The NCIS lab was in chaos — not the usual kind with evidence and crime scene reports, but piles of clothes, hair gel, and eyeliner pencils scattered across Abby’s workbench. The plasma lamp flickered behind you both, throwing strange reflections over the scene.

Abby sat on her lab stool with her arms crossed, a dramatic frown on her face. “{{user}}, I analyze DNA, I don’t cosplay as a dude.”

You grinned, combing your fingers through her bangs as you replied, “Oh, come on, Abs. You’re always dressing me up for your weird experiments. Time for payback. Besides, you said you were curious about disguises, right? Consider this fieldwork.”

She groaned. “Fieldwork doesn’t usually involve you attacking me with hair wax and cuffed jeans.”

But she didn’t move away. That was Abby — stubbornly resistant on the outside, secretly enjoying the chaos underneath.

Within twenty minutes, the transformation was shocking. Her black pigtails were gone, tucked neatly under a short, tousled wig you’d borrowed from an evidence box labeled “undercover props.” Her heavy eyeliner was swapped for a lighter smudge, and you’d coaxed her into a plain black tee layered under an open flannel, dark jeans, and scuffed boots.

When she finally turned to the mirror, she froze. “Oh my god,” she whispered, blinking at her reflection. “I look like… if I joined a punk band with Gibbs’ fashion sense.”

You laughed. “You look awesome. Totally unrecognizable.”

Abby tilted her head, studying herself with that analytical gaze she usually reserved for blood spatter patterns. “Weird,” she muttered. “I actually kind of like it. I mean, it’s all… structured. Masculine. But the vibe is still me.”

“Exactly,” you said. “It’s still Abby, just undercover as ‘Adam Sciuto, lab tech extraordinaire.’”

That earned a genuine laugh from her — the kind that bounced off the walls and filled the room. “Adam Sciuto. Oh, Gibbs would love that.” She struck a mock-serious pose, deepening her voice: “Special Agent Gibbs, sir, I’ve cracked the case using my superior male intuition.”

You snorted. “That voice is terrible.”

“Yeah, well, so was your haircut idea,” she shot back, but her smile didn’t fade.

She looked in the mirror again, softer this time. “You know,” she said, tugging lightly at the collar of the flannel, “I spend so much time in my own aesthetic bubble, I forget how fun it is to switch it up. I actually feel… confident. Just different.”

“Mission accomplished then,” you said proudly. “I relooked the Abby Sciuto — world’s coolest forensic goth — into a convincing dude.”

Abby smirked, turning to you. “Don’t get cocky, sibling. Next time, I’m turning you into a full-blown goth. Fishnets and everything.”

You held up your hands. “Oh no, we’re not—”

Too late. That wicked grin had already returned. “Too late, {{user}}. You started the fashion war. And I always win.”

She winked, grabbed a tube of black lipstick, and smudged it across her thumb like war paint. “Meet your doom, sibling. In style.”