The People Out There Part Five

II. More People Out There
Part IV

Let us go back in time and space. It's not supposed to be done. Oh, no, it's not supposed to be done. But Gamma is curious and what the Great One doesn't know....

I.

It's three days ago, and Mark Harmon is playing flag football with several of his friends, including Michael Weatherly and Cote de Pablo from his television show, NCIS.

Francesca, aka Frankie, juked around the pitifully inept protection of the center, Jeff, and brought Mark down to the ground, where he hit his head.

Not very hard, but the people out there chose that moment to Charge him, and all of a sudden Mark Harmon was no longer on the ground but transferred into a different dimension where the world of the NCIS television program existed for real.

And on the ground in his place... was Special Agent Gibbs.

Gibbs blinked away the dazzling white light blinding him, and then, still on his back, froze. What the hell?

He'd been throwing spirals to Ziva and Tony in an otherwise deserted field, and now all of a sudden in addition to Ziva and Tony there was a crowd of people circled around him, looking at him.

"You okay, Mark?" asked a beautiful black woman, bending over him, laughing.

"I...I'm not sure."

"C'mon, Mark, this is delay of game," said Tony DiNozzo, also laughing. "You're trying to get a sympathy do over, aren'tcha?"

Gibbs rose to his feet and gave DiNozzo one of his patented glares.

"Uh, Mark?" said DiNozzo. "What's the matter?"

"Why do you keep calling me Mark, DiNozzo?" Gibbs said irritably.

"Uh...what?" said DiNozzo, replacing his smile with a sober face in an instant, as was his wont.
"He's Mister Harmon to you, Mike," the black woman laughed at him.

"Hey, it wasn't me who knocked him down in a game of flag football, Frankie!"

Gibbs wiped a hand over his face. His head was pounding and he was feeling very confused. Why was everyone calling him Mark? Where'd they all come from so quickly, also? What the hell was going on?

"Jesus, Mark, I'm sorry," the black woman said, concern replacing the amusement on her face, as she touched his arm. "You look like you have a concussion, or something. I'd better drive you to the doctor."

"No, I'm fine, don't worry about it. I'll just sit over here and have a beer. You guys carry on."
Gibbs had seen the cooler by the bench out of the corner of his eye. He walked over to it now, opened it up, and as he'd expected, found bottles of beer and cans of pop inside. He picked up a beer, shook off the ice, twisted off the cap, and drank long and deep.

He looked at DiNozzo and Ziva, who were not participating in the scrimmage on the field, but rather talking amongst themselves...and looking at him while they were doing it. Then they came over to him.

"Uh...Mark," said Ziva. "You called Mike....DiNozzo."

Gibbs looked at Ziva. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she wore black sweats - nothing like what she'd been wearing a few minutes ago when he'd been throwing spirals. And DiNozzo, the same. Instead of his Property of Ohio State sweatshirt, he was wearing a t-shirt. And it was hot, and muggy.

And where the hell was the DC skyline? Where was the capitol building?

"Mark," said Ziva, "I think we'd better drive you home." (Despite Cote's adventure of a few days ago, when she had been Charged by the people out there, she remembered none of it. That strange event had faded from her mind within seconds, just as a dream disappears once you wake up, snatch at it desperately though you may...)

"DiNozzo. Ziva. What's going on? Why do you keep calling me Mark? What kind of a game are you playing?"

DiNozzo and Ziva exchanged glances.

"You're name is Mark Harmon," DiNozzo said, softly. "You're an actor, and you play the role of Gibbs in a TV show called NCIS. I play Tony DiNozzo, but my real name is Michael Weatherly. Look."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and showed Gibbs his driver's license. Gibbs pulled it out of its holder and looked at it... then he handed it back to ...Michael Weatherly, and pulled out his own wallet. He looked at the driver's license. Mark Harmon. An address in California.

He looked through the wallet. Photos of a woman he didn't recognize. One of him, the woman, and two little boys, in a family photo pose. Several of two boys, in various age stages...each one of them looked a little bit like him...as if they were his sons. Gibbs blinked wetness out of his eyes.
He dropped the wallet and buried his face in his hands. Had he hit his head? Was he hallucinating? Or was he having a psychotic episode?

"C'mon, Mark, we're going to drive you home."

"No." Gibbs snapped. "Not home." He couldn't face a wife he didn't know, two sons he wouldn't recognize.

"Okay, okay, not your home, my home," said...the man calling himself Michael Weatherly. "Cote, you want to come along?"

"Of course, Mike" said Ziva... Cote?... "I'll just go let the others know we're leaving."
Gibbs walked with Mike toward a street lined with parked cars.

"Mark...you should let us take you to a doctor...you must've bumped your head."

Gibbs turned on him. "No doctor. Listen, DiN... Mike. I appreciate I seem to be acting kind of weird, but I'm asking you as a favor. I just need to go somewhere to think."

"Hey, Mark, no problem. Like I said, we'll go to my house. Kick back with a few beers. I've got DVDs of our show, I'll fire 'em up. You'll remember what's what in no time."

"Okay, Mike," said Zi–Cote, returning. "I've told 'em Mark is fine, just a bit woozy, and we're going over to your place to chill out. And I told them not to say anything about this to Pam, either."

...told 'em, thought Gibbs. Chill out?

If anything could really have convinced him that this woman was not Ziva, that would be it. Ziva didn't talk like that. But this woman had the accent down, she looked exactly like Ziva... that Michael Weatherly guy looked and sounded exactly like DiNozzo...jesus.

As they drove through the city, Gibbs sat in the back seat, thinking hard. Either he was having a psychotic episode, or he was being played. Those were the only two options. The nonsense of them being actors - that was just a joke. No one would try to play him with a far-fetched story like that. So he must be having a psychotic episode.

Well...maybe psychotic wasn't the right word. He didn't feel like going around and killing anybody or everybody. He didn't think anybody - except the usual suspects - were circling around trying to kill him, and that he'd have to take them out in a pre-emptive strike before hand.

So...he wasn't having a psychotic episode. He was just having some kind of harmless hallucination, due to a blow on the head. He'd go with these people to their house, knock back a few beers, and start seeing things the way they really were.

II.

"Okay, Mark..." began Mike as he brought the car to a halt in the driveway of his home.
"Stop calling me Mark," Gibbs said brusquely. "The name's Gibbs."

"Right, sorry, Gibbs. Let's go in. Cote, I'm going to get us some drinks. You want to cue up the DVD?"

"Sure."

Gibbs followed...Cote...what kind of name was that? Sounded Spanish.. into a luxuriously appointed living room. This guy Mike certainly had money, and liked to spend it.

"Have a seat...Gibbs," said Cote. He sat down and stared up at her, and saw her staring at him intently. It was she who blinked first. She turned away and went to a bookcase, which seemed to be entirely full of DVD cases. That'd be Tony for you...and apparently Michael Weatherly as well.

She picked out the first DVD in a row, stared at it for a few seconds, then put it back and moved over two more cases.

Mike came in at that second, the necks of three beer bottles grasped in between his fingers. He handed one to Cote, one to him, and set down with the other one himself.

"You're staring with Episode One, Season One?" he asked Cote.

"No," she replied. "I thought...best not. How about Season Three, episode four. My debut episode as part of the team. 'Silver War.'"

"Yeah...or wait a minute." Mike snapped his fingers. "Why not just show him the 'Making of NCIS', on the first dis of the first seasonk. The one where he's talking about the show. That ought to snap him out of it!"

"No," said Gibbs. "I want to see this "Silver War."

So they turned on "Silver War." And after that came "Switch" and then "The Voyeurs' Web" and so on. And each one, all the action happened exactly as it had happened, except conflated into 45 minutes. And at the beginning and end of each episode, the names of actors superimposed over the faces he knew so well.

And as the shows unrolled, Mike kept bringing out the beers, and the time rolled by, until finally his cell phone went off.

Automatically, Gibbs pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The name on the ID was Pam. Pam..... oh, yeah...this Mark Harmon's wife.

Crap.

"Hello. Pam."

"Mark, for goodness sake, are you okay? Frankie called me an hour ago, told me what happened..."

"It's okay, Pam. I'm at...Mike's. I..."

Mike took the phone from his hand, and Gibbs let him.

"Hi, Pam, it's Mike," said Mike. "Here's the thing. I had an argument with Amelia today, about the next time I'd get to see my son August, you know... yeah, I know you know!.... but we've been sitting here and Mark's been letting me vent and we've had too many beers, so he's going to stay here tonight and sleep it off, and I'll be driving him over to your house in the morning."
"But, Mike, is he oka?. Frankie said..."

"Yeah, he's fine. He was woozy for a minutes earlier today, yeah, but like I said, then I had that argument..."

"Okay, Mike. Let me talk to him, please."

Mike handed the phone back to Gibbs, who spoke into it, "Hi, Pam. Yeah...better safe than sorry. See you tomorrow..... I...I love you too."

He snapped the phone shut, then looked over at Mike. "Thanks for that," he said.
"No problem. And anyway, you're going to have to stay here. I'll go make up the spare room." He turned and looked at Cote.

"Cote...you've been knocking 'em back pretty good, too. Not to mention the fact that you left your car at the field. I'll make up the other spare room for you, okay?"

"Thanks, Mike."

"How many spare rooms does he have?" Gibbs asked as Mike left the room.

"Just two," said Cote with a smile. Then the smile faded. "So...you don't remember....you're still Gibbs?"

"I'm still Gibbs."

For some reason, Cote believed him. Not that he didn't remember that he was Gibbs, but that he was Gibbs. She didn't know why she thought this was possible, she just did. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she felt warmth spreading through her as she gazed at him.

Mark Harmon and Pam Dawber were the perfect couple...and she'd never have presumed to try to cut him out with his wife, not only because she wasn't a man-stealer but because she knew how deeply they were in love....but this man sitting in front of her...it couldn't be possible but it was...he was Gibbs...

And she'd always had a secret liking for Gibbs...

Gibbs felt the heat between them as well... He was a one-woman man when he had a woman...but this Pam Dawber was not his wife and he'd be waking up sooner or later...and he really needed a woman's touch right now.

Mike returned to the room. "Okay, they're all set. You guys ready to..."

"Yeah," said Gibbs. He got up, and extended a hand. "Thanks for your hospitality, Mike...but I have every confidence I'll wake up tomorrow back where I'm supposed to be, and you'll be DiNozzo like you're supposed to be."

"I...I hope so," he said.

"I'll turn in too," Cote said.

So Mike showed Gibbs to his door, and Gibbs went inside and looked around. There was another door, which led to a bathroom, and there was a toothbrush and a shaver there. Gibbs brushed his teeth, and washed his face, and took off his shirt as he returned to the bedroom.
He looked down at his arms and chest and belly...not quite the muscle tone he was used to...no...don't go there...he was tired, that was all...

There was a soft knock on the door.

Gibbs heart leapt. He'd hoped she'd come.

He opened the door, silently stepped back and let her enter.

She wasn't "Cote," Gibbs thought to himself as he stepped close to her and placed his hands on her hips. She couldn't be. She was Ziva - beautiful, charming, deadly - and for this one night, he could have her...

He kissed her, gently, and she responded as gently. Her eyes were open...he gazed into them as he kissed her. Then he took hold of her sweatshirt and raised it over her head as she lifted her arms to help him, and his hands were unhooking her bra and cupping her breasts...then they were maneuvering back towards the bed...and she was positioning herself on top...

"Alpha! What are they doing?"

"I ... I don't know! Are they ill?"

"Oh, my goodness. I don't think they're ill...they appear to be enjoying themselves."

"Oh...dear...are they supposed to be doing that? My, she's flexible."

"Oh, my goodness. If the Great One hears of this..."