Work Text:
McGee didn't do a whole lot outwardly that let people know about his "disability." Years of not being believed or being dismissed had taught him how to hide in plain sight, to leave anyone not suspecting a thing. To let everyone around him think that he, too, was allistic, when in fact, he was anything but.
He loved the texture of silk and stuffed animals, but porcelain, or any expensive china, really, felt horrible to him. He could hear the same song over and over for weeks on end just to hear that one little phrase that made his heart soar because it just sounded so right. The sound of a saxophone had to be played exactly right or else it would make his hackles rise and he couldn't stand it.
Generally, he tried to keep his stims subtle while at work. He'd rub his big toes against his other toes in his shoes, or he'd rub his hands together right before typing.
While his special interests didn't lend themselves to computers, it was still something he was very good at, and he prided himself in his work. If you were to ask him about what his special interests were, he could go on for hours and hours about writing, and federal law. The few lawyers he knew were always surprised at first when he could recite laws and loopholes and exceptions and even certain court cases better than they could, but once they knew him better, they grew to expect it, and would sometimes even call upon him for advice.
Of course, he couldn't keep his autism a secret forever. He never could. He always tried to soften the blow the best he could, but his father always said he was terrible at keeping secrets. So when his secret came out, his heart sank but he was resigned to explaining everything to his coworkers.
The way it came out was simple: they had a case where they had to investigate a writer that McGee looked up to. When they had to do research on the woman, McGee went to his old haunts online to brush up on his knowledge. His grin grew the more he read; he had forgotten how good it felt to indulge in this particular interest.
When he got to a point he particularly enjoyed, he didn't think to stop his stimming, and flapped his hands close to his mouth, before covering it and rocking back on his tailbone before leaning forward to continue reading. He only noticed that the bullpen went quiet when he finished the last of the paragraph he was going through. He looked up to see Tony and Kate staring at him like he had grown a second head. Gibbs' face was expressionless. "What? What'd I do?" McGee asked.
"You flapped your hands..." Tony said, miming the motion before he continued. "...Really fast. Right by your face. Are you trying to take out an eye?"
McGee involuntarily paled. He went back over what he did while reading and realized yes, he had done one of his favorite stims. One that he saved for out of the office. Crap. He opened his mouth, willing himself to explain, but no words were forthcoming. "I...uh..."
Gibbs stood and strode over to his desk, and McGee felt his chest resonate with a humming noise he hadn't made in years around other people. He was never this nervous trying to explain everything before. "Relax, McGee, just have a question or two for ya," Gibbs said.
McGee looked at a point over Gibbs' shoulder and nodded. He hated eye contact, and he hated eye contact with Gibbs more than anyone else. That man could strip you to your very soul within a second. McGee wasn't too keen on feeling naked.
"I've read your file. You know what I'm going to ask."
McGee winced and nodded. "Just...do it."
"You're listed to have certain accommodations at work, but it never listed your disability. What is it?"
Opening his mouth, McGee willed himself to force out the words, but they wouldn't come. Just a strangled garbling noise happened instead. He buried his head in his hands and shook his head. "Sorry, 'm sorry," he mumbled into his hands. "I can't."
"I'm not going to fire you, McGee, you know that, right?" Gibbs asked.
McGee shook his head.
Gibbs sighed. "Well. I'm not going to fire you. No matter what it is."
McGee swallowed. That was one thing he found hard to comprehend. He stood from his chair and moved around the bullpen in circles, pacing. Pacing usually helped him feel better. He wasn't trapped if he could pace. Tony watched him like he was a ticking time bomb. Kate wasn't much better. McGee focused on his breathing. In, and out. In, and out. When he could finally look at Gibbs' nose bridge he said, "I'm autistic." His eyes dropped away and he continued to pace, shaking his head.
"Okay," Gibbs said. "Does it affect you in the field sometimes?"
"Yeah," McGee said, still not making eye contact, still pacing, moving, shaking his hands at the wrists to try and rid himself of the horrible nervous energy that was building up.
"How?" Gibbs asked.
McGee froze, looked up. "How?" he asked.
"Can't accommodate ya if you don't tell me how you're affected," Gibbs said.
"Well, I don't prefer taking witness statements," McGee said. "It's hard for me to process several people talking at once. I've been getting better at it but I'm not perfect. I don't really like the texture of rubber, so going dumpster diving in those stupid rain boots everyone insists I wear is not fun. Sometimes everything gets too bright, too loud, and every touch feels electrified. It's honestly a small wonder I haven't had a meltdown in the field by now, with how many times I've received sensory overload from one thing or another putting me on high alert and then everything tries to take precedence. And..."
Gibbs held up a hand, and McGee fell silent. He at least remembered that particular signal. That was one of the silent cues Gibbs used to get him to shut up. "Is there anything we can do to help? Other than not requiring you to wear rubber."
"...Don't touch me without permission, don't yell to get my attention, and try to keep the witnesses from talking over each other when I'm doing interviews?" McGee said, phrasing it like a question. "Why?"
"Well, can't help ya if I don't know what you need and what you don't," Gibbs said simply. "Is there anything else we should know?"
"Don't point out my stimming. I know it might look weird but this is just how I process excess emotions when the emotion regulator in my brain breaks. And please don't mock my special interests. I know a freaky amount of information about writing and federal laws. I'm already self-conscious about it, I don't need to hear people telling me I'm weird," McGee said. "You're really not firing me?"
"Why would I fire you? You're good at your job, considering how green you are," Gibbs said, gesturing to McGee's desk. "Get back to work, we can talk more about this later."
McGee wordlessly went back to his desk and continued reading what he had been doing. After a time, Gibbs called his name. "McGee?"
"Yeah, Boss?" McGee asked, looking up.
"How much do you know about this writer?" Gibbs asked.
McGee frowned. "I could have done a briefing before ever opening a web page. I would have needed to double-check some stuff, but my memory is still right on most of this after three months of not checking anything. Any reason why you're asking?"
"Well, she tried to run, and I'd like to know as much about her as I can before I interrogate her. Can you give me a crash course as we go to pick her up from the airport?"
"Yeah, of course," McGee said, grabbing his badge and gun. He flapped his hands excitedly, following Gibbs out of the bullpen. "I wish she wasn't being accused of murder, but I'm really excited to see Anne Finch in person."
Gibbs shook his head as they waited for the elevator. "Whatever you say, McGee. What can you tell me about her?"
McGee just grinned in response and began a very long, very excited infodump with copious amounts of happy hand flapping.