NCIS Fic: Grab Your Gear
Title: Grab Your Gear
By: Sammy Girl
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be
Note: Betaed by the every speedy Firefox
Spoilers: ‘Chained’
Rated: 15
Genre: Slash
Summery: Tony is musing on an often heard phrase and what it means to him
<><><><><><><>
“Grab your gear!” That’s what Gibbs shouts every time we get a case. My gear, now there is a term. The first time he said it, well shouted it, I had no gear to grab. Detectives don’t have ‘gear’ as such; I had a gun, in my holster, spare clip - other side of the holster rig. I had shades - it was summer - on my top pocket. I had a cell phone, my badge, wallet, loose change, a notebook and pen, all of which were in my pockets. So we get to the crime scene and I know enough to pull on a pair of gloves, I’m a professional investigator, I don’t need a rule to tell me I need to wear gloves at a crime scene. There were gloves in the van, like there are now. When I was a cop I kept a box in the car, no problem, except this crime scene - which turned out to be a simple if tragic suicide - was at least a mile’s hike from the highway and I tore a glove.
“Well put another one on,” Gibbs prompted, looking at me like I’m retarded.
I had to admit I didn’t have another one, I had to go back for one, he gave me ten minutes. Have you any idea how long it had been since I ran a four minute mile? And I had to do it with all this shit in my pockets, in designer shoes! I’ll come back to the shoes. Okay he’d given me extra time, but still, I only just made it. So, lesson learned, carry extra gloves.
By the second ‘grab your gear’ I had gloves and a bag. Why did I need a bag, just to accommodate a few latex gloves? Shoes. My designer loafers hadn’t faired to well that first time out. Not all our cases involve a mile hike into the wild, but I wasn’t taking any chances, I packed a pair of boots and some clean socks. This case was messy, and I mean that literally. A marine, killed by a fragmentation mine in a scrap yard. The crime scene was huge and I had to take a picture of every single, tiny, micro - fucking - scopic fragment of metal! Now it was still summer, August, have you any idea how hot it gets in DC in August? Hot, damn hot, and the humidity that day felt like a 100%, it was like you’d walked into a steam bath as soon as you stepped outside. I was thirsty when we got there, I was dying of thirst after the first hour, by the second I was on the floor, you could have wrung my shirt out and had a shower. There was no water on site, none, the scrap yard was being repossessed and the water had been cut off. That’s why we were there, the dead marine was the owner’s son, the old man had had a heart attack and died when the bank foreclosed. Junior decided to take revenge by mining the place. Damn fool got drunk and trod on his own mine. Anyway Gibbs wouldn’t let me leave the crime scene to get a drink until we were finished.
By the third ‘grab your gear’ I had a bottle of water in the bag and a snack bar, if he wouldn’t let me out for water in a heat wave, what chance was there for an attack of the munchies!
These days my ‘gear’ has grown, big ass camera, back up batteries for the camera, different batteries for my phone and my PDA - why the hell can’t they all use the same damn batteries, what ever happened to double As? Spare memory card for the camera, measuring tape, some of that hand sanitizing gel - no honestly, some of the things you have to touch at a crime scene, even in gloves, you want that little extra clean feeling, and not all crime scenes come with a working rest room, and some of the so called working ones… well let’s just say the less you touch the better. I have a flashlight in there, with spare batteries, full size sketch pad, pens, pencils - the self propelling kind so I don’t need to sharpen them. Official jacket and cap, which I hate but have to wear anyway.
That’s the work gear, always packed, checked every day, always ready to go, the other bag of gear is in the trunk of my car. Plain, black leather holdall, two changes of clothes - one for work, one casual, wash bag. Not much, but always there, ready for those evenings when I get the look. That little look he gives me as he’s getting ready to leave. That little look, the slight tilt of the head, that little half smile that says, ‘head to my place DiNozzo, your luck’s in’.
The first time was after I’d killed Jeffery. Gibbs said, before I got out of that damn car and before Kate or the others could get to us. ‘You wanna talk about it, come over tonight.’ That was all he said, but the Boss never says anything he doesn’t mean, and I really had liked Jeffrey, right up until he tried to slit my throat and I blew his brains out.
To be fair there wasn’t a lot of talking. I sat down on his couch, he cooked steak, cowboys style, handed me a cold beer and said. “He was crazy.”
“What?” I responded. Now see right then and there I should have known where this was headed. I was meant to be talking over a traumatic, near death event and already I can’t remember why I’m there.
“Jeffery, the guy was nuts, there was no way you could have known what he was gonna do next,” Gibbs asserted.
“Mmm,” I managed to say, while staring at the fire; at least I hoped it looked like I was staring at the fire, while I was actually staring at his crotch. He was wearing jeans, not skin tight but tight enough to be encouraging. I should have known I couldn’t fool the Boss. He knew what I was looking at, knew and understood, message received loud and clear.
What time is it? Quarter to six! Damn it Jethro it’s Friday for fuck’s sake, quit already! I’m here with nothing to do but muse and you’re still reading that report. How long can it take, maybe you need new glasses? I need to get laid, now, tonight! All day you’ve been giving me these meaningful looks, you patted my ass in autopsy and snogged me in the elevator, but now - now you have to read some dumb report until almost six?! Did I mention it was Friday? I packed an extra change of clothes you know!
“You still here for a reason DiNozzo?” he suddenly asks. Damn it, what is he, telepathic? Probably.
“Um, well I was just waiting …in case.”
“In case what?” he asks, peering at me over his glasses.
“Well, you know…tonight, this weekend… your place…” God now I just sound like some special needs Probie.
Gibbs grins, shuts down his computer, stands up, takes out his gun and holsters it, grabs his jacket. “Well don’t just sit there. Grab your gear!”
The End
By: Sammy Girl
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be
Note: Betaed by the every speedy Firefox
Spoilers: ‘Chained’
Rated: 15
Genre: Slash
Summery: Tony is musing on an often heard phrase and what it means to him
<><><><><><><>
“Grab your gear!” That’s what Gibbs shouts every time we get a case. My gear, now there is a term. The first time he said it, well shouted it, I had no gear to grab. Detectives don’t have ‘gear’ as such; I had a gun, in my holster, spare clip - other side of the holster rig. I had shades - it was summer - on my top pocket. I had a cell phone, my badge, wallet, loose change, a notebook and pen, all of which were in my pockets. So we get to the crime scene and I know enough to pull on a pair of gloves, I’m a professional investigator, I don’t need a rule to tell me I need to wear gloves at a crime scene. There were gloves in the van, like there are now. When I was a cop I kept a box in the car, no problem, except this crime scene - which turned out to be a simple if tragic suicide - was at least a mile’s hike from the highway and I tore a glove.
“Well put another one on,” Gibbs prompted, looking at me like I’m retarded.
I had to admit I didn’t have another one, I had to go back for one, he gave me ten minutes. Have you any idea how long it had been since I ran a four minute mile? And I had to do it with all this shit in my pockets, in designer shoes! I’ll come back to the shoes. Okay he’d given me extra time, but still, I only just made it. So, lesson learned, carry extra gloves.
By the second ‘grab your gear’ I had gloves and a bag. Why did I need a bag, just to accommodate a few latex gloves? Shoes. My designer loafers hadn’t faired to well that first time out. Not all our cases involve a mile hike into the wild, but I wasn’t taking any chances, I packed a pair of boots and some clean socks. This case was messy, and I mean that literally. A marine, killed by a fragmentation mine in a scrap yard. The crime scene was huge and I had to take a picture of every single, tiny, micro - fucking - scopic fragment of metal! Now it was still summer, August, have you any idea how hot it gets in DC in August? Hot, damn hot, and the humidity that day felt like a 100%, it was like you’d walked into a steam bath as soon as you stepped outside. I was thirsty when we got there, I was dying of thirst after the first hour, by the second I was on the floor, you could have wrung my shirt out and had a shower. There was no water on site, none, the scrap yard was being repossessed and the water had been cut off. That’s why we were there, the dead marine was the owner’s son, the old man had had a heart attack and died when the bank foreclosed. Junior decided to take revenge by mining the place. Damn fool got drunk and trod on his own mine. Anyway Gibbs wouldn’t let me leave the crime scene to get a drink until we were finished.
By the third ‘grab your gear’ I had a bottle of water in the bag and a snack bar, if he wouldn’t let me out for water in a heat wave, what chance was there for an attack of the munchies!
These days my ‘gear’ has grown, big ass camera, back up batteries for the camera, different batteries for my phone and my PDA - why the hell can’t they all use the same damn batteries, what ever happened to double As? Spare memory card for the camera, measuring tape, some of that hand sanitizing gel - no honestly, some of the things you have to touch at a crime scene, even in gloves, you want that little extra clean feeling, and not all crime scenes come with a working rest room, and some of the so called working ones… well let’s just say the less you touch the better. I have a flashlight in there, with spare batteries, full size sketch pad, pens, pencils - the self propelling kind so I don’t need to sharpen them. Official jacket and cap, which I hate but have to wear anyway.
That’s the work gear, always packed, checked every day, always ready to go, the other bag of gear is in the trunk of my car. Plain, black leather holdall, two changes of clothes - one for work, one casual, wash bag. Not much, but always there, ready for those evenings when I get the look. That little look he gives me as he’s getting ready to leave. That little look, the slight tilt of the head, that little half smile that says, ‘head to my place DiNozzo, your luck’s in’.
The first time was after I’d killed Jeffery. Gibbs said, before I got out of that damn car and before Kate or the others could get to us. ‘You wanna talk about it, come over tonight.’ That was all he said, but the Boss never says anything he doesn’t mean, and I really had liked Jeffrey, right up until he tried to slit my throat and I blew his brains out.
To be fair there wasn’t a lot of talking. I sat down on his couch, he cooked steak, cowboys style, handed me a cold beer and said. “He was crazy.”
“What?” I responded. Now see right then and there I should have known where this was headed. I was meant to be talking over a traumatic, near death event and already I can’t remember why I’m there.
“Jeffery, the guy was nuts, there was no way you could have known what he was gonna do next,” Gibbs asserted.
“Mmm,” I managed to say, while staring at the fire; at least I hoped it looked like I was staring at the fire, while I was actually staring at his crotch. He was wearing jeans, not skin tight but tight enough to be encouraging. I should have known I couldn’t fool the Boss. He knew what I was looking at, knew and understood, message received loud and clear.
What time is it? Quarter to six! Damn it Jethro it’s Friday for fuck’s sake, quit already! I’m here with nothing to do but muse and you’re still reading that report. How long can it take, maybe you need new glasses? I need to get laid, now, tonight! All day you’ve been giving me these meaningful looks, you patted my ass in autopsy and snogged me in the elevator, but now - now you have to read some dumb report until almost six?! Did I mention it was Friday? I packed an extra change of clothes you know!
“You still here for a reason DiNozzo?” he suddenly asks. Damn it, what is he, telepathic? Probably.
“Um, well I was just waiting …in case.”
“In case what?” he asks, peering at me over his glasses.
“Well, you know…tonight, this weekend… your place…” God now I just sound like some special needs Probie.
Gibbs grins, shuts down his computer, stands up, takes out his gun and holsters it, grabs his jacket. “Well don’t just sit there. Grab your gear!”
The End