Title: Adaptation, a Torchwood/NCIS Crossover (3/?)

Author: Emma

Characters: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Tim McGee, LJ Gibbs, Ducky Mallard, others

Rating: Starts PG, but hey, it’s got Jack and Ianto in it (not to mention Tim & Jethro!)

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Summary: Tim McGee’s worlds collide as Torchwood is drawn into an NCIS case

Author's Note: This is part of an AU where Gwen and Owen were killed by Gray. So if you want to know why Martha is married to Rhys, why Jack and Ianto have a CP, two sons and two adopted daughters, and why Andy and Ianto are Kings of an alien race that settled on Earth millennia ago, you may want to read Evolution and Bred in the Bone first Author’s Note: Yes, I’ve taken some liberties with NCIS characters. What can I tell you?

Part One is here; Part Two is here

Drustan ap Madog of the house of Govannon doesn’t look that much different from Tim McGee. Tylwyth and humans are built on the same plan: two arms, two legs, and a head at the top. I keep my hair short, as do most of the Tylwyth Teg males that live in the human world, because keeping a glamour on hair is a real pain in the ass. Our faces are human enough that we can pass for human with just a small touch here and there. Tim’s face is much more rounded and gentler than Drustan’s, and his eyebrows less shaped. Mostly we wouldn’t need physical glamour at all, if it weren’t for the ears.

The Tylwyth Teg have pointed ears. They range from a gentle elongation that could pass as a variation of human to the high-point-flat-to-the-skull Vulcan version. Mine fall somewhere in between, but there’s no way I could function without a glamour. Especially not as a NCIS agent.

I know. It’s a cliché. In fact, we probably gave rise to it. We weren’t nearly as careful about disguises in the beginning as we are now.

Gibbs stared at me for a long moment, then came around the desk to stand so close I could feel his breath on my skin. I knew what was coming and braced myself. Sure enough, his hand shot out and he grabbed my right ear, giving it a hard tug. Switching hands, he gave the left one the same treatment.

“Careful, Director,” Harkness drawled. “One more time and you’re engaged.”

Gibbs snorted, but he took a step back. “Who are you?”

“If you mean what am I, I am a Tylwyth Teg. My people came to Earth after our planet was caught in the explosion of a gas supergiant. We have lived alongside humans for millennia. If you mean who am I, I’m Timothy McGee, NCIS supervisory special agent.” I held out my hand, palm up. “I have worked and fought at your side for more than a decade. Isn’t that enough?”

He looked at me with suspicion. “What do you want from us?”

The rejection tore something out of me. I had fallen in love with Leroy Jethro Gibbs almost from the first. I had learned a great deal about being properly human from him and in return stood watch over him and his team in ways he couldn’t even imagine, playing the clumsy colt, the hopeless nerd, earning first his approval and then his friendship. And I had lost it all in one sentence.

“For Christ’s sake, Jethro.” Ducky sounded weary. “When they got here we had barely invented agriculture, much less writing. If they wanted something from us they could have taken it. They could have taken the whole planet.”

“How am I supposed to know that, Ducky? This morning I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I could take McGee’s word for anything. Not to mention yours. Now… you have both been lying to me for as long as I’ve known you!”

“Enough.”

The soft word sounded like a gunshot in the uncomfortable silence. Gibbs turned towards the man he knew as Ianto Jones with a look on his face that said clearly that he was not in the mood to tolerate insolence from a subordinate. It was a look I had seen aimed at me several times and it usually preceded a dressing-down of impressive scale. But instead of a nervous probie he was met by the Winter King in full panoply.

It wasn't quite a visible thing at first, more like the change in atmospheric pressure that comes before a storm. Then a slight wind began to blow, and a thin cover of frost appeared in all the surfaces. The air was filled with the scent of oak and holly fires, of bubbling stew pots and baking bread. Far in the distance I heard the hard hoof beats and horn calls of Arawn's Hunt.

“Do We have your attention now, Director Gibbs?” the King's voice was calm and even, but there was no chance Gibbs could ignore it. “You are an experienced soldier and investigator. You will please Us by bringing your talents to bear on the question at hand.”

Gibbs wasn't going down without a fight. “And what is that?”

“Don't try Our patience, Director. You have two missing agents, a dead Silurian downstairs in a freezer box, and no clue as to what is really going on. We can help you solve the puzzle and get your people back.”

“Why? Why would you want to help?”

The King smiled whimsically.”Because Ducky asked, of course.”

“What is he to you?” Gibbs asked me. “I noticed your little salute when he came in.”

“He is my King.” I held up a hand. “It's a long story and I promise I will go into it in detail at the first opportunity. They can help, Jethro. NCIS is out of its depth here. Hell, even I am out of my depth here. This is Torchwood's bailiwick.”

“And Torchwood's bailiwick is?” Gibbs asked, and for the first time since I had walked into the office his voice was missing the angry challenge. “Aliens?”

The King waved a hand and the wind stilled and the frost disappeared without a trace. He returned to being Ianto Jones, the handsome young Torchwood agent. “Part of it, yes.”

Gibbs walked back to his desk, grabbed his mug and swore under his breath. “Cold.”

“Here, let me.” Jones took the mug and moved around Gibbs to reach the sideboard. He gave the Keurig a look of pure disgust in passing as he homed in on Jenny's old Capresso coffee maker that hadn't been used for years. He took the lid off the carafe and sniffed.

“Sink?” he asked Gibbs.

Gibbs pointed to the bathroom. As Jones left the room, he looked at us, eyebrows climbing. “A King who makes coffee?”