The Techie
Title: The Techie
Rating: K+
Word Count: 751
Challenge: Other: Mutants (au_bingo)
--
"McGee!" Gibbs barked. He always barked. Or growled. Or snarled.
And people wondered why Abby had named a dog after him.
"Yeah boss?" Tim asked, hunched over his computer. He had a feeling he knew what Gibbs was going to ask about, but it never hurt to double check.
"Where's my file on the FBI's investigation into Colonel Fitzpatrick?"
Oh, you mean the double-encrypted file hidden on a server in FBI headquarters, completely cut off from the rest of the federal network, let alone the common-access internet? That file, boss?
"Right here, boss," Tim said, pulling the relevant pages up on the plasma screen. "I got in behind their firewalls and managed to find the--"
"Don't care," Gibbs reminded him, and he shut up. Right. Tim forgot sometimes that he didn't need to justify how he did things around here. "Just tell me what you found, McGee."
"Sure, boss."
--
No one ever notices the techie.
Well, no, that's not true. People notice the techie when they're waiting for him to finish up a job. Or when he's found a new lead on a case with his mad techie skills. But they never notice him when he's in the middle of a project, typing away at his computer. Most of them don't even know what he's supposed to be doing - and they don't care, so long as the job gets done.
Which makes it very easy for Tim to get away with doing things that, strictly speaking, aren't possible.
--
"Still on desk duty, I see," Ziva announced as she entered the squadroom. She dropped a bag by her desk and sat down, looking at Tim's cast with a sympathetic eye. "How much longer will it be before you can go back into the field, McGee?"
Tim shrugged as best he could with a sling across his chest. "My doctor says it'll be another two weeks before I can get the cast off, and who knows how long he'll want me chained to my desk after that."
"And Ducky?"
"He thinks I'll be safe for field work in a fortnight, tops."
Ziva raised an eyebrow. "That seems like a generous estimate."
"Well here's hoping it isn't," he said with a sigh. "Desk work is boring enough with the use of both of my hands. With just one..."
"It must be very dull indeed," Ziva said. She glanced at her computer, and then at Tim. "And yet you seem to have no trouble getting your paperwork done," she observed. "The server indicates you've completed all the necessary reports for the last few cases you were working on before breaking your arm. That is no small feat."
"Nah, it's nothing," Tim said, turning back to his computer. He opened up a document and leaned back to show it to Ziva. "Reports are so structured that I went ahead and made up a template. It makes writing reports go by a lot faster, and makes sure I get all the necessary information down."
"That sounds convenient." Looking at Tim slyly, she asked, "Is there any chance you would be so generous as to share your time-saving template with your coworkers?"
"Don't waste your breath, Ziva," Tony said, walking into the squadroom. "I've been bugging McStubborn about that template of his for years, he'll never give it up."
"It's not that hard to make up your own, Tony," Tim said, frowning at the senior agent. "And if you used mine, our writing styles would look too similar; we'd be accused of not completing our own reports."
"Yeah, yeah," Tony said, waving a hand in the air. "I've heard it all before. Take my word for it, Ziva, in this case our Probie is an old-fashioned, high-security safe."
"Able to be opened with the right tools and appropriate amounts of leverage?"
Tony sputtered. "No, locked and impossible to crack without explosive amounts of force!"
"Oh, I see," Ziva said, grinning. "I have never heard of that kind of safe, Tony. Are you sure such a thing exists?"
As Ziva and Tony started to really get into their stride, banter flowing freely, Tim frowned at the transcript of their conversation writing itself on his computer screen. "Stop it," he hissed, and the document reverted to an empty template.
--
There's a reason Tim writes his novels on a typewriter.
It's a good reason, he thinks, though it isn't something he can easily explain, so he pops on a jazz record and wears a writing jacket and calls it a desire for authenticity.
That's not it, though.
He's got a reason for it, and it's a good one, he swears. He just... can't tell you what it is.
(It's a secret.)
Rating: K+
Word Count: 751
Challenge: Other: Mutants (au_bingo)
--
"McGee!" Gibbs barked. He always barked. Or growled. Or snarled.
And people wondered why Abby had named a dog after him.
"Yeah boss?" Tim asked, hunched over his computer. He had a feeling he knew what Gibbs was going to ask about, but it never hurt to double check.
"Where's my file on the FBI's investigation into Colonel Fitzpatrick?"
Oh, you mean the double-encrypted file hidden on a server in FBI headquarters, completely cut off from the rest of the federal network, let alone the common-access internet? That file, boss?
"Right here, boss," Tim said, pulling the relevant pages up on the plasma screen. "I got in behind their firewalls and managed to find the--"
"Don't care," Gibbs reminded him, and he shut up. Right. Tim forgot sometimes that he didn't need to justify how he did things around here. "Just tell me what you found, McGee."
"Sure, boss."
--
No one ever notices the techie.
Well, no, that's not true. People notice the techie when they're waiting for him to finish up a job. Or when he's found a new lead on a case with his mad techie skills. But they never notice him when he's in the middle of a project, typing away at his computer. Most of them don't even know what he's supposed to be doing - and they don't care, so long as the job gets done.
Which makes it very easy for Tim to get away with doing things that, strictly speaking, aren't possible.
--
"Still on desk duty, I see," Ziva announced as she entered the squadroom. She dropped a bag by her desk and sat down, looking at Tim's cast with a sympathetic eye. "How much longer will it be before you can go back into the field, McGee?"
Tim shrugged as best he could with a sling across his chest. "My doctor says it'll be another two weeks before I can get the cast off, and who knows how long he'll want me chained to my desk after that."
"And Ducky?"
"He thinks I'll be safe for field work in a fortnight, tops."
Ziva raised an eyebrow. "That seems like a generous estimate."
"Well here's hoping it isn't," he said with a sigh. "Desk work is boring enough with the use of both of my hands. With just one..."
"It must be very dull indeed," Ziva said. She glanced at her computer, and then at Tim. "And yet you seem to have no trouble getting your paperwork done," she observed. "The server indicates you've completed all the necessary reports for the last few cases you were working on before breaking your arm. That is no small feat."
"Nah, it's nothing," Tim said, turning back to his computer. He opened up a document and leaned back to show it to Ziva. "Reports are so structured that I went ahead and made up a template. It makes writing reports go by a lot faster, and makes sure I get all the necessary information down."
"That sounds convenient." Looking at Tim slyly, she asked, "Is there any chance you would be so generous as to share your time-saving template with your coworkers?"
"Don't waste your breath, Ziva," Tony said, walking into the squadroom. "I've been bugging McStubborn about that template of his for years, he'll never give it up."
"It's not that hard to make up your own, Tony," Tim said, frowning at the senior agent. "And if you used mine, our writing styles would look too similar; we'd be accused of not completing our own reports."
"Yeah, yeah," Tony said, waving a hand in the air. "I've heard it all before. Take my word for it, Ziva, in this case our Probie is an old-fashioned, high-security safe."
"Able to be opened with the right tools and appropriate amounts of leverage?"
Tony sputtered. "No, locked and impossible to crack without explosive amounts of force!"
"Oh, I see," Ziva said, grinning. "I have never heard of that kind of safe, Tony. Are you sure such a thing exists?"
As Ziva and Tony started to really get into their stride, banter flowing freely, Tim frowned at the transcript of their conversation writing itself on his computer screen. "Stop it," he hissed, and the document reverted to an empty template.
--
There's a reason Tim writes his novels on a typewriter.
It's a good reason, he thinks, though it isn't something he can easily explain, so he pops on a jazz record and wears a writing jacket and calls it a desire for authenticity.
That's not it, though.
He's got a reason for it, and it's a good one, he swears. He just... can't tell you what it is.
(It's a secret.)