Disclaimer: My computer monkey and I (What, I have a little monkey that hangs off my monitor. His name is Mojo, like he's my helper monkey.) are working on owning NCIS, but so far? We got nothin'.

Spoilers: Angel of Death, the cursed season finale.

Summary: You didn't think Ducky let Ziva drive home, did you? And, being a gentleman, he wasn't just going to shove her in a cab and wash his hands of the matter.

"Stop saying it's the tequila! I have super ninja senses!"

Ducky reached out to steady Ziva as she came close to toppling off her stool. "I'm not disputing you, my dear. I'm just saying that your judgment may be a little impaired due to the alcohol. I'm sure Tony is quite all right."

"Yeah…sure." Her thumb hovered over the call button on her phone before she snapped it shut, coming close to sliding down her stool in heap under the bar as she shoved it into her back pocket. "You're totally right, Ducky." She set the saltshaker down on its side and it rolled off the counter. "If he doesn't want to spend time with his co-workers and friends in a social setting, that's his loss."

"Exactly." He grimaced as she licked her hand and downed another shot. 'Impaired' was never a word he had been able to associate with Ziva. At the very least, he could be sure that her depth perception was suffering because when she tried to bring the lime to her mouth, it hit somewhere on her neck and fell down the front of her shirt. "Oh, careful now…"

"Uh-huh." She made no move to retrieve the errant lime wedge, allowing her chin to drop against her chest as she stared at her cleavage. "If Tony were here, he'd offer to get that."

"I hope you aren't suggesting…"

"No, Ducky." She sighed and withdrew the lime with two fingers. "Do you think they're too small?"

He took the empty shot glass she was fiddling with from her uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. "It's not the size of the drink, it's how many you've consumed."

"I mean my breasts. Are they too small?"

"Ah, well…" Ducky swallowed what was left in his glass and set it on the bar. "I think it's high time you and I departed. We'll just settle the tab and be off. Where is that bartender?"

"Answer the question."

"Well…I think you're quite well-proportioned." He adjusted his bowtie as he stood. "Bear in mind that I have considerable experience measuring and judging body types."

"I don't usually think about it, but you're right. They're too small. I bet she has huge, massive…" She indicated a distance of roughly eighteen inches from her body as the bartender approached.

The man gave them a tired smile. "Anything else for you two before we close up?"

Ducky immediately replied, "Oh, I think we're all…"

Ziva interrupted, "One more. On me, Ducky. For the street."

He wasn't able to correct her as the bartender eyed him suspiciously. "Are you driving her home?"

"Yes, which is why I switched to plain mineral water over an hour ago."

"That's right. Sorry, but it's been a long night." The bartender winked and pointed to each of them. "So a mineral water and a shot of Sauza Conmerorativo? Coming right up."

Five minutes later, Ducky helped Ziva with the complex mechanics of putting on her jacket. She caught herself on the bar as she spun too quickly in a hunt for all her things. "Do I have my phone?"

"You put it in your back pocket some time ago."

She gave her butt a resounding smack. "There it is! Now where are my keys?"

"I have them."

She giggled and burst into a snippet of song, "Ducky, you can drive my car!"

"Actually, we're taking my car. I spoke to the bartender and he said it would be all right for you to leave yours in the lot until you're in a fit condition to drive it." He slipped his arm through hers, lending some support as he directed her toward the door. "You're coming home with me."

"I know it's last call, Ducky, but I think you can do better."

"I highly doubt that." He gave her his best debonair smile and gently pushed her through the front door. On the sidewalk, he realized that the wariness he'd experienced when she'd had her second to last shot would have been more helpful several shots previously; she was profusely apologizing to the mailbox she'd walked into leaving the bar. He bowed as he gallantly extended his arm. "Allow me to escort you to your chariot, mi'lady."

She accepted with a curtsey and they made their way to the parking lot. "Where are your horses?"

"Pardon?"

"Chariots need horses. Like those cheesy yet romantic carriage rides through Central Park on the weekend no one ever found out about when you snuck away for some time together where you wouldn't have to worry about getting caught." She sighed melodramatically and tugged on the door handle. "Your handles don't work."

Ducky looked at her carefully, contemplating the value of asking questions at the moment. If the conversation led where he suspected it would and she remembered it, she would most likely be embarrassed and possibly stop trusting him. He settled for staying in the moment. "As I'll be the one driving, perhaps you should sit in the other seat."

She waggled a finger in his face. "You can't trick me with that accent. I know for a fact that we're in Washington and the wheel is…unless…did I sleep through the flight?" She gave a loud bark of laughter. "I bet I really pissed off Customs!"

He guided her around the back of the car and opened the passenger-side door, making sure her extremities were safely tucked inside before closing it. Returning to the driver's side, he muttered to himself, "I don't know that I have the energy for this at this time of night."

She had managed to fasten her seatbelt by the time he started the engine. He swatted her hand away from the gearshift and she pouted. "No one ever wants me to drive."

"Yes, well…" Ducky trailed off. He hadn't had direct experience with Ziva's driving, but he'd heard enough from Tony and Timothy to form a very clear picture of it. "Perhaps we'll go joyriding some other time."

"Hm." She turned to face out the window, watching the streetlamps pass. "That's how it started out. Just going for a ride."

"I'm sorry, how what started?"

"Our carriage ride. We woke up and didn't know what we wanted to do so we just drove around. Then he asked me if I'd seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail and when I told him I had and I thought it was funny he made a phone call and got tickets to see Spamalot on Broadway that night. He knew someone. He knows lots of things.

"He knows some of my secrets, too. That's one of my secrets he knows – I like musicals. We stayed at a nice hotel and went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the next day even though he didn't want to. He didn't want to take the carriage ride either." Ducky noticed that even though her eyes were now trained on him, her gaze was far away. "Maybe that's why. I told him too many secrets and made too many demands and he got sick of…he could have said no to the museum."

Ducky nodded, not wanting to encourage her to reveal more at this point, in spite of his curiosity. "Well, sometimes things just aren't meant to be."

"No, things have reasons. There's always a reason – you're not good enough or there's someone else…this isn't where I live." She pointed out the window with a befuddled expression.

"No, my dear. We're at my home. It was a shorter drive and I have a spare bedroom in need of an occupant for the night. And, in all honesty, I'd rather you not be alone after drinking so much." They made it into the house and up the stairs quietly, without incident. Ducky opened the last door at the end of the hall. "There we are, bed all made up for you. The bathroom is across the hallway. Why don't I fetch you a receptacle in case of emergency?"

She nodded, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He was about to help her over to the bed when a voice rang out in the hall, "Donald, have you brought a woman home? Naughty boy. Well, do be sure to keep it down so an old lady can get her beauty sleep."

"Mother, Ziva is a colleague."

His mother tottered down the hall in her long nightgown and robe. "Aren't you a pretty young thing? Well, I won't tell anyone in your office. It isn't as if that handsome young man you work with ever calls."

"Tony?" Ziva asked, perking up for the first time since leaving the bar.

"No, dear, something less ethnic. Matthew? Yes, why doesn't Matthew ever call? You did give him our number, didn't you Donald?"

"Who's Matthew?" Ziva asked, swaying.

"Mother doesn't grasp the distinction between 'Jethro' and 'Matthew'," he said softly. The last thing he needed was a late night dialogue between a drunken Moussad Officer and a demented Scotswoman. "Why don't you get yourself into bed? I'll see to Mother and be back with that emergency bucket for you."

Ziva smiled, stumbling slightly as she disappeared into the guest room. When he went in to check on her a few minutes later, she was fast asleep on top of the covers and fully dressed. He carefully pulled her shoes off and tucked a blanket around her. Brushing the hair from her face, he said softly, "Good night, my dear. And don't fret. He'll come around."