I'm back! Sorry for the long departure from the world of fanfiction, but I had no power up until today. I was dying, people! Anyhow, this could be read as a one-shot, but enough reviews might persuade me to write a part II. (hint, hint) Enjoy!

A Lesson in Chemistry

Director Vance squints at me and rattles a container of toothpicks meditatively. "Agent DiNozzo, eh?"

"My Director believes I need to perfect my role," I say, and try not to sound too sullen. I have been doing undercover ops for years, after all, and I have never needed perfecting before.

He nods and his mouth works furiously, his toothpick performing tricks like a well-trained dog. He doesn't even seem aware of what he's doing.

"And what does this have to do with me?" he questions briskly. "Talk to Agent DiNozzo if you have a problem with the way he works."

"I have no problem with Special Agent DiNozzo," I say quickly, lest he take insult for some bizarre reason. Politicians are weird like that. "He is very talented undercover."

Vance nods. "Ah. So it's you who has the problem."

I bristle. "Director Vance, I have been an undercover agent for years, and I am one of the FBI's best. I have worked in deep cover for over four months, as well as in foreign countries such as France, Morocco, and Portugal. I have never once-"

"Quit quoting your resume and answer the question, St. Pierre," Vance interrupts the monologue of my bruised pride with a skill that only crafty politicians possess. "What's the problem?"

"I am playing the long-time girlfriend of Agent DiNozzo's alias, Antonio Vincenze," I say, with my best attempt at humbleness. I am not sure how effective it is, but Vance nods for me to continue, so I do.

"Apparently I am not portraying the long-time familiarity that is required for the role. I seem 'stiff and awkward'"

I make finger quotes around the less than flattering adjectives to suggest that I beg to differ. Vance, however, does not.

"It's true," he says crisply. "You're acting like a cold fish on a first date. There's no chemistry."

Chemistry. There's that stupid word again. Apparently Agent DiNozzo and I lack the 'chemistry' that some of the Special Agent's other partners have possessed.

Truthfully, it was hard on a girl's self esteem to be waiting in the van for your cue while your co-workers, who are supposed to be watching the cameras, question Agent DiNozzo about some Agent David and whether or not they'd been faking it back in '06. Funny how he never answered.

I know that there's no chemistry. I'm trying, he's trying. But there's nothing. He's absolutely phenomenal-looking, of course, and some of the stuff he says just cracks me up. But I've known him for four days. How much chemistry can you fake in four day's time?

Regardless, Vance's blunt tone is a blow to my self-esteem. "What do you want me to do about it?" I say finally, my tone genuinely humbled this time.

He twirls his toothpick thoughtfully. "Talk to Dr. Mallard down in autopsy," he says. "He's a psychologist, and fairly close with DiNozzo. He can help you."

...

I step into autopsy, a hand held to my nose, and find a strange scene taking place. A man in surgical scrubs, pale blue and stained with an unknown substance, is holding what looks to be a bladder in his hands and quoting Rudyard Kipling for reasons I can't even begin to fathom.

Nearby, a gawky man in Harry Potter glasses is watching with rapt attention, a disturbingly large and bloodied pair of shears in his hands.

The third man, dressed nicely in office apparel, looks up from his smart phone when I walk in. He frowns in recognition. "You're the FBI agent working with Tony on the Schmidt case, aren't you?"

I nod, addressing the entire room, but extending my hand only to the agent, the sole non-bloodied occupant of autopsy. "I'm Elle St. Pierre, of the FBI. Yes, I'm working undercover with Agent DiNozzo, and I had a couple of questions for Dr. Mallard."

"That would be me," says the oldest man in a charming Scottish brogue, smiling and putting down the bladder. "Doctor Donald Mallard at your service, my dear. What can I do for you?"

"Director Vance recommended I speak to you in regards to Agent DiNozzo," I explain. "He seems to think you can enlighten me on how better to get to know Agent DiNozzo."

"Ah, Anthony!" Dr. Mallard beams. "He is a charming boy, not to mention a brilliant agent."

"Yes, very," I agree, remembering that Dr. Mallard is supposedly very fond of DiNozzo.

"He is not easy to work with," the doctor says slowly. "I believe Timothy will attest to that." He gestures to the well-dressed agent, who nods in recognition.

"Agent Tim McGee. Tony's a good guy. He just hides it well."

"Indeed," Doctor Mallard continues, "he is rather adept at using humor as a defense mechanism. If you wish to get to know him, you need to look past the attitude to see the man within."

"He doesn't seem very eager to get to know me," I say, and if I'm whining, the Scottish doctor overlooks it good-naturedly.

"That is far from your fault, my dear. You know, I believe, that you were not the first choice for the assignment?"

I try not to frown. "Yes, I had heard that."

"I am sure your own abilities are more than sufficient," he assures me quickly, "but I believe Anthony and Agent David usually come as a set in these operatives."

There's Agent David again. Who the heck is this woman?

"Tony and Ziva work well together," Tim explains kindly. "They've got this chemistry-"

Ugh. Chemistry.

"Then why was I assigned instead?" I demand, exasperated. "If this Agent David is so perfect, why isn't she doing it?"

"Agent David was nearly killed last week," the thin, gawky guy with the big shears pipes in. "Took a hunting knife to abdomen eight different times."

Doctor Mallard touches the corpse's abdomen sympathetically. "She is still in the intensive care unit, I believe."

Agent McGee shifts uncomfortably. "Actually, she checked herself out yesterday. Gibbs has her on desk duty."

Dr. Mallard looks appalled. "Jethro allowed her to return in her state of health?"

"She was holding a big stapler when he walked in," Tim explained. "It's hard to say no to Ziva when she's pounding staples into a document like she wishes it was your head."

The doctor wipes his hands on his scrubs and begins rearranging medical equipment. "Well, I should go remind her that the doctors had not entirely ruled out internal bleeding. Timothy, if you would tell Jethro that the bladder was indeed inflated as I'd suspected, I would greatly appreciate it. Mr. Palmer, please put our friend away."

Agent McGee turns to me as he heads for the door. "Our forensic scientist, Abby, has known Tony for years and she still hasn't killed him, so she obviously knows something about how to deal with him. Talk to her."

...

As soon as I introduce myself to the tall, darkly-garbed woman in pigtails and a lab coat, she frowns suspiciously. "You're French?"

"Second generation," I answer, puzzled not only by the question but by the entire woman in general. "Why?"

She doesn't answer, just looks as me with narrowed eyes. "You're not, by any chance, the daughter of an arms dealer, are you?"

Now I'm beyond baffled. "My dad died in combat when I was twelve," I tell Miss Sciuto.
She nods like she doesn't believe me, and asks politely if I don't mind waiting five minutes while she quickly checks my fingerprints, "Just to be safe."

A couple of minutes later she returns, smiling, and tells me she's sorry about my father, who apparently is dead after all. "Now what can I do for you?" she asks

I explain my predicament, trying not to sound too bitter, and she darts around like a demonic hummingbird, pressing buttons on high-tech machines, straightening pigtails, and chugging something from a huge red plastic cup. When I finish up, she sits down in an office chair, spins it around once or twice, then fixes me with sharp green eyes.

"So, basically, what you're saying is that you need to figure out how to be like Ziva so that you can sell your undercover role and not lose your job?" she says cheerfully, speaking at a rate that, up until now, I had thought impossible.

I frown. "No. I need advice on how best to work with Agent DiNozzo, on how he works, what he's like. I need to figure out how to create chemistry."

She nods rapidly, making her pigtails swing. "Yah. Chemistry. You can't just create chemistry. You need to have personalities that, you know, click, and to do that you need to know how Tony's mind works, so you can change the way your alias acts to fit better with the way Tony acts, kind of. Right?"

I look at her for a second, then realize my mouth is wide open. I close it and nod. "Um, yes. Right."

She nods again, so violently that it is a wonder she doesn't contract a brain aneurysm. "Okay. So what do you want me to tell you? I mean, I could talk all day, except my voice would get worn out. Oh, one time Tony lost his voice, and it was so funny, but I felt bad for him, because Ducky made a movie reference and-"

I interrupt, because I have no doubt that she honestly could talk all day. "And this is relevant, how?"

Miss Sciuto shrugs.

"I don't know. I've been working with Tony for years, and I still don't know how his mind works. Besides, I don't know anything about being undercover, so I'm probably not the person to ask." She brightens. "I know! You should talk to Gibbs! He knows everything! Plus Tony is like the son he never had, so if he doesn't know what to tell you, then I don't know. Talk to him, okay?"

...

Agent Gibbs just looks at me. "You want what?"

"Advice on how to best work with Agent DiNozzo," I repeat nervously, looking around the dimly lit elevator in bewilderment. "I thought we were going to your office-"

"And what makes you think I know anymore than anyone else?" he asks flatly.

Feeling a little intimidated, I answer, "Well, Miss Sciuto said-"

He growls, "Abby..." in a way that doesn't bode well for the Goth scientist.

"So," I say awkwardly after a moment of silence, "can you help me?"

Gibbs just looks at me with icy blue eyes that show not an ounce of sympathy, just a substantial dose of irritation and maybe even a little bit of amusement at my own expense. "Nope."

"No?" I echo incredulously. I'd heard from Fornell, of course, just how completely arrogant and disagreeable Agent Gibbs was, but I had put most of it on Fornell's deep rooted dislike for any acronyms besides our own.

Agent Gibbs just smirks, shakes his head, and repeats the word, "Nope," popping the 'p' to add insult to injury.

"So . . . That's it?" I demand, getting frustrated. "You're not going to help me at all?"

He smirks again, that infuriating grin that makes me believe what Fornell says about that second 'b.'

"Talk to Ziva David," he says finally, turning the elevator back on. "She's in the showers, pretending that she wasn't just down at the firing range, which I expressly forbid her from doing."

"Oh," I say, startled and a little irritated. Great. Now I've got to talk to the Chemist herself.

The doors open, and Gibbs adds, "Might want to bring protective gear."

...

I wait in the women's locker room, unsure how best to approach this woman who I've heard so much about. I've only been in there a few minutes, pondering the likelihood of there being a stapler in the showers, when I'm joined by another agent, who is decidedly male.

"Hey, Elle," Agent DiNozzo says casually, leaning against one of the lockers like it's perfectly normal for him to be in the woman's locker room. "What're you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Agent David," I explain. He nods.

"Me, too."

"Oh," I say slowly, confused, "okay."

We make small talk for a few minutes, until the infamous Agent Ziva David makes her appearance. She is smaller than I had envisioned, and exotic-looking. She doesn't seem surprised to see Tony in the ladies' room, though she does spare me a questioning glance.

Tony doesn't say anything, just strides up to the smaller woman and lifts her t-shirt to inspect her stomach. The total violation of personal space does not seem to bother either agent.

"You shouldn't be here," Tony says, looking at Agent David's abdomen intently. She smirks.

"Says the man in the woman's locker room."

He doesn't smile back. "Zi," he says sharply, "the stitches are pink."

She waves this aside, removing his hands from her calmly and letting her shirt fall to cover the angry red scars that I just catch a glimpse of. "That is normal, Tony."

He sighs. "You could have called."

She raises a dark brow. "So that we could have this conversation in the hospital? I do not think so."

"No," he says, "so that I could drive you."

Her eyes soften a bit, and she reaches out to squeeze Tony's hand with a smile. He grips the tan hand fiercely with both of his own.

"You're sure you're okay?"

She rolls her eyes and retracts her hand long enough to twist her wet hair into a neat ponytail. The second her hands fall back to her side, they are again enveloped by Tony's.

"I am fine," she tells him. "It is you I am worried about."

He blinks, surprised. "Me?"

Her voice lowers, though I doubt either remembers that I am here at all. "Abby told me what happened that night."

His entire face slackens, suddenly looking older, weathered and pained. "Then you know why I blame myself."

"Wrongly. If there is anyone to blame it is myself."

He shakes his head. "How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Because you know it is the truth," she says calmly. "Now get going or Gibbs will be angry."

He hesitates, still clutching her smaller hands. "Dinner? When this whole undercover schpeal is over?"

She smiles. "Of course. Now, was there-"

I step forward, a bit awkardly, and try to smile. "I am Elle St. Pierre, I'm working with Tony undercover."

She gently disentangles her hands and steps forward, offering one hand to me and leaving the other in Tony's grip. "I am Ziva David, Tony's partner."

I look at the joint hands, at the tangled fingers, and at the way Tony is watching the slim Israeli, and I wonder what 'partner' means.

"Did you need Tony for something?" Ziva asks finally. I shake my head.

"Actually, no. I had a few questions for you, Agent David. Is there somewhere we could talk?"

Ziva considers, then nods. "I was going to take my lunch break soon anyway. There is a good cafe a couple of blocks down."

I am hungry, so my nod and smile are entirely genuine. "That sounds good."

Ziva turns back to Tony. "Let Gibbs know for me?"

"Don't come back after lunch," he instructs. As she opens her mouth, looking ready to protest, he continues, "Look, no matter how tough you are, the fact of the matter is that you're hurt, Zi. Do us both a favor and just lay on the couch for a while, okay?"

She sighs. "Call me later?"

He nods. "I don't know when we're getting home. We were up until almost 0300 last night, right, Elle?"

I nod. The bags under my eyes, visible even through my makeup, are a testament to the painful truth of that statement. Ziva simply shrugs.

"Then stop by instead. I will be awake. Agent St. Pierre, let me grab my things, and then we can go to lunch."

I nod, grab my own things, and follow the partners out of the locker room, wondering if this is chemistry.

If so, I don't see that there's much I can do about it. I'm good, but I'm not that good.

The people have the power. Should I write a chapter 2?