If Given As A Gift - Part 2
Part 1
Tim is the last into the elevator. He turns to face the doors (basic office etiquette) and tries to imagine the reflections of the agent behind him. He can’t make out anything but foggy colors. He doesn’t dare say anything, in case it changes Gibbs’ mind and he has to stay behind.
When the doors open on the dark parking garage, Tim gets out of the way as fast as he can. He waits to the side and then follows two steps behind Tony. He hopes he isn’t actively exuding an air of anxiety and fish-out-of-water confusion, but he probably is.
They approach a compact, sleek car, and Gibbs brings a key ring out of his pocket. Tim does not flash back to every urban legend about Gibbs’ driving, he really doesn’t.
Tony says, “What’s the plan?”
“Ziva and I are going to Andrews. Going to find out who these accomplices are, how they met, and where they got C4.” Gibbs nods at Ziva, whose expression has smoothed into a focused professional’s. Then he points at Tony. “And you’re taking Mr. Technology Wizard here to that insurance company’s headquarters. Scout out their security, determine who has access to blueprints, any possible contact from Miller. You know the drill.”
“On it, Boss,” Tony acknowledges smartly.
Gibbs nods in Tim’s direction and adds, “Explain Rule #12 to him, Dinozzo.”
He turns around and unlocks his car. Ziva goes for the passenger side.
Tony swings around on one heel and leads the way to a nearly identical compact. Tony stops at his door and Tim hesitates before heading around. When his hand is on the driver’s side door handle, Tony glances back to be sure Gibbs and Ziva have shut their doors behind themselves. He tells Tim, “We are lucky. I am telling you, Gibbs’ driving is not something to inflict on a newbie’s first day.”
Gibbs’ car screeches out of its space and then speeds around the level to the ramp up and out. Tim is buckling his seatbelt by the time the sound fades out of hearing.
Tony gives him a look that is all eyebrows.
“We’re lucky. I believe you,” Tim assures him.
Tony grins at him and they get going.
--
Going down familiar surface streets, Tony makes smooth stops and keeps a polite distance in traffic, as if to make a point about Gibbs.
“I get it - you’re a perfectly trustworthy driver,” Tim comments, feeling redundant and desperate for something to say.
Tony glances across the car and catches Tim already looking. When Tim breaks eye contact first, Tony clears his throat and says, “There are a few things we need to go over about you emerging from your basement.”
“Ha ha.” Tim tried not to huff like a child.
“I’m serious.” Tony stops at a light, regards Tim seriously. “This isn’t just legal stuff. This is life-and-death kind of stuff. Got it?”
“I got it.”
Tony nods. “First of all, no weapons. You’re licensed to own and carry - admittedly, you’re not a bad shot - but under no circumstances will you operate one today. As entitled and,” he hesitates over a word and settles on, “inattentive as Paula can be, she’s right about one thing; you don’t have any actual authority in the field. Also, do me a favor and don’t try to arrest anyone.” He glances over, catches Tim’s stunned look. “What?”
Tim coughs, tying to clear the confusion out of his mind. “Uh. Is that - My aim. Do you know that from, um, the firing range?”
“Of course. We’re in there at the same time at least once a week.”
“Of course,” Tim echoes lightly. After he gets another weird look from Tony, he continues, “I didn’t think you recognized me, I guess.”
Tony laughs. “I’m a Special Agent. A certain awareness of my surroundings saves me a lot of headaches.” He keeps throwing Tim cautious looks, as though Tim won’t notice. His voice takes on a quality of recitation, then. “The boss has a set of rules that any good investigator - or, hah, anyone that works with him - needs to follow. For example: Rule #3 is, Don't believe what you're told. Double check,’ and Rule #9 is, ‘Never go anywhere without a knife’.”
“A knife. That’s - oh, that explains why Abby has one.” Tim blows out a breath, trying not to imagine Gibbs being able to stab him at any moment. It is, somehow, even more disturbing than knowing he carries a gun. With Gibbs’ last instruction in mind, he prompts, “So, what’s Rule #12?”
Tony gives him yet another look and then faces the road. “Never date a coworker.”
Tim looks at his hands, the folder they hold. He starts shuffling through the papers at random. “Oh. Why did, um…”
“This thing you have for me,” Tony interrupts in a completely opaque tone, “is it going to make today difficult?”
Tim is absolutely mortified. He coughs through a dry throat and forces out, “No. Not at all.”
“Good,” Tony says, and lets a silence grow in the car.
Tim takes out his phone and sends a message to Abby: Officially giving up. Turns out: too implausible.
He really shouldn’t have expected to keep a secret around investigators.
--
Once they hit the freeway and start south, Tony has Tim call ahead to Safeguard Steppe Inc. and determine accessibility of their blueprints.
It’s just past 9am, and he’s clearly not what the student-age receptionist (Dale Morgan, Tim carefully records on a loose paper) expected to deal with first thing this morning. “Uh…” he stalls. “I believe we rent… but the owner might know?”
So Tim asks for the owner’s name and number.
The owner is an older woman, Hannah Kenzie. She has a copy of the plans in a secure safe deposit box.
She’s able to tell him the name of the architect’s firm, the Sarmi Group. Their copies of the plans are all accounted for in their file rooms, and access is limited to employees. There haven’t been any requests to review them. Not that they would hand them to just anyone that asked.
“Would there be any other copies?” Tim asks, getting frustrated. Tony’s phone is ringing, distracting him a little until it is answered.
The woman (Theresa Phillips) suggests, “The County Building Department probably does. However, anyone looking those up would need certain permissions…”
Driving one-handed and talking into a phone should not be a good look for Tony. He catches Tim’s eye, says, “Repeat that for McGrindstone,” turns his phone on speaker and holds it across the front seat.
Ziva is saying, “AFC William Rogers’ footlocker contained a printing of twenty business cards for a ‘Sarmi Group’ and a receipt from the Prince George County Building Department.”
Tim asks Ms. Phillips, “Would forged credentials from your company work?”
“Well… along with a letter of permission from the owner,” she says in surprise.
Tim nods at Tony and begins to look up the address of the Building Department. They’re only fifteen minutes out.
Tony’s smile for him is huge as he reports back to Ziva.
--
In the meantime, Abby has sent him a reply; what why noooooo DDDD:
Tim sends back; Tony has explained Rule #12 to me. You’re lucky I’m not also planning to dig myself a hole to live in. About a minute later, he follows it with, You could have given me some heads up on that one.
--
Right outside the completely bland, nondescript government office, Tony grasps Tim’s elbow with strong fingers. He stands close and murmurs, “Just to be clear about our plan of attack, here: I talk. You do not. Field rules, right?”
“Right,” Tim says, eyes on his shoes. Tony’s face is at the edge of his vision. But, remember, Tim is in avoidance mode.
The office A/C keeps it cool, but can’t fight the humidity that sneaks in from outside. John Morris, Clerk, is mousy and sweaty. He adjusts his glasses and takes his time over Tony’s badge, leaning across the Building Department’s counter. “Right,” he says, straightening. “What’ll you need?”
“Do any of these people look familiar to you?” Tony asks, laying down the service pictures of their suspects; Forney, Rogers, and - the one that started it all - Miller.
“I see people, um, military people, all the time,” Morris mumbles. “So close to Andrews, you know.”
“Imagine them without the uniforms,” Tony suggests mildly. When he’s personally trying to charm information out of a civilian, his face relaxes into a pleasant blandness, smoothing a few wrinkles and - just, he’s obviously excellent at his job.
Tim’s type has always been competence. God damn it.
“Hmm…” Morris holds a finger over each face, and then drops it on Rogers’ nose. “He was in here. Maybe a couple weeks ago.”
Tony gathers the pictures again, looking at the smear of oil from the finger in distaste. “That’s very interesting to me, Mr. Morris, because this man had in his possession a receipt from this very office. McGloating here,” he waggled his fingers, “can show you-”
Tim’s even been trying to keep his expression neutral, to reflect Tony’s. He offers Morris his phone, with a photo of the receipt from Ziva.
“Well. The seventh sure sounds plausible,” Morris says distractedly. “This has a file number. Here, I can look that up.”
They’re alone for about three minutes. Tim takes the opportunity to say, “I really don’t like people making fun of my name.”
“I can see why they would,” Tony says with a shrug. “It’s a very versatile name.”
He’s leaning against the counter - he’s lounging against it. He has that confident, Hollywood star smirk on. Tim knows this precise attitude from Tony’s sessions at the shooting range, presumably when a case is going well.
Suddenly reminded of his life outside this investigation, Tim asks, “Rule #12 doesn’t apply to other departments, I suppose?”
“What do you mean?”
“That legal aid you were hitting on all of yesterday.” Tim can feel himself starting to flush. “Or… at least until the Miller case came in.”
Tony stares at Tim. Then he answers slowly, “No. I don’t work directly with Laney and I don’t have to rely on her in the field. Besides, she’s engaged. She just loves to flirt. She’ll never take it anywhere.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, eyes sharp, thinking. “You’re pretty observant. For a near-sighted technology wizard.” He spots Morris coming back and adds as a final shot, “McGoodness.”
McGee doesn’t know how that qualifies as making fun of him. But he does know one thing: after this case, he’s not going to be working directly with Tony, either.
There’s a message from Abby waiting for him: don’t let tony use rule #12 as an excuse
At least she’s on his side in this. Tim tries not to hope.
--
Morris is holding a copy of a false document. He’s also severely confused by the concept of someone forging an owner’s permission and the right business card to acquire the original architect’s access to some building plans.
“He needed the plans for illegal purposes,” Tony repeats, patience clearly wearing thin. “It’s only logical that he used illegal means to obtain them.”
“That’s the thing! We don’t let people just walk off the premises with these things, and we don’t let them make copies.” Morris talks with his hands, apparently. “And they’re big, three-foot-long documents. We double-check that the plans go back into the proper filing place, and these aren’t missing.”
Tim bumps Tony’s arm with his elbow and indicates the camera mounted on the back of his phone.
Tony waves at it, too. “All you need it a phone with a camera with enough storage space. Pair that with enough patience to get complete, detailed pictures, and voila.”
Morris frowns. “I guess he was in that room alone for a pretty long time…”
“Thank you for your help,” Tony says firmly. “We have your contact information. You may be called upon to testify in court in the future. Have a nice day.”
He makes sure that Tim keeps close to his heels and, once the door shuts completely, growls, “We need to get to that insurance building. They clearly have everything they need to pull this stunt off.”
--
The drive to Safeguard Steppe Inc. headquarters is ten minutes. Tim spends them on the phone, dialing the company and getting a busy signal. Tony spends them steadily increasing the car’s speed.
--
Tony walks past a line of people at the receptionist’s desk before he showed his badge. “Special Agent Dinozzo, NCIS.”
The kid with a headset blinks up at him, then hazards, “I think I’ve of heard that somewhere…”
Tim tried, “Dale Morgan? I’m McGee, we spoke on the phone earlier this morning.”
“Oh. Okay?”
“First, Mr. Morgan,” Tony cut in, “I need to know if there are any people in the building. Specifically, people with special permission to access maintenance areas, interior systems, that kind of thing.”
Morgan shrugs. “There’s, like, a group of three checking our electrical wiring. Been here for a couple hours.”
“Two men, one woman?”
“Yeah.”
Tony puts a hand to his forehand and spreads out the pictures without a word.
Morgan says, “That’s them. Hey, why are you-”
Tony grits out, “You need to call an evacuation. Or a fire drill, or something.” He holds up one finger to Tim in a plea for time, then turns away with his cell phone.
“But why,” Morgan whines to Tim.
Tim advises, “It’s a good idea to listen to him. He’s a government agent.”
Tony comes back and they take a few steps away from the desk for discretion’s sake. “I’ve called back up. We need to track these guys down. They’ll hear the alarm and know something’s up.” He checks on Morgan - who jerks a sharp nod - then leads the way through the double doors separating the rest of the building from the reception area.
“If they’re going to hear it, then why did you signal the alarm?” Tim asks.
Tony shakes his head. “Think of it this way. We have no idea when Miller and his two groupies will be ready to…” he glances into each door they pass on either side of the hall. Each contains a civilian, listlessly completing their business. Tony refrains from mentioning anything about the C4. “Anyway. I can’t leave dozens of people inside and just hope that they don’t finish up before I’m ready.”
A loud sound starts up. A long way off, Tim hears Morgan announce, “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re practicing a fire drill. If you’ll join me out in the parking lot…”
More or less obediently, the civilians troop into the hallway. They’re almost eerily docile, glancing at the men from NCIS with no real curiosity, clearly not really worried about the evacuation.
Tim, fighting the urge to freak out, mutters, “This is bringing back memories from elementary school.”
“I bet you were always a hall monitor or something,” Tony says, just over the noise.
“Class captain.” Tim grimaces, a little embarrassed. “I made sure everyone had a buddy.”
Tony winks, then lifts his hand to hover over the side of his suit jacket, over his holster. Not touching, but ready. “Well, buddy, let’s go scare up some criminals.”
Tim glances past a middle-aged woman, one of the last to emerge from the offices, and something catches his eye. “Tony,” he says, level and covering for the sudden adrenaline spike.
They go into the office - decorated with pastel Post-It notes and family pictures - and Tim kneels by the disturbed rectangle of drywall. There are white flakes around the green paint, a detail he hadn’t noticed in the other offices, all left white-walled and plain.
“Give me your knife,” Tim says. The fire alarm is wearing on his nerves, making his heart race.
Tony snorts, but apparently doesn’t have time to tease him about remembering Gibbs’ stupid rules. He pulls it out of an ankle holster and hands it over.
Tim gently uses the knife to pry the section free. Then he sucks in a breath. There, tucked into a cavity in the wall and connected to the electrical wiring, lays a half-brick of C4.
Leaning over his shoulder, Tony sighs, “Fuck.”
--
The building is set up in two identical stories, featuring a long hallway with cookie-cutter offices on either side. The open space at the front - the reception area, on the first floor - becomes an array of half-enclosed cubicles on the second.
There are stairs in the center and back of the hallway, the latter of which also had an exit. After a side-crampingly fast search, Tim and Tony double back to the middle access point.
“Every third office. Roughly,” Tim reports, breathing hard. He wishes he were in better shape. He wishes the stupid fire alarm would stop giving him a headache. “Placed near load-bearing beams, as far as I can tell.”
Tony nods, confirming what he’s found in the other direction. “They can take this floor down at any time.” He peers up the first flight of stairs. “The only reason they haven’t is that they’re still working up there.” He throws his arm out, pulling his sleeve up to check his watch. His other hand is holding his weapon. “And we don’t have back-up or a bomb squad for ten more minutes.”
Tim looks at the stairs and… can’t tell what he’s thinking. There are criminals up there. Trained soldiers with explosives. This is not how he imagined his day going, even after that all-nighter.
“McGee,” Tony says softly. He looks both tense and kind. “This isn’t in your job description. I have to go up and maybe find a way to stop them, but you don’t.” He laughs and runs his free hand through his hair. “Honestly, I should have sent you out with the rest of the civilians.”
Tim steadies his breathing. Shakes his head. “Let’s go. You can’t cover that much ground by yourself.”
“Suit yourself,” Tony says. He leads the way up.
--
They split up on the second floor. Tony heads for the other staircase, checking the offices on the way. Tim goes toward the cubicles.
The work is shoddier, up here. The walls are left gaping open, the C4 showing through. Maybe this was done after the alarm, in a hurry; the work downstairs was professional, clean. Disguised as electricians, Miller, Forney, and Rogers set bombs with workers in the same room. They could have closed up the walls and walked out the front door with no suspicion at all.
Tim didn’t hear anything over the alarm. He thought he would still hear gunfire, but even Tony yelling for him wouldn’t reach him at this distance. The constant sound was manifesting as a pain in his teeth.
He reached the cubicles. They’re a maze.
He skirts around the flimsy separators, keeping to the wall. He’ll check for the C4 set-ups and then double back for Tony. He can’t stop imagining Tony cornered by all three suspects as they try to get out the farthest exit. What help could Tim be, though? No fighting skills, no gun. No weapons of any kind.
He starts guiltily and feels for his pocket. He forgot to return Tony’s knife; he’d just dropped it into his jacket pocket. The blade has sunk right through the seam, the hilt resting at the bottom of the material. Awesome. He owes Tony an apology and he’ll need a tailor in the near future.
At least Gibbs would be proud.
Tim is distracted and completely taken aback when he rounds a corner and recognizes Rogers, crouched down and cutting into the drywall.
In a knee-jerk reaction, Tim shouts over the still-running alarm, “Airman First Class Rogers, stop what you’re doing!”
Rogers looks up sharply. He’s holding a box cutter, half-buried in the wall, and his eyes are hard. He’s pushed the mask and safety glasses down around his neck, but his rubber gloves are still on.
Right then, all of the sound in the world cuts out. Tim thinks he’s gone deaf, for a second, but it’s just the alarm finally turning off.
Rogers shifts in his crouch, and Tim says, perfectly audibly, “Oh, shit.” Then the soldier is tackling him at the knees.
Tim goes down hard. He has nothing to fight back with; this is exactly what washed him out of agent training, all those years ago. With an arm yanked up his back and his face turned to avoid breathing in the rough carpet, he tries to shout, “Tony!” at the top of his lungs, but he’s pretty sure that what comes out is not as organized as actual syllables.
Rogers has him pinned, an uncompromising knee between Tim’s shoulder blades. Rogers could very, very easily dislocate his arm right now at the slightest provocation.
Tim is determined not to give it to him.
Footsteps. He can feel them like earthquakes, pressed into the floor like this. His heart lifts; Tony heard him.
The new arrival steps directly in front of Tim’s face, then nudges his nose with the toe of a boot. “Wow, you are quite the conquering hero, here, Billy,” a woman - Forney, Rogers’ partner in crime? - observes drily. “Bet he gave you a hard fight. Did one of the desk jockeys wander back in?””
“Shut the fuck up,” Rogers growls. “He knew my name and rank. Where’s Miller?”
“There’s a fed between here and the back stairs. Miller got past him, I came back to regroup.”
“He coming this way?”
“Hell, if he didn’t see me, he sure heard your new friend.” She taps Tim’s nose again, harder; the headache from the alarm’s constant noise is compounded by the hollow pain of a rap to the sinuses. Tim is having trouble taking in air, between Roger’s pressure on his ribs and Forney’s dusty boots. “Hey, pudgy. That is some bona fide Braveheart war cry shit you’ve got going on.”
Tim would totally bare his teeth at her or something, but he’s not sure how brave he feels. He drafts a text message in his head, to Abby: Hey, heads up, I may have mentioned you in my will. He hasn’t had a second to spare since they found out their suspects were in the building, or he might have already sent it. But then, if he lives, these kinds of thoughts will just be sentimental and overdramatic.
God. He hopes he lives. He hasn’t had a chance to confront Tony about his barely-applicable excuse not to even consider dating him.
Tim can feel footsteps in the floor. Not out loud; they’re heavy, but silent. And getting closer.
“So, what do we do?” Forney asks, her voice bored. “I finished all mine.”
“This is my last one. Either hold this pussy down or do it yourself.”
Forney goes to the wall. The dry, grinding sound of drywall turning to powder starts up.
Tim still can’t breathe.
Tony swings around the corner, gun up and steady. “Freeze! NCIS!”
Both of the suspects freeze and then, after a few seconds, Rogers asks, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Air Force, right,” Tony sighs. “I’m the Navy police. Do me a favor and stop trying to blow this place up.”
“Fuck off,” Forney offers helpfully.
Suddenly, Tim’s shoulder burns. Rogers pulls him to his feet by his wrenched arm, then holds him as a shield. “Let us out of the building.”
“Why?” Tony asks. “Once you’re out, nothing’s stopping Miller from blowing the place.” His eyes are calculating. “Come to think of it, what’s stopping him from doing it now? He’s out. He’s safe. He still hates this company. How about it, Airmen? Is your - probably brief - acquaintance with Miller going to outweigh a years-old grudge? That’s already come this far?”
Behind Tim’s head, Rogers says, “He wouldn’t kill us.”
“Well, he’s running out of options,” Tony points out. I have back-up coming. In about three minutes, Miller’s going to choose between going to prison, or blowing this place up and going to prison. Which has more value to him? In your opinion.”
Forney, no longer messing with the C4, says coolly, “How about we wait three minutes and find out.”
“Are you serious? I have a gun on you,” Tony asks, exasperated.
“And we have the whole place wired to explode,” Forney counters.
Tony rolls his eyes. “That sounds like a lose-lose, to me.”
Forney does something, behind Tim; Tony’s muzzle dips to follow her. Then Tony’s face tightens. “Don’t.”
Rogers brings the box cutter - razor sharp and newly liberated from the wall - to rest lightly against Tim’s neck.
Half-numb with fear, Tim realizes that Tony hasn’t met his eyes since he came around the corner. He feels more than a little forsaken.
That’s kind of the last straw.
Tim starts giggling hysterically. Completely out of his control. It makes the blade jog against his skin; it hurts his sore ribs. He gasps, “This is - so much not how I expected today to go.”
Rogers shakes him. “The fuck is wrong with you?” His hand slips. Tim starts bleeding.
“Leave him alone,” Tony barks.
“It doesn’t,” Tim struggles to get out, “it doesn’t matter. Apparently, we’re going to blow up, or Billy here is going to kill me as a hostage-”
Tony’s mouth pinches and then goes soft and darkly amused. “We’ve got another two minutes to kill, anyway. Anyone wanna play truth or dare?” His weapon is rock-steady in his hand, even though it must be heavy.
Tim tries to move his fingers. They’re sluggish, and he can feel the tug of stretched tendons all the way up through his shoulder. He wants to keep babbling, he wants to panic until he’s either dead or safe. He can see Tony’s eyes, steady on Rogers and Forney, flicking it, trying to keep him present. Apparently, panicking wouldn’t help right now. “I do,” he volunteers. “Hey, Tony, truth or dare?”
Tony glances at his gun, obviously considering the possibilities of choosing dare. He answers, “Truth.”
Forney asks, “Are you guys actually doing this? This is retarded.”
Ignoring her, Tim asks, “Why are you using Rule #12 as an excuse when it barely applies?”
“It definitely applies,” Tony argues.
“Not for long. Ha ha. One way or another.” Tim gets the feeling that no one else gets the joke. “Get it? It’s funny because I’m probably going to die.”
Rogers really laughs. “You are a morbid sonnuva bitch, aren’t you?”
Tim’s staring at Tony, just in case he feels like answering. The crazy thing is, Tony seems to be considering it, if only to keep playing this round of Keep The Civilian Calm.
“Tell you what,” Tony says gently, “you’re going to live, and once we’re not working together, we can go out. Once.”
“Deal,” Tim agrees, and then the lights cut out.
And then the megaphone starts blaring outside.
And then Tony’s knife finishes ripping through Tim’s pocket seam and lands in Rogers’ boot.
Rogers lets Tim go, and Tim wastes no time scrambling away. Forney’s already diving for him, tripping him with one hand and attempting to control Tony’s gun with the other.
Tony’s on the ground before he lets go of his weapon, and by then Rogers has piled on. Tim’s braced against a wall and taking the time to wonder if Rogers maybe cracked a rib.
The gun gets kicked and skitters up against Tim’s calf. He grabs it and gets to his feet. He gets out of range of their flailing limbs and then tries to make out Tony in the dim interior light. They are a long way from a window, and with the power off…
He shouts, “Stop! I have the gun.”
All three of them stop.
“Right. We’re going to stay here and wait until the authorities find us.” His palms are damp, his second hand steadying the first more than he cares to admit. Tim’s just glad that he hadn’t added ‘please’ anywhere in there.
The largest shape moves for him. Rogers, it has to be. Tim, heart in his throat, starts squeezing the trigger, breathing out as he was taught.
“Don’t shoot!” Tony’s voice yells, startling Tim’s finger away from the trigger, out onto the guard. Then the agent’s silhouette on the floor kicks out at Rogers’ foot - still holding the mean little knife, buried to the hilt.
Rogers falls back to the floor. Tony asks both suspects, “Please stop trying to resist.”
Tim keeps an eye on Rogers, weapon up and pointed, as Tony wrestles Forney into agreeing that she really does want to wear handcuffs.
While he works, Tony pants out, “Do you have any idea how much paperwork you could have caused me? Having a civilian - okay, granted, an NCIS employee - fire my weapon at people who are technically out of our jurisdiction? I told you, absolutely no guns in the field. Dropping a knife - also mine - is one thing, but guns, jeez, you wouldn’t believe the sheer bureaucracy they generate.”
Tim lets him ramble in this vein for the minutes it takes the bomb squad to get people up to them. It’s sort of soothing. And more than a little endearing.
--
--
Two weeks after, as Abby terms it, “Timmy’s Big Adventure,” Tony actually makes good on his promise to take Tim out.
“A promise made under duress,” Tony points out, after dinner. They’re walking a couple feet apart, kind of meandering toward the movie theater.
“Don’t start,” Tim laughs. “The waiter knew you by name! How often do you pull this dinner-and-a-movie routine, anyway?”
“Not often?” Tony tries, grin turning shifty.
Tim just smiles and looks at the sky. It’s a little hazy, the stars are a little dim, but that’s what happens in a city. He’d really, honestly enjoyed their conversation over dinner. He still can’t believe that members of Gibbs’ team (well, minus Paula Cassidy - there are rumors she’s transferring) visit his little basement office almost as often as they do Abby and Ducky.
He’s very content, right now. Even if Tony’s only doing this out of a sense of obligation.
“You should try for agent again,” Tony says, out of the blue.
Tim laughs at him. Then he stops. “Wait, seriously?”
“Sure. You can shoot. You’re willing to go into field situations, even when it’s very unwise.” He glances over and winks. “I can help get you into shape.”
Tim is definitely blushing a lot. He’s not good at innuendo.
Tony knocks their elbows together. “I’m serious about this. Gibbs has another rule - okay, a lot of other rules. But Rule #5 is, you don’t waste good. Okay?”
“I’ll consider it,” Tim said at length.
“Here, how about,” Tony rested his hand on the mostly-healed bruise between Tim’s shoulder blades. “How about you consider it, and I’ll take you out for another date.”
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Tim is the last into the elevator. He turns to face the doors (basic office etiquette) and tries to imagine the reflections of the agent behind him. He can’t make out anything but foggy colors. He doesn’t dare say anything, in case it changes Gibbs’ mind and he has to stay behind.
When the doors open on the dark parking garage, Tim gets out of the way as fast as he can. He waits to the side and then follows two steps behind Tony. He hopes he isn’t actively exuding an air of anxiety and fish-out-of-water confusion, but he probably is.
They approach a compact, sleek car, and Gibbs brings a key ring out of his pocket. Tim does not flash back to every urban legend about Gibbs’ driving, he really doesn’t.
Tony says, “What’s the plan?”
“Ziva and I are going to Andrews. Going to find out who these accomplices are, how they met, and where they got C4.” Gibbs nods at Ziva, whose expression has smoothed into a focused professional’s. Then he points at Tony. “And you’re taking Mr. Technology Wizard here to that insurance company’s headquarters. Scout out their security, determine who has access to blueprints, any possible contact from Miller. You know the drill.”
“On it, Boss,” Tony acknowledges smartly.
Gibbs nods in Tim’s direction and adds, “Explain Rule #12 to him, Dinozzo.”
He turns around and unlocks his car. Ziva goes for the passenger side.
Tony swings around on one heel and leads the way to a nearly identical compact. Tony stops at his door and Tim hesitates before heading around. When his hand is on the driver’s side door handle, Tony glances back to be sure Gibbs and Ziva have shut their doors behind themselves. He tells Tim, “We are lucky. I am telling you, Gibbs’ driving is not something to inflict on a newbie’s first day.”
Gibbs’ car screeches out of its space and then speeds around the level to the ramp up and out. Tim is buckling his seatbelt by the time the sound fades out of hearing.
Tony gives him a look that is all eyebrows.
“We’re lucky. I believe you,” Tim assures him.
Tony grins at him and they get going.
--
Going down familiar surface streets, Tony makes smooth stops and keeps a polite distance in traffic, as if to make a point about Gibbs.
“I get it - you’re a perfectly trustworthy driver,” Tim comments, feeling redundant and desperate for something to say.
Tony glances across the car and catches Tim already looking. When Tim breaks eye contact first, Tony clears his throat and says, “There are a few things we need to go over about you emerging from your basement.”
“Ha ha.” Tim tried not to huff like a child.
“I’m serious.” Tony stops at a light, regards Tim seriously. “This isn’t just legal stuff. This is life-and-death kind of stuff. Got it?”
“I got it.”
Tony nods. “First of all, no weapons. You’re licensed to own and carry - admittedly, you’re not a bad shot - but under no circumstances will you operate one today. As entitled and,” he hesitates over a word and settles on, “inattentive as Paula can be, she’s right about one thing; you don’t have any actual authority in the field. Also, do me a favor and don’t try to arrest anyone.” He glances over, catches Tim’s stunned look. “What?”
Tim coughs, tying to clear the confusion out of his mind. “Uh. Is that - My aim. Do you know that from, um, the firing range?”
“Of course. We’re in there at the same time at least once a week.”
“Of course,” Tim echoes lightly. After he gets another weird look from Tony, he continues, “I didn’t think you recognized me, I guess.”
Tony laughs. “I’m a Special Agent. A certain awareness of my surroundings saves me a lot of headaches.” He keeps throwing Tim cautious looks, as though Tim won’t notice. His voice takes on a quality of recitation, then. “The boss has a set of rules that any good investigator - or, hah, anyone that works with him - needs to follow. For example: Rule #3 is, Don't believe what you're told. Double check,’ and Rule #9 is, ‘Never go anywhere without a knife’.”
“A knife. That’s - oh, that explains why Abby has one.” Tim blows out a breath, trying not to imagine Gibbs being able to stab him at any moment. It is, somehow, even more disturbing than knowing he carries a gun. With Gibbs’ last instruction in mind, he prompts, “So, what’s Rule #12?”
Tony gives him yet another look and then faces the road. “Never date a coworker.”
Tim looks at his hands, the folder they hold. He starts shuffling through the papers at random. “Oh. Why did, um…”
“This thing you have for me,” Tony interrupts in a completely opaque tone, “is it going to make today difficult?”
Tim is absolutely mortified. He coughs through a dry throat and forces out, “No. Not at all.”
“Good,” Tony says, and lets a silence grow in the car.
Tim takes out his phone and sends a message to Abby: Officially giving up. Turns out: too implausible.
He really shouldn’t have expected to keep a secret around investigators.
--
Once they hit the freeway and start south, Tony has Tim call ahead to Safeguard Steppe Inc. and determine accessibility of their blueprints.
It’s just past 9am, and he’s clearly not what the student-age receptionist (Dale Morgan, Tim carefully records on a loose paper) expected to deal with first thing this morning. “Uh…” he stalls. “I believe we rent… but the owner might know?”
So Tim asks for the owner’s name and number.
The owner is an older woman, Hannah Kenzie. She has a copy of the plans in a secure safe deposit box.
She’s able to tell him the name of the architect’s firm, the Sarmi Group. Their copies of the plans are all accounted for in their file rooms, and access is limited to employees. There haven’t been any requests to review them. Not that they would hand them to just anyone that asked.
“Would there be any other copies?” Tim asks, getting frustrated. Tony’s phone is ringing, distracting him a little until it is answered.
The woman (Theresa Phillips) suggests, “The County Building Department probably does. However, anyone looking those up would need certain permissions…”
Driving one-handed and talking into a phone should not be a good look for Tony. He catches Tim’s eye, says, “Repeat that for McGrindstone,” turns his phone on speaker and holds it across the front seat.
Ziva is saying, “AFC William Rogers’ footlocker contained a printing of twenty business cards for a ‘Sarmi Group’ and a receipt from the Prince George County Building Department.”
Tim asks Ms. Phillips, “Would forged credentials from your company work?”
“Well… along with a letter of permission from the owner,” she says in surprise.
Tim nods at Tony and begins to look up the address of the Building Department. They’re only fifteen minutes out.
Tony’s smile for him is huge as he reports back to Ziva.
--
In the meantime, Abby has sent him a reply; what why noooooo DDDD:
Tim sends back; Tony has explained Rule #12 to me. You’re lucky I’m not also planning to dig myself a hole to live in. About a minute later, he follows it with, You could have given me some heads up on that one.
--
Right outside the completely bland, nondescript government office, Tony grasps Tim’s elbow with strong fingers. He stands close and murmurs, “Just to be clear about our plan of attack, here: I talk. You do not. Field rules, right?”
“Right,” Tim says, eyes on his shoes. Tony’s face is at the edge of his vision. But, remember, Tim is in avoidance mode.
The office A/C keeps it cool, but can’t fight the humidity that sneaks in from outside. John Morris, Clerk, is mousy and sweaty. He adjusts his glasses and takes his time over Tony’s badge, leaning across the Building Department’s counter. “Right,” he says, straightening. “What’ll you need?”
“Do any of these people look familiar to you?” Tony asks, laying down the service pictures of their suspects; Forney, Rogers, and - the one that started it all - Miller.
“I see people, um, military people, all the time,” Morris mumbles. “So close to Andrews, you know.”
“Imagine them without the uniforms,” Tony suggests mildly. When he’s personally trying to charm information out of a civilian, his face relaxes into a pleasant blandness, smoothing a few wrinkles and - just, he’s obviously excellent at his job.
Tim’s type has always been competence. God damn it.
“Hmm…” Morris holds a finger over each face, and then drops it on Rogers’ nose. “He was in here. Maybe a couple weeks ago.”
Tony gathers the pictures again, looking at the smear of oil from the finger in distaste. “That’s very interesting to me, Mr. Morris, because this man had in his possession a receipt from this very office. McGloating here,” he waggled his fingers, “can show you-”
Tim’s even been trying to keep his expression neutral, to reflect Tony’s. He offers Morris his phone, with a photo of the receipt from Ziva.
“Well. The seventh sure sounds plausible,” Morris says distractedly. “This has a file number. Here, I can look that up.”
They’re alone for about three minutes. Tim takes the opportunity to say, “I really don’t like people making fun of my name.”
“I can see why they would,” Tony says with a shrug. “It’s a very versatile name.”
He’s leaning against the counter - he’s lounging against it. He has that confident, Hollywood star smirk on. Tim knows this precise attitude from Tony’s sessions at the shooting range, presumably when a case is going well.
Suddenly reminded of his life outside this investigation, Tim asks, “Rule #12 doesn’t apply to other departments, I suppose?”
“What do you mean?”
“That legal aid you were hitting on all of yesterday.” Tim can feel himself starting to flush. “Or… at least until the Miller case came in.”
Tony stares at Tim. Then he answers slowly, “No. I don’t work directly with Laney and I don’t have to rely on her in the field. Besides, she’s engaged. She just loves to flirt. She’ll never take it anywhere.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, eyes sharp, thinking. “You’re pretty observant. For a near-sighted technology wizard.” He spots Morris coming back and adds as a final shot, “McGoodness.”
McGee doesn’t know how that qualifies as making fun of him. But he does know one thing: after this case, he’s not going to be working directly with Tony, either.
There’s a message from Abby waiting for him: don’t let tony use rule #12 as an excuse
At least she’s on his side in this. Tim tries not to hope.
--
Morris is holding a copy of a false document. He’s also severely confused by the concept of someone forging an owner’s permission and the right business card to acquire the original architect’s access to some building plans.
“He needed the plans for illegal purposes,” Tony repeats, patience clearly wearing thin. “It’s only logical that he used illegal means to obtain them.”
“That’s the thing! We don’t let people just walk off the premises with these things, and we don’t let them make copies.” Morris talks with his hands, apparently. “And they’re big, three-foot-long documents. We double-check that the plans go back into the proper filing place, and these aren’t missing.”
Tim bumps Tony’s arm with his elbow and indicates the camera mounted on the back of his phone.
Tony waves at it, too. “All you need it a phone with a camera with enough storage space. Pair that with enough patience to get complete, detailed pictures, and voila.”
Morris frowns. “I guess he was in that room alone for a pretty long time…”
“Thank you for your help,” Tony says firmly. “We have your contact information. You may be called upon to testify in court in the future. Have a nice day.”
He makes sure that Tim keeps close to his heels and, once the door shuts completely, growls, “We need to get to that insurance building. They clearly have everything they need to pull this stunt off.”
--
The drive to Safeguard Steppe Inc. headquarters is ten minutes. Tim spends them on the phone, dialing the company and getting a busy signal. Tony spends them steadily increasing the car’s speed.
--
Tony walks past a line of people at the receptionist’s desk before he showed his badge. “Special Agent Dinozzo, NCIS.”
The kid with a headset blinks up at him, then hazards, “I think I’ve of heard that somewhere…”
Tim tried, “Dale Morgan? I’m McGee, we spoke on the phone earlier this morning.”
“Oh. Okay?”
“First, Mr. Morgan,” Tony cut in, “I need to know if there are any people in the building. Specifically, people with special permission to access maintenance areas, interior systems, that kind of thing.”
Morgan shrugs. “There’s, like, a group of three checking our electrical wiring. Been here for a couple hours.”
“Two men, one woman?”
“Yeah.”
Tony puts a hand to his forehand and spreads out the pictures without a word.
Morgan says, “That’s them. Hey, why are you-”
Tony grits out, “You need to call an evacuation. Or a fire drill, or something.” He holds up one finger to Tim in a plea for time, then turns away with his cell phone.
“But why,” Morgan whines to Tim.
Tim advises, “It’s a good idea to listen to him. He’s a government agent.”
Tony comes back and they take a few steps away from the desk for discretion’s sake. “I’ve called back up. We need to track these guys down. They’ll hear the alarm and know something’s up.” He checks on Morgan - who jerks a sharp nod - then leads the way through the double doors separating the rest of the building from the reception area.
“If they’re going to hear it, then why did you signal the alarm?” Tim asks.
Tony shakes his head. “Think of it this way. We have no idea when Miller and his two groupies will be ready to…” he glances into each door they pass on either side of the hall. Each contains a civilian, listlessly completing their business. Tony refrains from mentioning anything about the C4. “Anyway. I can’t leave dozens of people inside and just hope that they don’t finish up before I’m ready.”
A loud sound starts up. A long way off, Tim hears Morgan announce, “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re practicing a fire drill. If you’ll join me out in the parking lot…”
More or less obediently, the civilians troop into the hallway. They’re almost eerily docile, glancing at the men from NCIS with no real curiosity, clearly not really worried about the evacuation.
Tim, fighting the urge to freak out, mutters, “This is bringing back memories from elementary school.”
“I bet you were always a hall monitor or something,” Tony says, just over the noise.
“Class captain.” Tim grimaces, a little embarrassed. “I made sure everyone had a buddy.”
Tony winks, then lifts his hand to hover over the side of his suit jacket, over his holster. Not touching, but ready. “Well, buddy, let’s go scare up some criminals.”
Tim glances past a middle-aged woman, one of the last to emerge from the offices, and something catches his eye. “Tony,” he says, level and covering for the sudden adrenaline spike.
They go into the office - decorated with pastel Post-It notes and family pictures - and Tim kneels by the disturbed rectangle of drywall. There are white flakes around the green paint, a detail he hadn’t noticed in the other offices, all left white-walled and plain.
“Give me your knife,” Tim says. The fire alarm is wearing on his nerves, making his heart race.
Tony snorts, but apparently doesn’t have time to tease him about remembering Gibbs’ stupid rules. He pulls it out of an ankle holster and hands it over.
Tim gently uses the knife to pry the section free. Then he sucks in a breath. There, tucked into a cavity in the wall and connected to the electrical wiring, lays a half-brick of C4.
Leaning over his shoulder, Tony sighs, “Fuck.”
--
The building is set up in two identical stories, featuring a long hallway with cookie-cutter offices on either side. The open space at the front - the reception area, on the first floor - becomes an array of half-enclosed cubicles on the second.
There are stairs in the center and back of the hallway, the latter of which also had an exit. After a side-crampingly fast search, Tim and Tony double back to the middle access point.
“Every third office. Roughly,” Tim reports, breathing hard. He wishes he were in better shape. He wishes the stupid fire alarm would stop giving him a headache. “Placed near load-bearing beams, as far as I can tell.”
Tony nods, confirming what he’s found in the other direction. “They can take this floor down at any time.” He peers up the first flight of stairs. “The only reason they haven’t is that they’re still working up there.” He throws his arm out, pulling his sleeve up to check his watch. His other hand is holding his weapon. “And we don’t have back-up or a bomb squad for ten more minutes.”
Tim looks at the stairs and… can’t tell what he’s thinking. There are criminals up there. Trained soldiers with explosives. This is not how he imagined his day going, even after that all-nighter.
“McGee,” Tony says softly. He looks both tense and kind. “This isn’t in your job description. I have to go up and maybe find a way to stop them, but you don’t.” He laughs and runs his free hand through his hair. “Honestly, I should have sent you out with the rest of the civilians.”
Tim steadies his breathing. Shakes his head. “Let’s go. You can’t cover that much ground by yourself.”
“Suit yourself,” Tony says. He leads the way up.
--
They split up on the second floor. Tony heads for the other staircase, checking the offices on the way. Tim goes toward the cubicles.
The work is shoddier, up here. The walls are left gaping open, the C4 showing through. Maybe this was done after the alarm, in a hurry; the work downstairs was professional, clean. Disguised as electricians, Miller, Forney, and Rogers set bombs with workers in the same room. They could have closed up the walls and walked out the front door with no suspicion at all.
Tim didn’t hear anything over the alarm. He thought he would still hear gunfire, but even Tony yelling for him wouldn’t reach him at this distance. The constant sound was manifesting as a pain in his teeth.
He reached the cubicles. They’re a maze.
He skirts around the flimsy separators, keeping to the wall. He’ll check for the C4 set-ups and then double back for Tony. He can’t stop imagining Tony cornered by all three suspects as they try to get out the farthest exit. What help could Tim be, though? No fighting skills, no gun. No weapons of any kind.
He starts guiltily and feels for his pocket. He forgot to return Tony’s knife; he’d just dropped it into his jacket pocket. The blade has sunk right through the seam, the hilt resting at the bottom of the material. Awesome. He owes Tony an apology and he’ll need a tailor in the near future.
At least Gibbs would be proud.
Tim is distracted and completely taken aback when he rounds a corner and recognizes Rogers, crouched down and cutting into the drywall.
In a knee-jerk reaction, Tim shouts over the still-running alarm, “Airman First Class Rogers, stop what you’re doing!”
Rogers looks up sharply. He’s holding a box cutter, half-buried in the wall, and his eyes are hard. He’s pushed the mask and safety glasses down around his neck, but his rubber gloves are still on.
Right then, all of the sound in the world cuts out. Tim thinks he’s gone deaf, for a second, but it’s just the alarm finally turning off.
Rogers shifts in his crouch, and Tim says, perfectly audibly, “Oh, shit.” Then the soldier is tackling him at the knees.
Tim goes down hard. He has nothing to fight back with; this is exactly what washed him out of agent training, all those years ago. With an arm yanked up his back and his face turned to avoid breathing in the rough carpet, he tries to shout, “Tony!” at the top of his lungs, but he’s pretty sure that what comes out is not as organized as actual syllables.
Rogers has him pinned, an uncompromising knee between Tim’s shoulder blades. Rogers could very, very easily dislocate his arm right now at the slightest provocation.
Tim is determined not to give it to him.
Footsteps. He can feel them like earthquakes, pressed into the floor like this. His heart lifts; Tony heard him.
The new arrival steps directly in front of Tim’s face, then nudges his nose with the toe of a boot. “Wow, you are quite the conquering hero, here, Billy,” a woman - Forney, Rogers’ partner in crime? - observes drily. “Bet he gave you a hard fight. Did one of the desk jockeys wander back in?””
“Shut the fuck up,” Rogers growls. “He knew my name and rank. Where’s Miller?”
“There’s a fed between here and the back stairs. Miller got past him, I came back to regroup.”
“He coming this way?”
“Hell, if he didn’t see me, he sure heard your new friend.” She taps Tim’s nose again, harder; the headache from the alarm’s constant noise is compounded by the hollow pain of a rap to the sinuses. Tim is having trouble taking in air, between Roger’s pressure on his ribs and Forney’s dusty boots. “Hey, pudgy. That is some bona fide Braveheart war cry shit you’ve got going on.”
Tim would totally bare his teeth at her or something, but he’s not sure how brave he feels. He drafts a text message in his head, to Abby: Hey, heads up, I may have mentioned you in my will. He hasn’t had a second to spare since they found out their suspects were in the building, or he might have already sent it. But then, if he lives, these kinds of thoughts will just be sentimental and overdramatic.
God. He hopes he lives. He hasn’t had a chance to confront Tony about his barely-applicable excuse not to even consider dating him.
Tim can feel footsteps in the floor. Not out loud; they’re heavy, but silent. And getting closer.
“So, what do we do?” Forney asks, her voice bored. “I finished all mine.”
“This is my last one. Either hold this pussy down or do it yourself.”
Forney goes to the wall. The dry, grinding sound of drywall turning to powder starts up.
Tim still can’t breathe.
Tony swings around the corner, gun up and steady. “Freeze! NCIS!”
Both of the suspects freeze and then, after a few seconds, Rogers asks, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Air Force, right,” Tony sighs. “I’m the Navy police. Do me a favor and stop trying to blow this place up.”
“Fuck off,” Forney offers helpfully.
Suddenly, Tim’s shoulder burns. Rogers pulls him to his feet by his wrenched arm, then holds him as a shield. “Let us out of the building.”
“Why?” Tony asks. “Once you’re out, nothing’s stopping Miller from blowing the place.” His eyes are calculating. “Come to think of it, what’s stopping him from doing it now? He’s out. He’s safe. He still hates this company. How about it, Airmen? Is your - probably brief - acquaintance with Miller going to outweigh a years-old grudge? That’s already come this far?”
Behind Tim’s head, Rogers says, “He wouldn’t kill us.”
“Well, he’s running out of options,” Tony points out. I have back-up coming. In about three minutes, Miller’s going to choose between going to prison, or blowing this place up and going to prison. Which has more value to him? In your opinion.”
Forney, no longer messing with the C4, says coolly, “How about we wait three minutes and find out.”
“Are you serious? I have a gun on you,” Tony asks, exasperated.
“And we have the whole place wired to explode,” Forney counters.
Tony rolls his eyes. “That sounds like a lose-lose, to me.”
Forney does something, behind Tim; Tony’s muzzle dips to follow her. Then Tony’s face tightens. “Don’t.”
Rogers brings the box cutter - razor sharp and newly liberated from the wall - to rest lightly against Tim’s neck.
Half-numb with fear, Tim realizes that Tony hasn’t met his eyes since he came around the corner. He feels more than a little forsaken.
That’s kind of the last straw.
Tim starts giggling hysterically. Completely out of his control. It makes the blade jog against his skin; it hurts his sore ribs. He gasps, “This is - so much not how I expected today to go.”
Rogers shakes him. “The fuck is wrong with you?” His hand slips. Tim starts bleeding.
“Leave him alone,” Tony barks.
“It doesn’t,” Tim struggles to get out, “it doesn’t matter. Apparently, we’re going to blow up, or Billy here is going to kill me as a hostage-”
Tony’s mouth pinches and then goes soft and darkly amused. “We’ve got another two minutes to kill, anyway. Anyone wanna play truth or dare?” His weapon is rock-steady in his hand, even though it must be heavy.
Tim tries to move his fingers. They’re sluggish, and he can feel the tug of stretched tendons all the way up through his shoulder. He wants to keep babbling, he wants to panic until he’s either dead or safe. He can see Tony’s eyes, steady on Rogers and Forney, flicking it, trying to keep him present. Apparently, panicking wouldn’t help right now. “I do,” he volunteers. “Hey, Tony, truth or dare?”
Tony glances at his gun, obviously considering the possibilities of choosing dare. He answers, “Truth.”
Forney asks, “Are you guys actually doing this? This is retarded.”
Ignoring her, Tim asks, “Why are you using Rule #12 as an excuse when it barely applies?”
“It definitely applies,” Tony argues.
“Not for long. Ha ha. One way or another.” Tim gets the feeling that no one else gets the joke. “Get it? It’s funny because I’m probably going to die.”
Rogers really laughs. “You are a morbid sonnuva bitch, aren’t you?”
Tim’s staring at Tony, just in case he feels like answering. The crazy thing is, Tony seems to be considering it, if only to keep playing this round of Keep The Civilian Calm.
“Tell you what,” Tony says gently, “you’re going to live, and once we’re not working together, we can go out. Once.”
“Deal,” Tim agrees, and then the lights cut out.
And then the megaphone starts blaring outside.
And then Tony’s knife finishes ripping through Tim’s pocket seam and lands in Rogers’ boot.
Rogers lets Tim go, and Tim wastes no time scrambling away. Forney’s already diving for him, tripping him with one hand and attempting to control Tony’s gun with the other.
Tony’s on the ground before he lets go of his weapon, and by then Rogers has piled on. Tim’s braced against a wall and taking the time to wonder if Rogers maybe cracked a rib.
The gun gets kicked and skitters up against Tim’s calf. He grabs it and gets to his feet. He gets out of range of their flailing limbs and then tries to make out Tony in the dim interior light. They are a long way from a window, and with the power off…
He shouts, “Stop! I have the gun.”
All three of them stop.
“Right. We’re going to stay here and wait until the authorities find us.” His palms are damp, his second hand steadying the first more than he cares to admit. Tim’s just glad that he hadn’t added ‘please’ anywhere in there.
The largest shape moves for him. Rogers, it has to be. Tim, heart in his throat, starts squeezing the trigger, breathing out as he was taught.
“Don’t shoot!” Tony’s voice yells, startling Tim’s finger away from the trigger, out onto the guard. Then the agent’s silhouette on the floor kicks out at Rogers’ foot - still holding the mean little knife, buried to the hilt.
Rogers falls back to the floor. Tony asks both suspects, “Please stop trying to resist.”
Tim keeps an eye on Rogers, weapon up and pointed, as Tony wrestles Forney into agreeing that she really does want to wear handcuffs.
While he works, Tony pants out, “Do you have any idea how much paperwork you could have caused me? Having a civilian - okay, granted, an NCIS employee - fire my weapon at people who are technically out of our jurisdiction? I told you, absolutely no guns in the field. Dropping a knife - also mine - is one thing, but guns, jeez, you wouldn’t believe the sheer bureaucracy they generate.”
Tim lets him ramble in this vein for the minutes it takes the bomb squad to get people up to them. It’s sort of soothing. And more than a little endearing.
--
--
Two weeks after, as Abby terms it, “Timmy’s Big Adventure,” Tony actually makes good on his promise to take Tim out.
“A promise made under duress,” Tony points out, after dinner. They’re walking a couple feet apart, kind of meandering toward the movie theater.
“Don’t start,” Tim laughs. “The waiter knew you by name! How often do you pull this dinner-and-a-movie routine, anyway?”
“Not often?” Tony tries, grin turning shifty.
Tim just smiles and looks at the sky. It’s a little hazy, the stars are a little dim, but that’s what happens in a city. He’d really, honestly enjoyed their conversation over dinner. He still can’t believe that members of Gibbs’ team (well, minus Paula Cassidy - there are rumors she’s transferring) visit his little basement office almost as often as they do Abby and Ducky.
He’s very content, right now. Even if Tony’s only doing this out of a sense of obligation.
“You should try for agent again,” Tony says, out of the blue.
Tim laughs at him. Then he stops. “Wait, seriously?”
“Sure. You can shoot. You’re willing to go into field situations, even when it’s very unwise.” He glances over and winks. “I can help get you into shape.”
Tim is definitely blushing a lot. He’s not good at innuendo.
Tony knocks their elbows together. “I’m serious about this. Gibbs has another rule - okay, a lot of other rules. But Rule #5 is, you don’t waste good. Okay?”
“I’ll consider it,” Tim said at length.
“Here, how about,” Tony rested his hand on the mostly-healed bruise between Tim’s shoulder blades. “How about you consider it, and I’ll take you out for another date.”
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