"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.