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Celebrity Encounters by Rainne

I wrote this fic for the "Self-Insertion" challenge at ncis_flashfic, and wiccagirl24 said I should post it here. Hope you all enjoy. :)

Title: Celebrity Encounter
Pairing: Gen
Rating: FRC/PG
Disclaimers: Recognizable characters do not belong to me.
Spoilers: Vague for at least season 4 and Thom E Gemcity.
Feedback: Yeah!
Distribution: Ask first
Summary: The completely (un)true adventures of what happened when I went on vacation to Washington, D.C.
Author's Note - This is entirely cracktastic, written over about an hour and un-beta'ed. Possibly carries a spew warning. :)

I sat back in the uncomfortable chair, wishing I had a book to read or my laptop back or anything, really, to occupy my mind. I’m more than a little short of attention span, and sitting in this tiny room with nothing to stare at but my own reflection for what felt like hours was not doing my mental state any good.

Not that it was great already, considering that I’d somehow gone in the space of twenty minutes from random tourist to murder suspect.

I want to know, really, how I could be expected to just ignore somebody that falls down in front of me, gushing blood. I’m certified in first aid, CPR, all that stuff from the Red Cross. I’m trained to help people! What was I supposed to do, watch him die?

Not for the first time, I sighed. I was pretty sure the regular cops would never have arrested me just because I happened to be standing next to a dead body, covered in the victim’s blood, and the murder weapon happened to be laying right there where it had fallen out of his stab wound – oh, who was I kidding? It wouldn’t have mattered if it was regular cops or these Navy cops or freaking Starfleet Security. I was probably going to jail for a really long time for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I sighed, looking down at my bloody clothing. At least they’d let me wash my hands and face.

Deciding I might as well be comfortable, I put my feet up on the table and, with a glance at the mirror that I was sure some of them were standing behind, I started to sing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t croak like a frog… but I definitely sound better when I’m drowned out by my car stereo. So my a cappella version of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” was probably going to be just as much torture for them as sitting here with nothing to do while I was supposed to be visiting the Lincoln Memorial was for me.

I made it through “99 Bottles” without interruption and, for lack of inspiration, fell back on some of the songs I’d learned at Girl Scout Camp – and I’m not talking about the officially sanctioned Girl Scout anthem, either. I’m talking about what passes for bawdy songs among preteen girls, such as my personal favorite: “God Bless my Underwear.”

I was halfway through a little ditty about what a Boy Scout wears under his shorts when the door opened and the silver-haired cloud of hotness that arrested me came stomping into the room.

Yeah. I said that.

Dude is made of hot. I didn’t catch his name when he was busy putting the bracelets on me and sticking me in the back seat of his government car, but the thought did cross my mind that if I could guarantee ending up on the bottom of the dogpile without a bullet in my head, I wouldn’t mind resisting arrest just a little.

Okay, so I’m a little inappropriate. What do you expect? It’s me we’re talking about here.

He stared at my feet until I took them off the table, then sat down across from me. And stared.

I stared back, studying him carefully. I put him in his late forties or early fifties, with these really piercing blue eyes and a spiderweb of character lines all over his face. This was a dude who did not put up with bullshit. I bet he’d make an awesome Dom.

When his expression changed, I realized I’d said that out loud, and I blushed. “Sorry about that. I need to get that brain-mouth filter checked. It seems to be malfunctioning again.”

“Uh-huh.” He opened the manila folder he’d brought in with him. I could see my own picture – from my driver’s license, ugh – on the front page, and a bunch of information about me. My fingerprints were down at the bottom of the page. “Ms… Cassidy?”

“Please,” I said, “call me Rainne.” Okay, I might have purred it. But come on. If I’m gonna go to jail anyway, I might as well enjoy the trip, right?

He looked up at me. I gave him my best smile. And – YES! He smiled back. Just slightly, and mostly with his eyes. I started to hope that maybe I wasn’t going to jail, after all.

“Rainne. I’m Special Agent Gibbs. I need to ask you a few questions about your encounter with Lance Corporal Davidson this afternoon.”

“Is that the dead guy?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “I can’t tell you much. I was waiting on the bus, and he kinda staggered up and fell down. The knife fell out on the ground when he hit the sidewalk, and I tried to stop the bleeding but he died anyway.”

Special Agent Gibbs nodded. “Did you happen to see anything suspicious or out of the ordinary before Lance Corporal Davidson approached you?”

I thought about it, leaning back in my chair. A few cars had passed me as I sat waiting for the bus, and a few pedestrians as well. I couldn’t think of anything else. I started to shake my head, and then I paused. “Wait a second.” I looked up at him, chewing on a fingernail. “There was a guy.”

He picked up his pen and flipped to a clean page in his folder. “A guy?”

“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to remember. His eyes followed my hand and I wondered briefly if he liked redheads. Then I focused on the guy. “He had on blue jogging pants with a white stripe. Not sweatpants; those funny nylon-ish kind of material. And he had on slippers. The kind you wear at the beach and stuff, they slip on and off, and the strap just goes over the middle of your foot. You know the ones? I have a pair at home that’s about to fall apart because I wear them all the time.” I thought about it some more. “Oh! He had on a Terrapins shirt. University of Maryland,” I added at his quizzical expression. Not a sports fan, then. I grinned. “When I used to live in Florida I had a next door neighbor from Maryland. That was the year Maryland won the NCAA basketball championship; I thought he was gonna come through the walls screaming.”

“Did you notice anything else about him?”

“Yeah, he was a huge stoner. Had the nastiest dreadlocks I ever saw and always smelled like beer and pot, and I never could understand how his girlfriend could stand –” I paused at the expression on his face. “And it’s possible you’re asking me about the guy this morning. Sorry. Marine. Light skin but in that coffee-and-cream sort of way; I think he might be mixed.”

His eyes pierced mine and his voice was suspicious. “How do you know he was a Marine?”

“My dad was a Marine,” I snapped. “I know what it means when a guy’s got a bird, ball and chain tattoo, a jar head, and walks like he’s got a fencepost jammed up his ass.”

“Where was the tattoo?”

I covered a place on the lower part of my right arm. “Here. I’m into body mod, so I notice people’s tattoos and stuff.”

“Anything else?”

“About him? No. Except he walked past me like four times while I was waiting for the bus, and he had just passed me like two or three minutes before your dead guy fell down in front of me.”

“You’ve been a big help,” he said to me, and I blinked in surprise.

“Does… that mean I can go?”

He stood. “Not right away,” he said. “Fortunately for you, you were directly across the street from an ATM with video surveillance, but we still have to verify your story before we can release you.”

I sighed. “How much longer am I gonna have to sit here? I’m starving and I’m so bored I’m about to lose my mind and start flinging myself at the walls.”

“I’ll send somebody to get you something to eat. Would a book to read be okay with you?”

“That would be awesome,” I said gratefully. “Thanks.”

About ten minutes later, the dark-haired woman with the accent who had been there when I was arrested came in with a sub sandwich, bag of chips, bottle of water, and a book. I thanked her briefly before tearing into the sandwich – I hadn’t eaten by that point in about six hours. I didn’t even care what kind of sandwich it was; I’d have eaten anchovies on mustard or something. Fortunately it was turkey, lettuce and tomato. I flipped the book open – it was a hardcover copy of Thom E. Gemcity’s bestseller Deep Six.

I was deep into chapter two when the door opened again. I didn’t even hear it. This book was good.

Special Agent Gibbs tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. I jerked up from where I’d been sitting, my chin resting on my forearms on top of the table, and winced as my back protested. I’d apparently been sitting there for a couple of hours. “We’ve managed to verify your story,” he said quietly. “Would you like a ride back to your hotel?”

“That would be great,” I replied. I closed the book and reluctantly offered it to him. “Thanks for the book. It’s really good. I have it at home, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

He smirked. “Keep it,” he said. “In fact… come on. I’ve got something that might help make up for the day you’ve had.”

He took me up a flight in the elevator and led me out into an orange-painted cubicle farm. I could see the other agents who’d been at the crime scene working at their desks. And there was one guy sitting there who was familiar, but hadn’t been there when I was arrested.

“McGee!” Special Agent Gibbs barked.

“Yeah, Boss?” The young man, cute in a pouty, baby-faced sort of way, looked up, and I gasped when I recognized him. His face was on the back of the book I was holding. He was Thom Gemcity!

Special Agent Gibbs took the book I was holding and held it out to the young man. “Sign this for the lady so I can take her home.”

I blithered fangirlishly while he signed my book, not even noticing that the other agents – the over-groomed man and the woman with the accent – were giving each other Looks across their workspace. I didn’t care. Thom Gemcity – Special Agent Timothy McGee, as it turned out – was cute!

He signed the book for me, shook my hand, and smiled while I blithered a little bit more and possibly threw myself at his head. (I’ve never been good at keeping my composure when I meet celebrities.)

Then Special Agent Gibbs took me back to my hotel and dropped me off, putting up with me while I thanked him a thousand times for the book and the autograph. In fact, he actually smiled several times while I blithered some more about how my LiveJournal friends list was going to freak out when I told them what happened to me today.

When I got out of his car, he handed me his card. “I’ll probably be in touch,” he warned me. “When we catch our suspect, we may need you to testify.”

“No problem,” I assured him. I grabbed my bag out of the floorboard and slung it over my shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, Agent Gibbs.” I shut the car door and headed into my hotel, not caring that my clothes were still bloody and everyone was staring at me.

I met Thom Gemcity!!!



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