Chapter Text
“Ooh, yeah! Finally!”
Tony didn't even hesitate to start celebrating upon hearing about the location the team was headed next. To give him a little credit, almost every location he’s been dragged to for a case has ended up being the hottest, most miserable places on the planet.
“Ahh, California beaches, nothing like them… Same with the ladies, can't miss those hot Hollywood babes!”
“California contains approximately half of the Mojave Desert, known for holding the highest recorded temperature in history.” Ziva, of course, had to be the one to break the unfortunate news. “...And the Mojave Desert is where we will be going.”
She definitely couldn't help but smirk as Tony's joyous expression suddenly melted into that of sheer and utter betrayal. He couldn't even get words out, rather some vaguely anguished stammering that was quickly cut off by the ubiquitous head slap, which was then followed by Gibbs moving off to grab his own things.
“McGee is already in the car and waiting. I'm grabbing Ozborne from downstairs, we'll be behind you.”
The simple statement sent the two agents scrambling for their gear, much to the amusement of the senior agent. A small quip was tossed over his shoulder on his way to the elevator, “There'll still be sand, if that makes you feel better, DiNozzo.”
—
Stepping out of the elevator, Gibbs promptly got hit with a wall of very loud techno-industrial music from the various scattered speakers in the lab. The lab being Abby's lab, as it had always been known, although technically nowadays Ozborne had taken residence in the space as well.
Even now, Gibbs was mildly surprised at how well the two got along in the same space, when both of them were so extremely protective over their equipment. He supposed it had to somehow cancel out. Like PEMDAS.
Focusing back to the here and now, he wandered into the space just as Abby had registered the elevator ding that signalled his presence.
“Oh! Gibbs! Why are you in here, I-I don't have anything yet!” Abby spoke, tilting her head and squinting suspiciously at the older man, “Unless… You're not Gibbs… Rather some kind of clone without any kind of Gibbs super-sense… Quick, what's your favorite color!?”
Gibbs simply rolled his eyes, a subtle smirk gracing his features. “Because I didn't come down here for you, Abs.”
A nod in the general direction of the next section of the lab clued Abby into what he meant. “Oh! Uhh, Oz is back there, somewhere… He's hard to keep track of sometimes.”
A forehead kiss marked a silent ‘thank you’ before he walked on over to where Ozborne happened to be existing. He found the silent man lying on his back underneath a table, stretched out on one of those spine correction board things.
“Ozborne,” Gibbs prompted, peering under the table at the esoteric man, of whom had now opened his eyes to stare unblinkingly at his older senior agent. No physical response, of course, but none was needed when those freakishly sea green eyes were clearly in focus. “We're going.”
That was enough prompting for Ozborne to sit up with a (mildly pained) groan, Gibbs stepping out of the way so he could slide out and stand up fully, stretching his arms upwards before falling into pace behind him. Ozborne waved a quick goodbye at Abby, nabbing his pre-packed bag (a necessity, since even one day without the proper medication at the proper time would screw the man over) before stepping into the elevator.
—
A tap on the arm got Gibbs to look in Ozborne's direction.
“[Where are we going?]” He asked, a furrow of the brow punctuating the question.
“Mojave, California side.” Simple question, simple answer. Perhaps that was why they worked so well together.
A beat. A hesitation, one so small that even Gibbs, with all his experience, wouldn't have caught. “[Who am I observing?]”
Observing. An odd choice of word, but not entirely wrong. It wasn’t uncommon for the Forensic Tech to be dragged along on excursions in which the team was supposed to talk to people that may have known something about the case, since he was exceptional at ‘on-the-go’ psychological profiling. The habit was a bit of a side effect of Rule 35: Always watch the watchers. Ozborne kept an eye.
“The Barnes family.” Gibbs informed, “Possibly connected to our suspect. Family has a history of giving half-truths on official statements, notably during the investigation on the unsolved disappearance of 16-year-old Marnie Barnes.”
Not even a second passed between the utterance of that name, and the primary elevator lights going dark as the emergency breaker was flipped. The backup lighting reflected eerily in Ozborne’s eyes, accentuating the scar crossing his face in a distinctly uncanny way.
The reason dawned on Gibbs, as he recalled the old ‘missing person’ file he had dug up from the cold case. The ink was poorly copied onto the paper, rendering the face to little more than a mess of black and slightly-less-black, but if you squinted, you could make out some key details of that face.
The same face that stared up at him now, silently demanding an explanation.