Disclaimer: Out of this story, all I own is the plot. The NCIS characters and setting belong to Bellisario et al; the Highlander characters and concept belong to DPP et al. No harm intended, no money made.

Timing: Set sometime after Agent Afloat and before Cloak in season six.

Warnings: Contains history, Latin and religion.

No beta readers were harmed in the production of this story - but thanks to V for the help and advice and thanks to K for the help with Latin.

This story is the inevitable (!) result of giving a Classicist a throw away line like "Not Long Islanders, Romans". This story is also something of an anniversary piece. I started on this site on the 29th November 2000 as a Highlander writer and here I am, ten years later, coming back to my first fandom while playing in my newest... This is a crossover story, but don't worry if you're not familiar with Highlander; the blanks will get filled in as we go. Any Latin translations will come at the end of each part (though I will do my best to keep THAT to a minimum!)

A Kind of Magic

Prologue

Stilled lungs suddenly flooded with air and Dean Johnson's eyes flew open. For a moment or two, he was confused. His last memories were of a shoot out with some bunch of feds, back at the house. One of them, a dark haired woman he would have loved to have added to his collection, had shot him three times in the chest. That much, he'd expected. What he didn't understand was why he now appeared to be somewhere in the great outdoors. He'd expected to come round in a morgue drawer. So who-

"Finally."

The voice was gratingly preppy and Dean finally recognised that there was another Immortal near by. Looking round, he finally spotted the other man, casually leaning against a tree. In the dim light it was hard to tell but it looked like- "You!"

The other man smirked. "Hi."

"You're a fed."

"And you're a mental midget, but who's keeping score?"

Dean started to get up, only to find that his wrists and ankles were cuffed. "What is this?"

"This?" The fed's smirk took on a hard edge. "This is what you might call a special form of justice." There was a whisper of steel on fabric and the fed drew his sword.

"You can't do this!" Dean started to struggle against his restraints.

"Why not? Not like this is holy ground and it's really not like a dirtbag like you deserves anything better. You raped and killed five petty officers." The fed pushed away from his tree and started towards him. "If you were mortal - and you hadn't been shot, of course - you'd be getting the needle for it. Since that can't happen, I guess I'm the next best thing."

"They don't matter," Dean snarled, trying to squirm away even as the fed advanced. "They're our playthings. We are Gods among them."

"Again with the Gods." The fed rolled his eyes and shook his head. "We're not Gods."

"You're young. What would you know?"

The smirk took on an even harder edge. "Ever heard the phrase 'never judge a book by its cover'?" The fed grabbed a handful of hair and placed the sword blade against Dean's throat. "Let's just say, I'm a little older than I look. Te in nomine Caesaris capitis condemno."

Dean had just long enough to feel the deep pull of pure terror, and then the fed struck and as far as Dean Johnson was concerned, life ceased.


"Geez, you look rough," jibbed a voice.

"Night on the slates?" enquired another.

Both voices were familiar, but it took him painful seconds to sort through the swirling mass of memories - both his own and those he'd newly acquired - before he could identify them. One belonged to Timothy McGee, the other to Ziva David. They were colleagues - and friends - of his current alias. Squeezing his eyes open, he found both of them looming over his desk, both of them clearly trying to decide whether sympathy or merciless mocking were the way to go.

"It's night on the tiles, Ziva."

"Same difference."

Apparently, the simple correction was all either she or McGee needed to know that he was fundamentally all right, because both moved off to their respective desks, though clearly taking care to speak as loudly as they could reasonably manage. Merciless mocking it was. For a moment, he entertained the idea of explaining that no, this wasn't that sort of hangover. Then he shoved that fantasy aside. He liked this life far too much to want to risk it. So let them think he'd been drinking on a school night; it would do as a cover until the new memories integrated and everything slid back into balance.

He smiled faintly as he closed his eyes once more. It wouldn't take much longer and then Anthony DiNozzo would be back on form and life could continue.


To Be Continued...


Latin:

Te in nomine Caesaris capitis condemno. - In the name of Caesar, I condemn you to death