{Batman(Robin)/NCIS} That One Time Jason Showed Up (And It All Pretty Much Went To Hell)
Title: That One Time Jason Showed Up (And It All Pretty Much Went To Hell)
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2419
Rating: PG (swearing)
Author Notes: Part of Counting Down; this is the fifth number. Mostly for justm3h; and I still want my artwork, y/y?
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
“Yes,” Ziva is saying as I round the corner. “I think this will be a good thing.”
Tony sighs and rolls his eyes. “No, it really won't. Hey, McGeek, you don't think it'll be a good thing, do you?”
“I think agreeing to to anything you say without knowing what I'm agreeing to would be a bad thing,” I say, dropping my bag by my desk. “What are we talking about?”
“Haven't you seen the news?” Tony asks, rocking back in his chair. “Seems we finally got us our very own vigilante.”
“What?” I yelp, and I attack my computer, trying to get it to load multiple news sites all at once, and faster.
Ziva shakes her head. “I have never met a 'hero', but I admire their work. They may be helpful.”
“Superman is pretty cool, but some of these others really toe the line. They're trying to steal our jobs! IF they want justice, they should work with the law, not against it. Like this Batman from Gotham, he's been on the Most Wanted list since forever,” Tony says, and tosses a paper ball at my head.
“Batman's just an urban legend,” I say absently, the old excuse flowing from lips without thought.
Ziva looks towards me. “I am not so sure; I have seen photos of this Batman and this Robin. I believe they are real.”
And that's when the page finally loads the admittedly blurry photo. Three crooks tied up and dangling from a lightpole, and a man on a rooftop behind them. He's got one leg braced on the low rim, and is wearing black clothes with splotches of brown here and there. It's not very clear, but it really doesn't have to be the best quality for me to make out the red smudge where the head should be.
I let my head fall into my arms and mumble obscenities at my desk.
“McGee? Is something wrong?” Ziva sounds concerned. I wave a hand at her, then lift my head, sitting properly in my seat again.
“As much as I hate to agree with Tony, this is a bad, bad, very not good thing,” I say. “That's the Red Hood.”
Tony scoffs. “Of course you'd be a superhero fanboy.”
I ignore that through the power of long practice and continue. “He's well known for moving into different cities and stealing other vigilante's identities, but mostly because he doesn't mind killing the worst of the criminals. Our body count is about to go through the roof.”
And, okay, so that's an exaggeration. Jason only kills the scum, the worst-of-the-worst, or, occasionally, to make a point. And while Gotham's unusually high body count does skyrocket when Jason comes to town, well, that's just Gotham. My worry is that in DC, the villains aren't always the bad guys, and the bad guys are never the worst guys. Everyone's working for someone who's being manipulated, and it's a delicate web of corruption and deceit.
I've been working on my database, and the status quo is fairly steady. I've been mapping out the web of crime, connecting delicate thread to invisible point. Jason's pretty much gonna wave a big stick around and see who reacts.
I mourn my research already.
But it might not be Jason; it might just be some poser in a red helmet. I cross my fingers and wish that really, really hard.
Just in case, though, I start carrying my full arsenal the day after I see the photo.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'd been going out unarmed or anything, but over the years, I'd stopped carrying a few things. Some days, I only had a knife or two, and didn't even carry any explosives. Of course, I always had a grapple line and a handful of smoke bombs, but it's fairly hard to conceal a bo staff under a jacket, even a collapsible one.
Of course, that wouldn't stop me if it was Jason who'd come around.
Just because I don't go rooftop hopping in tights and a mask anymore doesn't mean I've grown stupid.
I keep tabs on this new guy, just in case. I'm back to stalking the streets and skulking on rooftops at night. But I don't ever catch up to him in the act, so I bide my time and wait, living my life and doing my job.
There's this case we've been working; a hand turned up. Fingerprints were of a Naval officer, so they kicked it to us. Only no one has seen the guy for the past week, and he's pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth.
After talking to witness after liar after family member, we finally get a lead, pointing us in the direction of some serious high-class drug dealers. This gang is vicious, and they've already spilled far more blood than necessary to claim their turf. They murder and backstab and sell drugs to children, and no one's been able to find their hideout at all.
And we get a hit on our BOLO, and find his car in a parking lot. Ziva leads the way in, and pronounces it clear, even as Tony and I head for the body laying in the middle of the floor.
“Looks like our sailor was a drug mule,” Tony says, and I kneel down next to him. “See there?” he points out.
I'm inclined to agree, but I'm much more concerned about the click! that's just sounded from behind us.
“I'd suggest not moving,” says the voice, the familiar voice that still echoes in my dreams sometimes. We both put our hands up, nice and slow.
“Who are you?” Tony asks, and my hand inches towards the back of my neck, wondering if I can get to the bo staff I've got strapped there.
And then, because of course this situation needed to get worse, there's another click! and Gibbs says, “Federal agent. Drop the weapon.”
But Jason likes to operate under the assumption guilty until proven innocent, and he's not afraid to shoot first and ask questions later. He's highly intelligent, but even as Robin, detective work was never his strong suit. And I know my team can't take him, because rogue or not, Jason is still a Bat in every way but family.
So I wait for the creak of leather that means he's turned his head, and then I rock backwards, overbalancing onto my curved spine and using it as a pivot to kick Jason in the back of the knee. My other foot sweeps around to land in the meat of his thigh, adding momentum, and he goes down hard.
A roll and twist and I'm back on my feet before he is, kicking his gun out of the way, towards Tony. I know he's got a second, though, and maybe a third. Plus who knows what else he's packing these days.
He recovers, and the fight is joined in earnest. He swings a punch at me, perfect form, fast as hell, but Bruce is stronger, faster, and I duck away and land a kick.
He feints right and I feint going for it, but his elbow tucks in like I knew it would, and I score a hit on his side. I can almost see the training kick in, and he slams his elbow in, catching my hand and using it to close.
It's a good plan for him, because he's quick and clever and oh so strong. But I trained longer and with much more variety, and he hasn't got a single ploy that can get me. So when he closes the distance, intent on going mano-a-mano where he'll have the advantage, I overbalance myself and fall back and down.
If he'd have let go, I'd have rolled out of reach, but he follows me down. A shifting of weight and I let him fall stomach-first into my knee, and then I slam his helmet into the concrete.
I scrabble away, letting us both catch our breath.
“McGee?” Gibbs snaps. “What's going on?”
But Jason's back on his feet, though I know his head must be ringing. “You fight like a Bat,” he observes as we circle, obviously watching me for tells.
And I know it and he knows I know it, so I give it to him anyways. “And you fight like a dead Bat,” I shoot back, at once an insult and a dead giveaway.
It takes him a second, but then he laughs. “Well, I'll be damned! If it isn't little Timmy, all grown up!”
I sigh, still on guard. “What are you doing here, Jason?”
“You know this man?” Gibbs asks, voice hard.
“S'my little brother!” Jason crows, and he straightens out of stance, approaching me slow and open. I know he's going for the noogie, and I'm not inclined to let him. But Gibbs still has his gun out, and Tony's aiming Jason's pretty pretty pistol, and Ziva's got a bead from across the floor.
I play along so they don't shoot him in the head. Because no one gets killed on my watch, not even psychopathic murdering vigilante ex-brothers.
I'd like to say I'm not his brother, not even related, but in the end, it's not true. “How many brothers do you have, McGee?” Gibbs asks in exasperation, but at least he holsters his weapon.
“Just the three,” I say, stepping back out of Jason's reach again.
Jason says, “Wait, he got a new one?”
“Yes, and this one's biological. Nastier than you.”
“Oh, like hell,” Jason says, and makes as if to leave.
“What were you doing here, anyways?” I ask.
“Oh, right. I think this place is the smugglers' hideout. According to my information, they should be arriving any second, so I thought you were them.”
“Any second...?” I repeat, and that would be when the doors slam closed and the lights cut off.
“Heads up,” Jason whispers in the dark. He moves right, so I go left, and we circle around outside Tony and Gibbs.
The two agents have drawn their guns, but are keeping them painted at the floor. “Any information you could share would be nice,” Gibbs drawls.
Jason breaks the situation down for us, speaking in a low murmur and backing off on the sibilants. The two of us keep circling, like an old pattern that I forgot that I knew.
For all he's volatile and unpredictable, and also possibly slightly loony, I trust Jason to have my back against anyone but himself. Because whatever else he might be, at the end of the day, he was still a Robin.
We Robins aren't something to be taken lightly.
I'm coming up on Ziva, so I whisper, “Here,” and touch her arm. She follows me back to the others, and takes up a stance beside the two. She's more used to the dark than the others, so I mentally dub her their guard and toss a signal to Jason.
It's an old sign, one of the first Bruce ever taught me. It means that the situation is secure, and that there are bad guys in the night, and most of all, it means take them down and freedom to hunt.
I catch the glint of his teeth in the dimness of the warehouse.
“Can I have my gun back?” he asks, circling in close as we unconsciously herd them towards a more defensible corner.
“No,” Tony says. “I don't trust you.”
“Awwww,” Jason whines. “Timmy, tell him I'm trustworthy!”
“You're not, though,” I toss at him. “Besides, you've got, what, three other guns on you?”
He cocks his head at me. “Nice eye. Glad to see you haven't forgotten everything you learned.”
“What's going on here?” Tony snaps. “Seriously! Tim, what are you doing?”
I sigh, and tug out my bo staff. It clicks together in the dark. “They outnumber us,” I explain. “By lots. None of you are wearing Kevlar and you're not that good at hand-to-gun. Do you want to die?”
“Oh, hey, I remember that staff!” Jason exclaims, and then obviously figures out just where he remembers the staff from. “Uh, no hard feelings?”
“If I took it personally every time someone beat me almost to death with my own weapon, I'd never get anything done,” I say dryly, and Jason chuckles.
“Is that funny?” Tony wants to know. “Is that a joke? Tell me that's a joke.”
Ziva exhales. “McGee, is this man a threat? Did he hurt you?”
Their eyes are adjusting enough that I feel comfortable circling out farther.
“It's kind of a long story....” I start, but a door opens on the other side of the warehouse. I drop, leaning forward to brace on one hand, staff extended behind my back. “Get down,” I say. “They're coming.”
Jason says, “I'll go high,” and the familiar hiss-thump of the grappling gun fills the air. He flies upwards, and perches in the rafters.
“There are crates to the left of you,” I direct behind me. “Make for them, and cover us from there.”
And then they bust through three different doors and a window, and it all pretty much goes to hell.
Jason tosses a flashbang, and I recognize the case in enough time to yell a warning before shielding my own eyes. He comes in from the back and I start in the front, and a few at the sides fall from bullets.
Soon enough, they break apart, and they fall quickly. They're big and strong, but not quick, and they have no training whatsoever.
I pass by Jason, who snaps his fingers at me. I know what he wants, and I throw a knife at his chest.
The handle thunks neatly into his palm, and he says thanks with a jerk of his head. We flank the few remaining guys, slowly but surely circling in.
We both know this dance so well, and we don't need to talk. Jason flashes a hand sign at me, and I grin.
The plan is set. The bait is taken.
God, how I've missed the hunt.
Author: Mayhem
Word Count: 2419
Rating: PG (swearing)
Author Notes: Part of Counting Down; this is the fifth number. Mostly for justm3h; and I still want my artwork, y/y?
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
“Yes,” Ziva is saying as I round the corner. “I think this will be a good thing.”
Tony sighs and rolls his eyes. “No, it really won't. Hey, McGeek, you don't think it'll be a good thing, do you?”
“I think agreeing to to anything you say without knowing what I'm agreeing to would be a bad thing,” I say, dropping my bag by my desk. “What are we talking about?”
“Haven't you seen the news?” Tony asks, rocking back in his chair. “Seems we finally got us our very own vigilante.”
“What?” I yelp, and I attack my computer, trying to get it to load multiple news sites all at once, and faster.
Ziva shakes her head. “I have never met a 'hero', but I admire their work. They may be helpful.”
“Superman is pretty cool, but some of these others really toe the line. They're trying to steal our jobs! IF they want justice, they should work with the law, not against it. Like this Batman from Gotham, he's been on the Most Wanted list since forever,” Tony says, and tosses a paper ball at my head.
“Batman's just an urban legend,” I say absently, the old excuse flowing from lips without thought.
Ziva looks towards me. “I am not so sure; I have seen photos of this Batman and this Robin. I believe they are real.”
And that's when the page finally loads the admittedly blurry photo. Three crooks tied up and dangling from a lightpole, and a man on a rooftop behind them. He's got one leg braced on the low rim, and is wearing black clothes with splotches of brown here and there. It's not very clear, but it really doesn't have to be the best quality for me to make out the red smudge where the head should be.
I let my head fall into my arms and mumble obscenities at my desk.
“McGee? Is something wrong?” Ziva sounds concerned. I wave a hand at her, then lift my head, sitting properly in my seat again.
“As much as I hate to agree with Tony, this is a bad, bad, very not good thing,” I say. “That's the Red Hood.”
Tony scoffs. “Of course you'd be a superhero fanboy.”
I ignore that through the power of long practice and continue. “He's well known for moving into different cities and stealing other vigilante's identities, but mostly because he doesn't mind killing the worst of the criminals. Our body count is about to go through the roof.”
And, okay, so that's an exaggeration. Jason only kills the scum, the worst-of-the-worst, or, occasionally, to make a point. And while Gotham's unusually high body count does skyrocket when Jason comes to town, well, that's just Gotham. My worry is that in DC, the villains aren't always the bad guys, and the bad guys are never the worst guys. Everyone's working for someone who's being manipulated, and it's a delicate web of corruption and deceit.
I've been working on my database, and the status quo is fairly steady. I've been mapping out the web of crime, connecting delicate thread to invisible point. Jason's pretty much gonna wave a big stick around and see who reacts.
I mourn my research already.
But it might not be Jason; it might just be some poser in a red helmet. I cross my fingers and wish that really, really hard.
Just in case, though, I start carrying my full arsenal the day after I see the photo.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'd been going out unarmed or anything, but over the years, I'd stopped carrying a few things. Some days, I only had a knife or two, and didn't even carry any explosives. Of course, I always had a grapple line and a handful of smoke bombs, but it's fairly hard to conceal a bo staff under a jacket, even a collapsible one.
Of course, that wouldn't stop me if it was Jason who'd come around.
Just because I don't go rooftop hopping in tights and a mask anymore doesn't mean I've grown stupid.
I keep tabs on this new guy, just in case. I'm back to stalking the streets and skulking on rooftops at night. But I don't ever catch up to him in the act, so I bide my time and wait, living my life and doing my job.
There's this case we've been working; a hand turned up. Fingerprints were of a Naval officer, so they kicked it to us. Only no one has seen the guy for the past week, and he's pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth.
After talking to witness after liar after family member, we finally get a lead, pointing us in the direction of some serious high-class drug dealers. This gang is vicious, and they've already spilled far more blood than necessary to claim their turf. They murder and backstab and sell drugs to children, and no one's been able to find their hideout at all.
And we get a hit on our BOLO, and find his car in a parking lot. Ziva leads the way in, and pronounces it clear, even as Tony and I head for the body laying in the middle of the floor.
“Looks like our sailor was a drug mule,” Tony says, and I kneel down next to him. “See there?” he points out.
I'm inclined to agree, but I'm much more concerned about the click! that's just sounded from behind us.
“I'd suggest not moving,” says the voice, the familiar voice that still echoes in my dreams sometimes. We both put our hands up, nice and slow.
“Who are you?” Tony asks, and my hand inches towards the back of my neck, wondering if I can get to the bo staff I've got strapped there.
And then, because of course this situation needed to get worse, there's another click! and Gibbs says, “Federal agent. Drop the weapon.”
But Jason likes to operate under the assumption guilty until proven innocent, and he's not afraid to shoot first and ask questions later. He's highly intelligent, but even as Robin, detective work was never his strong suit. And I know my team can't take him, because rogue or not, Jason is still a Bat in every way but family.
So I wait for the creak of leather that means he's turned his head, and then I rock backwards, overbalancing onto my curved spine and using it as a pivot to kick Jason in the back of the knee. My other foot sweeps around to land in the meat of his thigh, adding momentum, and he goes down hard.
A roll and twist and I'm back on my feet before he is, kicking his gun out of the way, towards Tony. I know he's got a second, though, and maybe a third. Plus who knows what else he's packing these days.
He recovers, and the fight is joined in earnest. He swings a punch at me, perfect form, fast as hell, but Bruce is stronger, faster, and I duck away and land a kick.
He feints right and I feint going for it, but his elbow tucks in like I knew it would, and I score a hit on his side. I can almost see the training kick in, and he slams his elbow in, catching my hand and using it to close.
It's a good plan for him, because he's quick and clever and oh so strong. But I trained longer and with much more variety, and he hasn't got a single ploy that can get me. So when he closes the distance, intent on going mano-a-mano where he'll have the advantage, I overbalance myself and fall back and down.
If he'd have let go, I'd have rolled out of reach, but he follows me down. A shifting of weight and I let him fall stomach-first into my knee, and then I slam his helmet into the concrete.
I scrabble away, letting us both catch our breath.
“McGee?” Gibbs snaps. “What's going on?”
But Jason's back on his feet, though I know his head must be ringing. “You fight like a Bat,” he observes as we circle, obviously watching me for tells.
And I know it and he knows I know it, so I give it to him anyways. “And you fight like a dead Bat,” I shoot back, at once an insult and a dead giveaway.
It takes him a second, but then he laughs. “Well, I'll be damned! If it isn't little Timmy, all grown up!”
I sigh, still on guard. “What are you doing here, Jason?”
“You know this man?” Gibbs asks, voice hard.
“S'my little brother!” Jason crows, and he straightens out of stance, approaching me slow and open. I know he's going for the noogie, and I'm not inclined to let him. But Gibbs still has his gun out, and Tony's aiming Jason's pretty pretty pistol, and Ziva's got a bead from across the floor.
I play along so they don't shoot him in the head. Because no one gets killed on my watch, not even psychopathic murdering vigilante ex-brothers.
I'd like to say I'm not his brother, not even related, but in the end, it's not true. “How many brothers do you have, McGee?” Gibbs asks in exasperation, but at least he holsters his weapon.
“Just the three,” I say, stepping back out of Jason's reach again.
Jason says, “Wait, he got a new one?”
“Yes, and this one's biological. Nastier than you.”
“Oh, like hell,” Jason says, and makes as if to leave.
“What were you doing here, anyways?” I ask.
“Oh, right. I think this place is the smugglers' hideout. According to my information, they should be arriving any second, so I thought you were them.”
“Any second...?” I repeat, and that would be when the doors slam closed and the lights cut off.
“Heads up,” Jason whispers in the dark. He moves right, so I go left, and we circle around outside Tony and Gibbs.
The two agents have drawn their guns, but are keeping them painted at the floor. “Any information you could share would be nice,” Gibbs drawls.
Jason breaks the situation down for us, speaking in a low murmur and backing off on the sibilants. The two of us keep circling, like an old pattern that I forgot that I knew.
For all he's volatile and unpredictable, and also possibly slightly loony, I trust Jason to have my back against anyone but himself. Because whatever else he might be, at the end of the day, he was still a Robin.
We Robins aren't something to be taken lightly.
I'm coming up on Ziva, so I whisper, “Here,” and touch her arm. She follows me back to the others, and takes up a stance beside the two. She's more used to the dark than the others, so I mentally dub her their guard and toss a signal to Jason.
It's an old sign, one of the first Bruce ever taught me. It means that the situation is secure, and that there are bad guys in the night, and most of all, it means take them down and freedom to hunt.
I catch the glint of his teeth in the dimness of the warehouse.
“Can I have my gun back?” he asks, circling in close as we unconsciously herd them towards a more defensible corner.
“No,” Tony says. “I don't trust you.”
“Awwww,” Jason whines. “Timmy, tell him I'm trustworthy!”
“You're not, though,” I toss at him. “Besides, you've got, what, three other guns on you?”
He cocks his head at me. “Nice eye. Glad to see you haven't forgotten everything you learned.”
“What's going on here?” Tony snaps. “Seriously! Tim, what are you doing?”
I sigh, and tug out my bo staff. It clicks together in the dark. “They outnumber us,” I explain. “By lots. None of you are wearing Kevlar and you're not that good at hand-to-gun. Do you want to die?”
“Oh, hey, I remember that staff!” Jason exclaims, and then obviously figures out just where he remembers the staff from. “Uh, no hard feelings?”
“If I took it personally every time someone beat me almost to death with my own weapon, I'd never get anything done,” I say dryly, and Jason chuckles.
“Is that funny?” Tony wants to know. “Is that a joke? Tell me that's a joke.”
Ziva exhales. “McGee, is this man a threat? Did he hurt you?”
Their eyes are adjusting enough that I feel comfortable circling out farther.
“It's kind of a long story....” I start, but a door opens on the other side of the warehouse. I drop, leaning forward to brace on one hand, staff extended behind my back. “Get down,” I say. “They're coming.”
Jason says, “I'll go high,” and the familiar hiss-thump of the grappling gun fills the air. He flies upwards, and perches in the rafters.
“There are crates to the left of you,” I direct behind me. “Make for them, and cover us from there.”
And then they bust through three different doors and a window, and it all pretty much goes to hell.
Jason tosses a flashbang, and I recognize the case in enough time to yell a warning before shielding my own eyes. He comes in from the back and I start in the front, and a few at the sides fall from bullets.
Soon enough, they break apart, and they fall quickly. They're big and strong, but not quick, and they have no training whatsoever.
I pass by Jason, who snaps his fingers at me. I know what he wants, and I throw a knife at his chest.
The handle thunks neatly into his palm, and he says thanks with a jerk of his head. We flank the few remaining guys, slowly but surely circling in.
We both know this dance so well, and we don't need to talk. Jason flashes a hand sign at me, and I grin.
The plan is set. The bait is taken.
God, how I've missed the hunt.