It's like a bad joke: Gibbs and Fornell walk into an elevator. When they walk out, Gibbs says, "Pack your bags, DiNozzo -- you're going on a trip."

"You go to college parties all the time," Tim grumbled, pulling his hand away from Abby's to suck grumpily on his chocolate milkshake.

"Yes," Abby agreed, "But I'm me and you're not."

Jimmy hummed like that made sense. Tim needed better friends. It was one college party; he'd be fine.

TV: smallville, the vampire diaries, ncis, supernatural, v
MOVIES: inglourious basterds, the losers, wanted
MUSIC: little boots

"Jesus," whispers Tim, "Oh god, oh god, oh god, Jesus." The sandstone is rough under his fingers but there's nothing to grip, not really, and there's only thin air underneath his toes. He pushes his heels harder into the ledge that he's fairly sure was never supposed to support anything heavier than pigeons. Pigeons on a diet.

An old trick, something her brother taught her; always hold your breath.

Pressure behind his eyes; he swallows uneasily. "Can't help it, Tim. Need to talk."

"Academy award winners for the last fifty years," Gibbs says, stretching out his legs. "Go."

Relief makes him nod quickly. "You want them chronological or alphabetical, Boss?"

Gibbs crosses his arms. "How 'bout quietly."

He can do that.

She frowns. "Why would a monkey choose prosthetic limbs for a dance partner?"

I've missed you, he thinks. Out loud, he groans. "You're missing the point, Zi-va."

"And you are assuming you made one."

He's even developing a math fetish between the number 69 and the way McGee pants out, "Oh, oh, OH!" when Tony's fingers stroke against him in just the right way. Treble-o-heaven, thinks Tony. So much better than Bond.

The thing about McGee is...well, the thing about McGee is that he started out as marshmallow and somewhere along the way turned into steel. It used to be Tony'd poke and Probie would cave and now, okay, now, if Tony peeks sideways at the tiny, pink, mewling baby thought imprisoned in the darkest room of his mind, it might just be that he...ah...doesn't want to be the only one doing the poking these days.

Steamy painting, probably NSFW.

It doesn't take long for Tony to work up a real head of steam about McGee's apparent lack of interest. It's a crime, is what it is. A very serious crime against Tonymanity. McGee is 100% pure geek--surely he has to be at least heteroflexible to maximize his slender chances of getting laid? He must want Tony. Why doesn't he want Tony?

"You could always move on," his inner voice tells him, but no. Tony's got the bit between the horns now, or the bull by the teeth, and he's not a Very Special Agent for nothing. There's going to have to be an investigation.

The hat is garish against her hands; the wool is worn and soft to the touch. It is bunched slightly, springing back from her grip as though she had never touched it. She considers it momentarily, holds it to her face and breathes in the memory of its owner. Her throat constricts and her eyes sting, but she does not cry, not yet. Instead she puts the hat on, pulling the wool over her hair and feeling it slip over her ears. She leans back on the bench and looks up at the cloudless sky; she wonders if Roy would mind this one indulgence. She does not cry.

Tony goes to the bar then and gets a drink--Coke mixed with locally made rum that's probably illegal but far better than anything found in a liquor store--and watches the clock. When it hits midnight, he tips his glass in a half-toast to a ghost. "Here's thinking of you, Paula," he says under his breath, then downs the drink in one swallow.

He has a tradition for Kate, too, on the anniversary of her death. He thinks he might have one for Jeanne by the end of the year, because even though she's still alive, still breathing, she's still someone he's lost.

Tony does background checks for most of the afternoon, but has to leave early to meet a friend for dinner.

When he says so, Ziva makes a face and addresses McGee. “Dinner with a friend? Why not a doctor’s appointment? Emergency dental surgery?”

“Ziva…” Tony begins.

“Maybe you’re off to ruin some other girl’s life.” She does not look at him when she says it.

“You’re talking about Jeanne, of course,” Tony replies, with meaning.

“But of course,” Ziva sing-songs.

Abby's past and present collide when she and a missing Admiral they're searching for turn out to have a mutual friend--the Doctor.

The motto is not always WWGD. WWGD is brought out at half-time when the center just sprained his ankle and the other team has that one guy who has to be at least seven feet tall. Most of the time, Tony gets by on various second-string techniques.

"Like the kind of man who could appreciate innovations in design," Tony says with deep satisfaction. "Probie, you need to move on from the banana boat into the new millennium of athletic cups. I mean, do you really trust anything made in the eighties to be in contact with your groin?"

McGee's eyes do the thing where they almost cross in complete horror. "Tony, don't talk about my groin. Or Gibbs' groin. Or really, groins ever."

"How do you know he is wearing a cup?" Ziva asks.

"Oh god, please stop," McGee moans.

Nobody ever asked her what it was like to grow among secrets, war like weeds around her feet. Everybody knew. Everybody breathed it, like dust and blood and the ever-receding promise of rain.

"I think you call it a 'package'. Which doesn't make any sense, because you don't actually send it anyw--"

"Ziva, it's just a saying." He found a wing, took a bite out of it. It crunched deliciously. "So. How does his package compare?"

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