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shadowsndaisies · 1 month ago

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the death of mike franks

a/n: this was the idea that sparked the crossover when i was doing an ncis rewatch

main masterlist

introducing gadget masterlist

synopsis: p2p killer's on the loose, and you're stationed across the country when you get the call

wc: 1.1k

It’s not a call you wanted to ever receive.

“It’s.. uh, I just. I figured you’d want to know,” Tony’s voice trails.

“Know what Tony?” you ask, brow furrowed, he wasn’t making any sense.

The bar is loud behind you, it’s almost nine now, but the sun’s only just set and the whole squad was inside, everyone covered in salt and sand from the day spent at the beach. It had been a good day, but somehow, you knew the good was about to end.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again and your breath catches.

You’d met Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo during your station at Norfolk. You’d been sent there while on medical reserve. You worked on the Navy Yard, and when you think back, it’s probably because of your mom. She’d been close with a retired Marine Gunny turned Supervisory Special Agent in Charge, all because of your grandpa. The Gunny had a team there, and somehow, you’d gotten roped into spending some time with them while you recuperated. Physically able enough to be in the field, but not yet able to withstand sustained Gs. You’d enjoyed the stint, made friends with the team. You’d left NCIS better than you’d arrived, in more ways than one.

You’d bonded with Tony over pop culture references, and a quiet reverence for the Gunny. A new level to the respect you’d always had since you’d met him as a toddler.

“Tell me,” you force out.

Please don’t say it’s Gunny.

“It’s Franks,” he finally admits, and your knees go weak. “He’s dead, kid.”

“Oh shit, oh, fuck,” you huff out, trying to reign everything in.

That’s worse.

“Did anyone call my mom?” you ask, as your legs give out.

There’s a rolling wave of grief.

You grip tight to the railing as you try not to topple.

“Gibbs is calling her now,” he says quietly.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs had been in your life as long as you can remember. He’d filled the dad role often after your own had passed. You’d never really known him as a Gunny, but you did as Pop’s probie. You can’t imagine the silence that must’ve fallen over the NCIS building. But your thoughts are focused on Mike Franks. Your grandfather. There’d always been something about him, all old school, with his own sense of justice, too patriotic for his own good, it turned out. You hadn’t understood it then, but you saw how he changed after 9/11, and that was when you realized there was still so much to do. That was the reason you enlisted, he was.

You finally sit, as the grief rolls over you. You were not new to grief, you’d lived with it as a cloud almost your whole life, but this felt different. It wasn’t like when you’d lost your dad. You’d been too young, you think. All you really knew back then was you missed him, you were sad he was gone, disappointed that he’d never come home again.

You were okay though. You had your mom, you had pop, and you had Gibbs.

Gibbs who took you to the father daughter dance after pop got hurt on a case, and couldn’t take you like he’d promised. Gibbs who taught you how to drive manual when your mom decided she was not built to be the one to contend with you and the road. Makes sense, given you elected to pursue a career involving flying jets.

You’re struck with the realization that underneath the grief is an overwhelming sense of relief. It’s not Gunny, it’s not Tim, it’s not any of them. You want to puke as soon as you think it. Guilt gnawing at your insides. You loved your grandfather, but you’d been anticipating his death for a while now. So sure that all the cigarettes would finally catch up to him.

“Gadget?” His voice is strained, thank god it wasn’t Tony, either.

“Yeah,” you manage to choke out, from where you’re now sitting, one hand still grasping tight to the railing.

“It was the P2P,” and then there was anger.

“Son of a bitch,” you huff, and now there’s tears in your eyes. “He was supposed to be in Mexico,” you add on, because you’d just talked to him. “He was supposed to be done with this!”

You’d spoken with your grandfather just a few days ago, making plans to come down to Mexico when you had a short leave in a few weeks. You’d already booked your ticket.

“He only got here this morning, Gibbs called,” Tony adds on.

it goes quiet then. As if Tony’s not sure how to continue. and you become stuck in a contemplative silence.

…

“He picked my call sign,” you eventually say softly.

“What?” Tony asks, and you can imagine the frown.

“Pop, he.. uh… I loved cars, and taking things apart to learn how they worked. He was the one who called me inspector gadget as a kid. One of my instructors heard him call me Gadget during training on family weekend, and.. and then it was my official callsign.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. You’d never told anybody that your grandfather was the one who coined Gadget, everyone who needed to know, did.

“I didn’t know that,” Tony admits, and you can hear the sad chuckle in his voice.

“I’ve never told anyone before,” you admit, sniffing.

“I’m really sorry, (y/n),” is all he offers.

You sniff and force yourself back to your feet. “Yeah,” you say in the absence of anything else. “Tell Gunny to call me when he can,” you decide.

“Yeah, but-” you don’t listen to the rest, ending the call.

You’re not sure how long you stayed like that, but it must’ve been too long because eventually someone came looking for you.

“Gadget?” it’s Hangman who calls your name. “You drink too much or something?” he muses coming closer.

It’s not until he can see your face that he realizes you’re crying, and the smirk is gone in a second. He drops down to be eye level and you continue to look past him and at the ocean.

“Gadget? Gadget, talk to me, what happened?” his voice had gone soft, one hand gently landing on your shoulder

“My grandfather’s dead,” you say, and god it hurts.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

gadgets tags: @oikawasblueearbud @rory-cakes

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shadowsndaisies · 5 months ago

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death, who?

a/n: staying true to the resolution! the largest folder in my wips is probably the crossovers. way too many possibilities for someone entrenched in too many fandoms. but, nonetheless, here we are. also big shock! i still write for other fandoms, not just dc.

main masterlist

prompt: A; hold on you died?! ... B; yeah, well, it didn't stick.

synopsis: what if a hunt brought you and your older half-brothers and guardians, Sam and Dean Winchester, to Beacon Hills, and what if, you get in a spot of trouble with your new friends, and need to call for a ride.

wc: 2.7k

Black.

Everything is black.

You feel your body being torn apart, excruciatingly slow, and suddenly it all snaps back together, muscles, veins, tendons reconnecting and attaching, skin growing back.

Flashes of light, bright, discombobulating.

And then your eyes open.

You shoot up, bodies hovering over you.

Someone screams, someone else is crying.

You choke on nothing for a second, and then you push yourself back to your feet.

Hands grip onto you, frantic, and finally everything fits back into place.

You blink and turn, coming face to face with two boys. Not your brothers, a piece of you panics, but the memories come quick, and you force yourself to relax.

Stillinski and McCall, your brain supplies as you stare at the two. Both are watching you with wide eyes, lips parted, slightly pale. There’s a girl behind them with tears in her eyes. The redhead, Lydia you mind supplies after a second, looks especially distraught.

The choking feeling comes back and this time when you cough, something falls from your lips, a bullet.

You stare at the brass for a second, “seven fucking hells,” you hiss, bending down and picking up the bullet.

It’s deformed, likely the exact bullet that had killed you mere minutes before. Deformed from where and how it had impacted against your body.

The memory of being shot comes back fast and painful, your whole body flinches as you jerk to check your side. There’s blood, and your brow furrows as you push off your jacket and then pull your shirt off, wiping at your side, until you clear away most of the blood.

No wound.

“(Y/n)?” Stiles’ voice cracks as he says your name, and your head snaps back to the others.

They’re still staring at you like they’re all about to be violently sick.

“Hey,” you say, swallowing thickly as you calm your heart rate.

Who brought you back? No Angels nearby… Crowley didn’t have the pull anymore… Leaving… Billie? Or… Chuck?

You shudder at the thought, you hoped it was Billie.

You reach into your pants pocket, and pull out your phone, but your frown deepens when you realize it’s broken, screen cracked, totally toast— kinda like you were.

“Damn,” you mutter, turning back to the four still staring.

That was a problem.

“Can I borrow a phone?” you ask, voice hoarse, but they’re all still staring at you. You roll your eyes, and snap your fingers startling them. “Phone? Please?”

Lydia reaches a shaky hand into her purse and pulls her out, holding it to you.

You’d just dialed Dean’s number when Scott comes back to himself.

“Hold on,” he begins, “you died,” he states.

Newbies, you scoff internally.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t stick,” you lament, raising the phone to your ear.

It rings, and rings, and keeps ringing, until you’re met with “Agent Plant, FBI, leave a message.”

“Damn it,” you mumble, dialing Sam’s number next

It rings, and rings, and rings…

“Agent Page, FBI, leave a mess-”

You don’t wait for the end of the message, and instead hang up, biting your lip you try the last active number you knew of.

It rings, and rings, and rings…

“This is Agent Jones, FBI. Please leave a message and I will-”

“Chuck’s sake,” you grumble and then freeze. There was more than one way to call Cas.

“Your tattoo is gone,” a voice interrupts and your head whips back over to the other teens.

“Fuck, are you sure?” you ask tilting your shoulder in to look at the blade. “You’re so dead, Chuck, stupid things hurt like a-”

“What is she talking about?” you’re vaguely aware of Stiles’ muttered question, but you force yourself to take a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand.

“You were dead,” Lydia finally speaks up, as you hand her phone back.

“Yes,” you nod.

“We did CPR,” Scott adds on.

“Explains the pain on my ribs,” you note, looking around, eyes perking when you spot your backpack.

“It didn’t work,” Stiles.

“Yup, got that,” you confirm half-heartedly, as you pull open the bag, rummaging through.

“I heard your heart stop,” Scott adds, and you pull a spare t-shirt, the one you’d used for gym class, out triumphantly.

“Make sense, since I was dead,” you nod, tossing the shirt over your shoulder, and looking back into the bag.

“I felt it,” Lydia adds, you shudder slightly at that, Banshee premonitions were an entirely different beast.

“Sorry about that,” you say uncomfortably clearing your throat as you pull out the small container of hand sanitizer.

You grab the bag and walk back over to the other three, they’re still starring wide eyed, and you refrain from rolling your eyes again as you reach down for the bloody shirt. You reach to your ankle and pull out your switchblade, using it to cut up the shirt, taking the clean parts, and then dousing it in the hand sanitizer, using it to remove as much blood from your skin as possible.

It leaves the skin sticky, you wrinkle your nose at the feeling, but once content, toss the bloodied clothes in a pile, and wipe your blade before putting it away.

You toss the mostly empty hand sanitizer back in your bag, and run your finger over the bullet again before putting that in your pocket. You pull on the gym shirt, it reads Beacon Hills High School, across the front, and is made of a stiff cotton polyester blend that scratches at your skin, and well, it smells like gym, but you’ve had worse, that’s for sure.

You swipe back your hair and reach into another pocket producing your lighter. You crouch down, and set the bloody clothes on fire. It burns quick, hot, and bright. Especially once it catches on the cloth that had the hand sanitizer. You watch the flames quickly until your blood is gone, and then you stamp it out.

Finally, you swing the bag back on your shoulder and you turn to the other three, really taking the time to take them in. This time you do roll your eyes.

“Yes, I died. Tragic, I know. And yes, I’m back, shocking is an understatement I’m sure, but can we please move on?”

“You died!” Stiles repeats again, and you let out a long sigh.

“And it didn’t stick. It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last,” you admit, but that seems to be the wrong thing to say because the three of them seem to raise into higher hysterics. “Right. okay! You process this, however you need to. Let me know when you’re ready. In the meantime, I gotta… make a call.”

The three offer jerky nods and you huff, walking ahead of them. They follow in a daze as you guide them out of the preserves and back to the main road. You look up and down, and quietly you close your eyes and pray.

Cas… Castiel, I could really use a hand right about now… Please?

You peek an eye open but are disappointed by the lack of blue-tie-trenchcoat-wearing angels.

You cave after another few minutes of silent prayer.

You drop your bag and walk into the street, “CAS! CASTIEL!!!” you shout.

Stiles flinches so violently he trips over his own feet, the three staring at you as if you were a lunatic, which; fair, but now was so not the time, to go into the angels and demons of it all.

“CASTIEL!” you try again.

“What is a Castiel?” Scott asks, eyes wide and concerned.

“CASTIEL,” you begin, shouting his name once more for good measure, before your lips turn into a deep frown, “is a no-good, older-brother preferring, utterly useless contingency plan,” you huff out, before looking back at Scott and shrugging, “apparently,” you add clearing your throat.

“Right,” Scott nods, but nothing about his response inspired his belief.

Again, fair.

You huff again, “guess we’re doing this traditionally,” you mutter, turning to the three. “No chance any of you has chalk?” you ask.

“Chalk?” Stiles repeats, spluttering. “What like sidewalk chalk? What are we gonna do hopscotch our way back into town?”

You deadpan at Stiles unimpressed, and he shifts under the weight of your stare.

“So no chalk?” you ask, and he huffs. “Fucking townies,” you mumble under your breath, but the look you get from Scott tells you he heard it.

“No chalk,” Lydia confirms. “But, chalk’s mostly made of the shells of single-celled organisms, like coccolithophores and foraminifera,” she explains and your brows furrow.

“What?”

“It’s found in most sedimentary deposits,” she continues.

You blink at her.

Her shoulders sag a bit, “Limestone rocks would work,” she relents.

You perk at that. “Wait here,” you tell them, taking off back the way you’d come. “I saw some limestone on our way out!”

By the time you make it back to them, the three are huddled, whispering quickly and casting weary glances around. They pause as you come back but you barely pay attention, instead, you focus on chalking the ground, delicate and precise marks as you use the limestone on the asphalt.

Once happy with the markings you stand outside the drawing, and toss the leftover limestone aside, wiping your hands on your jeans and standing at full height. You crack your neck, and turn to the markings.

“Amaymon, Amaymon, appear now, by the power of the Angelical Keys, I summon thee, Castiel,” you begin, voice loud and clear. It pulls the other three’s attention. Stiles ready to interrupt when you began again. “Rah ah gah ee oh es, Castiel, Rah ah gah ee oh es,” the three were now staring with wide eyes, on your second pass of the Enochian chant, your voice seemed to reverberate through the preserves, sounding less and less human. “Amaymon, Amaymon, appear now, by the power of the Angelical Keys, I summon thee, Castiel,” you repeat a final time.

You hold your breath, waiting, seconds tick by and finally your eye twitches. Fucking Castiel, you appear whenever Dean calls, bastards, all three of you.

“Fine,” you huff, throwing your hands in the air. “Prayer didn’t work, neither did calling nicely, or an official summons, so I guess that leaves me with threats! I hope you’re happy!” you shout at no one, and you catch the look Lydia shares with Stiles.

“(Y/n) maybe you should-” Scott begins and you wave him off.

“CASTIEL, YOU GET YOUR WINGED ASS HERE RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR ON MY NAME I WILL NEVER LET YOU HAVE ANOTHER MOMENT OF PEACE YOU WINGED RAT!” you scream, causing the other three to flinch.

And then a man in a trenchcoat materializes right behind you, and the three lose their shit.

“WHAT THE FU-”

“WHO?”

“WHERE DID-”

You whirl around and the Angel stands stiffly as he stares at you.

“About fucking time,” you huff, glaring at him.

“I find your demanding tone off-putting,” Cas decides and your eye twitches.

“Off-putting? Are you kidding Cas? I’ve been trying to get in contact with Dean and Sam, no one’s answering their phones!”

“Which numbers did you try?”

“Plant, Page, and Jones, FBI,” you counter.

“We deactivated them.”

“No shit,” you hiss.

“You are acting like a-” he stops himself, sighing.

the audacity.

“Like a what, Cas?” you press.

“Like an ass-butt,” he admits and you have to scrub your hand over your face. “I do not appreciate it,” he adds on.

You open your mouth with a sharp retort but you stop yourself, count to ten in your mind and let out a deep breath instead. Reminding yourself, you can’t talk to Cas the same way you would to Dean and Sam, it was counter-productive at best.

“You’re right, I apologize Castiel. I’m… flustered,” you admit, levelly, jaw clenched and eye twitching as you do.

“Is it because of these three?” he asks, finally addressing the others hovering just a few feet away.

“No, these are friends Castiel,” you huff.

“Why then? You are usually the most put-together of the three Winchester siblings,” he questions.

Isn’t that a low bar? The 17-year-old little half sister is the most put-together when compared to her two adult older brothers.

“I was shot, and killed about an hour ago Cas, I can feel where they sliced me open down in hell, and smell like a mix of death, blood, and high school gym class. I would very much like to know where my older brothers are, right now,” you explain, once again keeping your voice in that forced level tone.

“I see. One moment,” he says and before you can disagree he disappears.

“Oh, Fuck me!” you shout again.

“I have so many questions,” Stiles speaks up from where he and Scott are still stood.

“Sliced you open?” Lydia repeats, voice pitching up.

“Yeah, and Hell?” Stiles tags on, funnily enough, his voice did the same thing.

You glare at the two. Chuck’s sake, it was going to be such a pain to do the whole tip of the iceberg speech, at least they already believed in the Supernatural.

“Just-” you pause for another deep breath. “Please, let me find my brothers first,” you request instead.

Luckily you don’t have to wait long, because only a few minutes later you can hear an engine coming up the road, and you sigh when you catch sight of the Impala.

The car’s moving fast, and it screeches, skidding a bit, as Dean throws the thing in park. Both of you brothers rushing out. Dean gets to you first, hands on your shoulders, looking you up and down.

“The hell happened?” he asks, voice gruff.

“Hell,” you answer shortly.

“That’s not funny,” Sam counters.

“Neither is radio silence,” you shoot back.

Both of your brothers share a look.

“Fair,” Sam concedes, when Dean stays resolute, he hasn’t let go of you yet.

You feel Dean’s grip tighten and you sigh, “I’m fine, seriously,” you relent, voice softening far more than it has since you woke up.

“C’mon let’s get you to the motel,” Dean decides, keeping one hand on you as he starts pushing you to the Impala.

“Uh, Dean?” Sam calls after him, a nervous laugh paired with a clearing of his throat.

“What?” Dean barks the question over his shoulder, walking you forwards.

“She’s got friends,” he reminds him and you shrug at Dean who finally turns and stares at the the three who have been watching your brothers with curious eyes.

“Ah shit, more teenagers,” Dean frowns. “Fine, pack it in,” he huffs, opening the door.

Sam smiles nervously and gestures for the three to slip into the back row. You on the other hand, end up sandwiched between your two big brothers. Sam casts another look over you once he’s back in the car, and Dean’s pulling a U-turn.

“You sure, you’re okay?”

You sigh, and reach into your pocket, pulling out the bullet, and then dropping it in Sam’s hand as a response.

“Sorry I asked,” he backtracks.

You roll your eyes, and lean back into the leather seat, “Someone has to redo my tattoo when we get to the motel,” you speak up.

“Damn, total wipe?” Dean asks looking over at you.

“Not even a scar,” you mutter.

“That’s not too bad, I mean that wendigo last fall caught you pretty bad, right? Scar’s gone now?” Sam tries to point out but both you and Dean level him with a look.

“I thought we agreed to no bright sides on death, hell, torture, and resurrection,” you mutter mutinously.

“We did,” Dean agrees.

This time Sam rolls his eyes, “Alright, I’m sorry I tried,” he huffs, settling back as well.

“So many questions,” you hear Stiles repeat, and you groan in despair.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

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