop moving long enough to think about things. He never sees Gibbs during the daylight hours and doing anything other than work. He looks strange, bordering on relaxed, in these first stretches of sunlight. His features are more settled, the lines on his face deeper and more defined. Tony never realized how old Gibbs is. Tony always thought of Gibbs like a vampire. Not a sparkly one like in Twilight, but a good old-fashioned vampire like Noseferatu who drinks the blood of probies and who might disappear into a cloud of dust if sunlight hit him. And yet, here is living life during the daylight.
They sit in silence for a long time. The creak of their old rocking chairs serves as their conversation. Bit by bit, the neighborhood comes to life around them. The sunlight grows sharper, more brilliant and intense. The weather is cool, jacket weather, but still pleasant. Children and parents spill out of the nearby houses, walking and laughing as they enjoy the beautiful day. Only a few people even notice the two men sitting on the porch enough to wave.
Tony sits there. Rocking his chair. Enjoying the silence and the companionship.
There is a bizarrely beautiful simplicity in this kind of life. One that only involves the world turning around him without him needing to be a part of it. He doesn't enjoy it. In fact, far from it. He wants to be up and moving, wants to go move mountains because that's just how he is.
But Gibbs' gravity is keeping him here, tied to this porch and this chair.
And maybe at the moment, this is what he needs.
That slight ache in Tony's head slips away into the dredges of a full-blown hangover. He slowly slips his bourbon-coffee, which Gibbs refills when needed. Tony is trying to find that sweet spot between the hair of the dog and not liquefying his insides. His insides are melting like The Wicked Witch of the West.
"What's on your mind, Tony?" Gibbs asks suddenly.
The sudden noise causes Tony to flinch violently. When Tony glances over, Gibbs still stares out at the street. He waves, beaming, at a little boy learning how to ride his bike with his dad.
Gibbs head tilts his head towards Tony as though he's listening.
"Nothing," Tony says.
Gibbs looks over. Now, it's Tony's turn to look away.
"Ya sure?" Gibbs asks.
Tony sighs, long and low. "Everything."
When Gibbs smirks, Tony takes it as a directive to continue the conversation.
Tony pulls another sip of that dreaded bourbon-coffee. It doesn't burn as much now. It might be growing on him like a fungus.
"McGee got hurt on my watch," he says. "Ziva is suspended. We're all off the team. IA is investigating us. Boss, this whole thing is a mess."
"You didn't do anything wrong, Tony."
"Then why does it feel like I did?" Tony laughs grimly. "I didn't stop Ziva from cutting the mic. I should have…" He returns to rocking the chair, slow and deliberate. "I could have…"
"It shouldn't have happened at all," Gibbs says firmly.
Freezing in the middle of his rocking motion, Tony looks over at his boss. Gibbs' eyes have taken on a surprising hellfire as he stares out at the street. He might be watching the little boy on his bike, but his mind is a million miles away. What Tony wouldn't give to see what Gibbs does.
Tony tilts his head. "Boss?"
"Ziva should've known better." He shakes his head. "She does…"
Licking his lips, Tony nods. "Yeah, but she doesn't like to take orders from me when you're not around."
"That won't be a problem anymore," Gibbs says with a strange sense of finality.
Tony doesn't speak. Instead, he waits for Gibbs to finish his thoughts. The little boy on the bike takes a tumble, and Gibbs' hands instinctively tighten around his coffee mug. It doesn't take much for Tony to realize Gibbs has watched this all before.
Eventually, Tony asks: "Does that mean what I think it does?"
"She's off the team," Gibbs says.
"What about IA?"
Gibbs merely shrugs. "Doesn't matter what they find. I already told Vance."
When Tony goes to ask, Gibbs watches him out of the corner of his eye. Tony knows enough to even breathe a word. That is the same face Gibbs makes when his mind is already made up and no amount of talking will change it. He makes the same one when he thinks he won't explain himself.
"What about McGee?" Tony asks.
Gibbs gives Tony his full attention now. Tony feels oddly like an alien specimen in a campy 1950s movie about alien invasions. Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but one of the bad ones. The ones that end up on Mystery Science Theater 3000.
"Can you go undercover with him on the mic again?" Gibbs asks.
If there is a right answer, Tony sure as hell doesn't know it. He watches Gibbs' face for any clues, but it's as impassive as stone. Tony wants Gibbs' thoughts and guidance. He wants Gibbs to tell him the right answer because Tony doesn't know it.
Gibbs, he wants the truth.
McGee is my probie…
Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Rolls his lips against his teeth. Finishes off his bourbon-coffee.
Every part of him wants to say yes because he has no evidence that Tim helped Ziva turn off the microphone when he was undercover. All he has to go on is Ziva's words. All he has is Ziva tauntingly saying, "McGee and I, we do this sometimes."
It isn't much of a stretch to assume Ziva turned off the listening device when he was undercover. Hell, she did it while he was in the car with her. She was the reason Tim was left for dead in a dumpster.
And her and Tim, they might have done that to Tony.
Except Tony has no proof. At most, he has an unreliable witness statement and an unreadable gut feeling that can't even be called a hunch. That is even more unsettling than his team might have left him without back-up during his missions. That Tony can't even trust his finely tuned cop gut to tell him whether he can trust his teammates.
Gibbs is still watching. Ever patient and waiting.
Tony's eyes widen. His typically hidden emotions are in full bloom across his face. The answer should be simple, a yes or a no. Can he still trust his partner? Yes or no. That answer he should know down in his core, he should be as sure of it as his next breath.
He opens his mouth.
"I hear you, Tony," Gibbs says resolutely. "McGee's done too."
Tony shakes his head, hands out. "No, Boss, I never said that."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
IA Agent Schuyler Harris spends his weekend haunting Conference Room Three like a lost ghost. With Director Vance's blessing, he set up his very own command center. Laptops and files and the tapes of the old recordings and boxes all freshly exhumed from the evidence garage. The table is a complete and utter mess, files open and marked with Post-Its and an almost empty pizza box and a laptop running a screen saver. He is keeping notes on two notepads now, one for each case.
Vance had said the investigation would be easy. Open and shut, he called it. It was a simple investigation into Tim McGee's assault that would likely result in Ziva David's suspension. Vance had neglected to tell Harris that Tony DiNozzo's allegations might actually have teeth.
Harris flips through his notepad, trying to rediscover his train of thought. He was in the middle of the recording from the day of Tim McGee's assault. The recording isn't easy to listen to because of the panic in Tim's voice when he realizes his cover is blown. There is something else, a deeper terror, when his team doesn't arrive when he expected them.
Harris listens intently, head cocked and eyes closed. Less than a minute before Tim is assaulted by David Robins, Harris catches a tiny click.
The time stamp matches up to where Tony claimed Ziva turned off the listening devices.
So, that's what turning off the device sounds like. I can't believe I almost missed it.
Harris quickly flips to another notepad, taking notes as he goes. He switches to a recording of one of Tony's undercover operations. He listens to Tony playing one of the roles like he would wear a designer suit. Comfortable and with an undeniable flair that the man himself possesses. From the recordings, Harris can easily tell that while Tim is an efficient and capable agent undercover, Tony is a great one.
While he listens, Harris grabs at a piece of pizza that he ordered earlier in the day. He doesn't know how late the hours grow because there aren't any windows in the conference room. His pizza was disgusting when it was hot and it's even worse after sitting out for a few hours. But it's here and they delivered. He can't be bothered to think about actual food right now.
He is on to something.
He can feel it.
Harris listens to Tony interviewing suspects in his undercover persona. He spews movie quotes with a fluid ease, working them into conversations with only a few people noticing. Harris recognizes some of the quotes from the movies he watched after his car accident. Mostly great movies from the golden era of film and obscure 1980s flicks.
Sometime close to the time stamp of where Ziva got agitated during Tim's undercover operation, Harris hears it again. Tilting his head, Harris listens to Tony blather through a quote to one of his marks. Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Harris thinks. The conversation is flowing like water. There is background noise behind Tony, it sounds like he might be in a public place like a coffee shop or a store.
Harris rewinds to catch the noise again.
There it is. A little click.
This time it's followed by a zzt. Something that resembles microphone interference.
Harris plays through the entire conversation until he hears another zzt, click.
He checks the time stamps between the sounds. Ten minutes. If the listening device was deactivated, that means Tony would've been left without back-up for ten full minutes.
Ten whole minutes where anything could have happened. Just like it did to Tim. Or maybe even worse.
Harris' heart sinks deeper and deeper into his chest. The cold pizza turns into stone in his stomach, so he pushes the rest of it away. He takes notes on the time stamps and the dates. He replays the recording again and again.
Click, zzt. Ten minutes of Tony's interview. Zzt, click.
Harris rewinds. Listens again and again.
What the hell is that?
He must play through it a half-dozen times but he still doesn't know what the sound is. He works his way through some of Tony's other undercover recordings. Several of them have around ten minutes of dead air. Always around the same time of day. Always having a click, zzt with Tony talking about movies before ending with a zzt, click.
Staring at his computer screen, Harris' face is folded into a question. During his time listening, he dismantled his pen. The parts are strewn across the flotsam of the conference table. He has spent hours listening to the noise over and over again.
Harris listens to Tim's recording. Just a click, nothing more. He listens to Tony's recordings, click, zzt.
The zzt.
That zzt is the only thing different.
He doesn't even know what it could be.