{Batman(Robin)/NCIS} Five Times Tim Wasn't Sure What His Last Name Was (And That One Time He Knew)
Title: Five Times Tim Wasn't Sure What His Last Name Was (And That One Time He Knew)
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2047
Rating: PG (swearing, a little blood)
Author Notes: A birthday present for justm3h. Part of Counting Down; this is the first number.
Summary: Sometimes the line between who I am and who I was gets a little blurred.
5 That Time With The Dumpster
“Put the gun down,” the guy says, voice high and edging higher. “Put it down! I'll shoot him! I will!”
Ziva doesn't put it down, but instead she raises her hands, slowly. Her gun is pointing up in her loosened grip. I know her speed and accuracy, but thank god this guy does not.
“Put it down!” He says shrilly, and takes another step closer to me. And okay, I've always hated being the hostage or being collateral, and there's a pretty easy way out.
“T-turn around!” The man tells me, and I do. Slowly, hands up, I turn and take the crucial step back that I need to be right on the roof's edge.
Of course Ziva would notice. “McGee!” she calls at me, which is pretty redundant, all told.
“Ziva,” I say, swaying a bit. “I'm fine.” And I step backwards.
The pull of gravity is oh so familiar, and I know I have just enough time to wink and say, “Take him down,” before my head is below the roofline.
The day I can't fall properly is the day I hang up my-is the day I fully expect Bruce to pop up from nowhere just to glare at me.
There's the ledge I'd seen, and I get a foot onto it, using my knees to absorb the momentum. So the backflip comes easy, and my palms smack onto the fire escape's rail. A swing and grip-change lets me push off, ricocheting off the opposite wall.
I end up on the edge of the dumpster, already arching backwards for the final flip before I realize that, while Tim Drake could make that fall, Tim McGee couldn't.
So I sigh, and topple forward into the dumpster, turning to take the impact on my back. I'm going to stink for days, I just know it.
But Tony's rounding the corner just as I drag myself up over the lip of the dumpster, and he raises a shaky hand to say, “Got him, Boss,” into his phone.
To me, he says, “Dammit, McGee, don't do that. You almost gave Ziva a heart attack.” But he still helps me down from the dumpster's edge. “You were almost a Probie Pancake.”
I wasn't, I want to say. I've fallen farther and faster and this was nothing, nothing compared to then, I want to say. But for the first time in a long time, I notice my hands are perfectly steady and my mind is clear, and for now, at least, I feel oh so alive.
4 That Time With The Rope
I've been tied up before. Fairly regularly, actually. I've been tied up, tied down, hog-tied, handcuffed, manacled, shackled, and chained with ropes and and tape and this one sticky substance that we never identified, and even plants. When you're trained by Mr. Miracle himself on Batman's dime, you end up learning how to escape even the most ridiculous bindings, and this was far from the worst situation I'd been tied up in.
This time, the three of us are in chairs, tied back to back to back, ropes on the legs and some kind of special cuffs for the hands.
I wait until Tony starts talking. It doesn't take long; it's his defense mechanism.
“Ziva?” he says. “You can pick that lock, right?”
I can't see her, but I know she's trying not to snap at him. “I am working in the dark from a bad angle on a lock I am unfamiliar with. Give me a moment.”
Tony opens his mouth to say something else, and I use the sound of it to cover the quiet pop! the dislocation of my thumb makes. Or would have covered it, if Tony hadn't changed his mind and shut his mouth.
“What was that?” Ziva asks, and Tony's instantly on alert.
“Just me,” I say, and then I bite my lip to keep from making noise as I slip out of the cuff. I lose a layer of skin, but I'm free. I bring my hands up in front of me, the custom handcuffs hanging off one wrist, and, taking a deep breath, pop my thumb back into place.
A breath, a small sigh of pain escapes my control. But it doesn't stop me from drawing a knife and cutting my way free.
“I'm out,” I report. “Hang on, guys, I'm coming.”
“How did you get out of the cuffs?” Tony wants to know.
“Mine weren't ratcheted all the way,” I lie, and, in the dark, I slip out of the room. The guard outside should have the key, and I slip into the shadows like a comfortable old coat. Up on the balls of my feet, light and quick and quiet as the dark, I hunt. The single guard falls with the first blow, and I blink, trying to reorient myself.
This isn't Gotham, and I repeat that until I remember it, and then toss the guy's pocket for the keys.
“Here,” I say, “hold on.” And first Ziva's, then Tony's cuffs fall open too. Ziva takes point, Tony takes rear, and I'm in the middle, the most protected position, as we head out of there.
It's nice of them, and I know they think it's necessary, but it makes me want to scream, sometimes.
3 That Time He Hotwired A Motorcycle
I don't have a problem with either Gibbs' or Ziva's driving skills. Anyone who can take a curve on two wheels and not flinch knows how to control a car. So Ziva's a bit more aggressive than is safe, but mostly, I'm fine.
I've been in the Batmobile when Bruce hits the nitro button. I've been in the Batplane when Dick's decided to do a barrel roll. Hell, my own R-Cycle could go well over two hundred miles an hour.
I can recognize serious driving skills, because I've got them, too.
What makes me clutch my seat 'til my knuckles are white isn't the speed, or the turns, or even the way they never seem to look at the road. No, what worries me isn't the people, but rather, the cars.
Because the Gibbsmobile isn't custom built, and it isn't a race car. It wasn't built for what Gibbs puts it through. So I'm the one who makes sure it's taken to the shop regularly, and it's just possible that I maybe got down in there myself to reinforce a few things.
It's nice working on a car again, even if it's in secret. I'm thinking about buying myself a motorcycle, just to have something to tinker with on weekends.
Hey, everybody needs a hobby.
So that's why I'm spending some time admiring this cherry bike I'm hiding behind. It's not top-of-the-line, but it's still a sweet ride, and the owner's added some nifty bits here and there. I instinctively catalog the customizations, the make, model, color, license plate, identifying sticker on the side, and how to hotwire it, stop it, where to aim to hit the fuel tank, and whether or not popping a wheel during movement would be likely to be fatal.
But we're kind of in the middle of a sting, as I'm reminded by the sounds of gunfire. That'd be Tony and Ziva coming in from the front, while Gibbs and I are waiting around back, him in the alley, and me, well, behind a motorcycle. It was supposed to be the next car over, but hey. I need to keep making a few mistakes to cement my “Probie” status, and besides, it was pretty, okay?
“They're headed for you guys!” Tony says over the communicator, just as a black pickup truck skids around the corner and heads for the warehouse.
“Ziva!” Gibbs says, “Get back to the car; there's a driver!”
“We're under fire!” she replies, and the three men we're after come spilling out of the door, shooting wildly in every direction. “I'm trying; which way are they headed?”
“North! Hurry, Ziva, they're getting away!”
We spent two days with no sleep tracking these murdering bastards down, and that, combined with the oh-so-familiar phrasing has me moving on long-forgotten intinct.
Gibbs is aiming for the truck's tires as it slows to let the three guys pile into the bed, but the truck swerves towards him, and my fingers dig out the right color wires. The truck accelerates before Gibbs can draw a proper bead, but he's still firing. It's almost a surprise to taste the metal in my mouth as I strip the last wire, but then his gun's empty, and he's barking, “Heading east out of the alley, hurry!”
I pause, hesitate just a moment, just long enough to hear Ziva say in utter frustration, “Not going to make it, Gibbs!” So I twist the wires, and the engine growls to life.
“I got them,” I say, and the chase is on.
“McGee!” Gibbs barks in my ear, and I smile grimly.
“Heading north again, towards the interstate. Plate number 534-JGH. I'm on his tail,” I report.
Ziva and Tony are saying stuff, but we hit the interstate, and I have to focus on traffic, so I tune out everything but Gibbs.
It's not my bike. It's not custom-made for me, and it hasn't got nitro, or all the other nice little goodies. It doesn't separate, or have the ergonomic, aerodynamic shape, but hell if it doesn't feel like being back on my R-Cycle again.
Sure, I'll have to do some fast talking when I get back, but right now, I've got a full tank, wind in my hair, and bad guys to chase.
I grin, and gun it.
2 That Time That Tony Broke Down, But Only Just A Little Bit
When Dick breaks down, there are two things you can do: you can let him hug you and tell him it's all right, which helps him but makes you feel ineffectual, or you shove him at Bruce, because he's the only one who can fix it.
So, after that mess with Jeanne, that's the formula I fall back on. It's likely that Tony operates the same way, only with less hugging. I figure I'll try talking to him, and if that doesn't work, go find Gibbs.
“Tony, look, I know how you feel, but-” I start, but Tony slashes his hand through the air in frustration, so I shut up.
“No, you don't. You don't know how it feels to lose someone like that. She was, she was special, and I lied to her, and she didn't even know my real name. I made her fall in love with a guy who wasn't me, Tim. And then I lost her. She's gone, and she's not coming back, and she only barely knew my name. You don't know how it feels, Probie. So shove it, okay?”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, and try not to let him get to me. Timothy McGee doesn't know how Tony feels, but Tim Drake still has nightmares about Stephanie, sometimes.
And That One Time That He Knew For Sure
I don't miss being in charge. I don't miss being a leader of a team. I'd much rather receive orders than give them.
What I do miss is working with people who know what I'm capable of.
Yeah, I know, it's my own fault. So sue me.
But half of what Gibbs throws my way is easy, and the other half is impossible. It's not really his fault that computers have advanced so far, so quickly, but it is his problem. And it's my own fault he gives Tony the physically tiring jobs.
“McGee!” he says one day. “My computer is loading its thing. Fix it.” And I do.
“McGee!” he'll say someday. “Get me access to the CIA mainframe.” And I will, though I shouldn't be able to.
But right now he's just said, “McGee, go get me a witness.” And I'm on it, but it still settles strangely on my shoulders.
But Tony's taking off to do his task, and I part ways with Ziva with a glance and a wry smile. Our little group splits up, off to do our parts.
I prefer being deployed to deploying. And I don't miss being in charge of a team. But I watch my friends' backs as they leave, and I can't help it.
“Teen Titans, go,” I murmur.
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2047
Rating: PG (swearing, a little blood)
Author Notes: A birthday present for justm3h. Part of Counting Down; this is the first number.
Summary: Sometimes the line between who I am and who I was gets a little blurred.
5 That Time With The Dumpster
“Put the gun down,” the guy says, voice high and edging higher. “Put it down! I'll shoot him! I will!”
Ziva doesn't put it down, but instead she raises her hands, slowly. Her gun is pointing up in her loosened grip. I know her speed and accuracy, but thank god this guy does not.
“Put it down!” He says shrilly, and takes another step closer to me. And okay, I've always hated being the hostage or being collateral, and there's a pretty easy way out.
“T-turn around!” The man tells me, and I do. Slowly, hands up, I turn and take the crucial step back that I need to be right on the roof's edge.
Of course Ziva would notice. “McGee!” she calls at me, which is pretty redundant, all told.
“Ziva,” I say, swaying a bit. “I'm fine.” And I step backwards.
The pull of gravity is oh so familiar, and I know I have just enough time to wink and say, “Take him down,” before my head is below the roofline.
The day I can't fall properly is the day I hang up my-is the day I fully expect Bruce to pop up from nowhere just to glare at me.
There's the ledge I'd seen, and I get a foot onto it, using my knees to absorb the momentum. So the backflip comes easy, and my palms smack onto the fire escape's rail. A swing and grip-change lets me push off, ricocheting off the opposite wall.
I end up on the edge of the dumpster, already arching backwards for the final flip before I realize that, while Tim Drake could make that fall, Tim McGee couldn't.
So I sigh, and topple forward into the dumpster, turning to take the impact on my back. I'm going to stink for days, I just know it.
But Tony's rounding the corner just as I drag myself up over the lip of the dumpster, and he raises a shaky hand to say, “Got him, Boss,” into his phone.
To me, he says, “Dammit, McGee, don't do that. You almost gave Ziva a heart attack.” But he still helps me down from the dumpster's edge. “You were almost a Probie Pancake.”
I wasn't, I want to say. I've fallen farther and faster and this was nothing, nothing compared to then, I want to say. But for the first time in a long time, I notice my hands are perfectly steady and my mind is clear, and for now, at least, I feel oh so alive.
4 That Time With The Rope
I've been tied up before. Fairly regularly, actually. I've been tied up, tied down, hog-tied, handcuffed, manacled, shackled, and chained with ropes and and tape and this one sticky substance that we never identified, and even plants. When you're trained by Mr. Miracle himself on Batman's dime, you end up learning how to escape even the most ridiculous bindings, and this was far from the worst situation I'd been tied up in.
This time, the three of us are in chairs, tied back to back to back, ropes on the legs and some kind of special cuffs for the hands.
I wait until Tony starts talking. It doesn't take long; it's his defense mechanism.
“Ziva?” he says. “You can pick that lock, right?”
I can't see her, but I know she's trying not to snap at him. “I am working in the dark from a bad angle on a lock I am unfamiliar with. Give me a moment.”
Tony opens his mouth to say something else, and I use the sound of it to cover the quiet pop! the dislocation of my thumb makes. Or would have covered it, if Tony hadn't changed his mind and shut his mouth.
“What was that?” Ziva asks, and Tony's instantly on alert.
“Just me,” I say, and then I bite my lip to keep from making noise as I slip out of the cuff. I lose a layer of skin, but I'm free. I bring my hands up in front of me, the custom handcuffs hanging off one wrist, and, taking a deep breath, pop my thumb back into place.
A breath, a small sigh of pain escapes my control. But it doesn't stop me from drawing a knife and cutting my way free.
“I'm out,” I report. “Hang on, guys, I'm coming.”
“How did you get out of the cuffs?” Tony wants to know.
“Mine weren't ratcheted all the way,” I lie, and, in the dark, I slip out of the room. The guard outside should have the key, and I slip into the shadows like a comfortable old coat. Up on the balls of my feet, light and quick and quiet as the dark, I hunt. The single guard falls with the first blow, and I blink, trying to reorient myself.
This isn't Gotham, and I repeat that until I remember it, and then toss the guy's pocket for the keys.
“Here,” I say, “hold on.” And first Ziva's, then Tony's cuffs fall open too. Ziva takes point, Tony takes rear, and I'm in the middle, the most protected position, as we head out of there.
It's nice of them, and I know they think it's necessary, but it makes me want to scream, sometimes.
3 That Time He Hotwired A Motorcycle
I don't have a problem with either Gibbs' or Ziva's driving skills. Anyone who can take a curve on two wheels and not flinch knows how to control a car. So Ziva's a bit more aggressive than is safe, but mostly, I'm fine.
I've been in the Batmobile when Bruce hits the nitro button. I've been in the Batplane when Dick's decided to do a barrel roll. Hell, my own R-Cycle could go well over two hundred miles an hour.
I can recognize serious driving skills, because I've got them, too.
What makes me clutch my seat 'til my knuckles are white isn't the speed, or the turns, or even the way they never seem to look at the road. No, what worries me isn't the people, but rather, the cars.
Because the Gibbsmobile isn't custom built, and it isn't a race car. It wasn't built for what Gibbs puts it through. So I'm the one who makes sure it's taken to the shop regularly, and it's just possible that I maybe got down in there myself to reinforce a few things.
It's nice working on a car again, even if it's in secret. I'm thinking about buying myself a motorcycle, just to have something to tinker with on weekends.
Hey, everybody needs a hobby.
So that's why I'm spending some time admiring this cherry bike I'm hiding behind. It's not top-of-the-line, but it's still a sweet ride, and the owner's added some nifty bits here and there. I instinctively catalog the customizations, the make, model, color, license plate, identifying sticker on the side, and how to hotwire it, stop it, where to aim to hit the fuel tank, and whether or not popping a wheel during movement would be likely to be fatal.
But we're kind of in the middle of a sting, as I'm reminded by the sounds of gunfire. That'd be Tony and Ziva coming in from the front, while Gibbs and I are waiting around back, him in the alley, and me, well, behind a motorcycle. It was supposed to be the next car over, but hey. I need to keep making a few mistakes to cement my “Probie” status, and besides, it was pretty, okay?
“They're headed for you guys!” Tony says over the communicator, just as a black pickup truck skids around the corner and heads for the warehouse.
“Ziva!” Gibbs says, “Get back to the car; there's a driver!”
“We're under fire!” she replies, and the three men we're after come spilling out of the door, shooting wildly in every direction. “I'm trying; which way are they headed?”
“North! Hurry, Ziva, they're getting away!”
We spent two days with no sleep tracking these murdering bastards down, and that, combined with the oh-so-familiar phrasing has me moving on long-forgotten intinct.
Gibbs is aiming for the truck's tires as it slows to let the three guys pile into the bed, but the truck swerves towards him, and my fingers dig out the right color wires. The truck accelerates before Gibbs can draw a proper bead, but he's still firing. It's almost a surprise to taste the metal in my mouth as I strip the last wire, but then his gun's empty, and he's barking, “Heading east out of the alley, hurry!”
I pause, hesitate just a moment, just long enough to hear Ziva say in utter frustration, “Not going to make it, Gibbs!” So I twist the wires, and the engine growls to life.
“I got them,” I say, and the chase is on.
“McGee!” Gibbs barks in my ear, and I smile grimly.
“Heading north again, towards the interstate. Plate number 534-JGH. I'm on his tail,” I report.
Ziva and Tony are saying stuff, but we hit the interstate, and I have to focus on traffic, so I tune out everything but Gibbs.
It's not my bike. It's not custom-made for me, and it hasn't got nitro, or all the other nice little goodies. It doesn't separate, or have the ergonomic, aerodynamic shape, but hell if it doesn't feel like being back on my R-Cycle again.
Sure, I'll have to do some fast talking when I get back, but right now, I've got a full tank, wind in my hair, and bad guys to chase.
I grin, and gun it.
2 That Time That Tony Broke Down, But Only Just A Little Bit
When Dick breaks down, there are two things you can do: you can let him hug you and tell him it's all right, which helps him but makes you feel ineffectual, or you shove him at Bruce, because he's the only one who can fix it.
So, after that mess with Jeanne, that's the formula I fall back on. It's likely that Tony operates the same way, only with less hugging. I figure I'll try talking to him, and if that doesn't work, go find Gibbs.
“Tony, look, I know how you feel, but-” I start, but Tony slashes his hand through the air in frustration, so I shut up.
“No, you don't. You don't know how it feels to lose someone like that. She was, she was special, and I lied to her, and she didn't even know my real name. I made her fall in love with a guy who wasn't me, Tim. And then I lost her. She's gone, and she's not coming back, and she only barely knew my name. You don't know how it feels, Probie. So shove it, okay?”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, and try not to let him get to me. Timothy McGee doesn't know how Tony feels, but Tim Drake still has nightmares about Stephanie, sometimes.
And That One Time That He Knew For Sure
I don't miss being in charge. I don't miss being a leader of a team. I'd much rather receive orders than give them.
What I do miss is working with people who know what I'm capable of.
Yeah, I know, it's my own fault. So sue me.
But half of what Gibbs throws my way is easy, and the other half is impossible. It's not really his fault that computers have advanced so far, so quickly, but it is his problem. And it's my own fault he gives Tony the physically tiring jobs.
“McGee!” he says one day. “My computer is loading its thing. Fix it.” And I do.
“McGee!” he'll say someday. “Get me access to the CIA mainframe.” And I will, though I shouldn't be able to.
But right now he's just said, “McGee, go get me a witness.” And I'm on it, but it still settles strangely on my shoulders.
But Tony's taking off to do his task, and I part ways with Ziva with a glance and a wry smile. Our little group splits up, off to do our parts.
I prefer being deployed to deploying. And I don't miss being in charge of a team. But I watch my friends' backs as they leave, and I can't help it.
“Teen Titans, go,” I murmur.