The Director's Bad Choices
by channelD
written for: The NFA Weekly Writing Challenge #8: Setting. The aim was to put a character (or characters) in a new setting for them.
rated: K plus
spoiler warning: for events mentioned at the end of Judgment Day (part 2) and leading into Last Man Standing
genre: crack!fic or general goofyness
author's note: This is from an idea that's been in my mind for some time: What if Vance had made different assignments? This WWC seemed a good opportunity to write it up.
disclaimer: I own nothing at all of NCIS, but I applaud the show's humor potential.
May, 2008:
"You three are being reassigned," new Director Vance said coldly. He ignored the shock on their faces as they heard the bad news. "And Gibbs, here are the files on your new team members."
Late May, 2008:
I should have said…I should have said, "And why don't you reassign me, if you dislike me that much, Leon?"
What did I ever do to you to deserve this group?
Gibbs stared at his hosed computer and sighed. How many goodwill points would he have to eat this time to get it working again?
September, 2008:
"Where's NCIS, sir?" So asked the CPO of the COB, each hand formally gripping a formerly-brawling sailor.
"Same place he always is, Chief," said the COB of the Ronald Reagan with a smile. He liked the guy, but…
"In his stateroom? Does he ever come out for air?"
"Not so that anyone has seen. Is this some issue you can't resolve yourself, Chief?"
"'Fraid not, sir. It appears they were fighting over each other's marijuana stash."
The cob frowned. "Well, good luck."
Minutes later, the CPO was knocking on a certain door.
"Go away. Please," came a voice from inside. The CPO took that as a signal to enter.
"Begging your pardon, but I'm bringing up these two on drug charges, Agent McGee."
From his bed, Tim pulled himself into an upright position, over the protests of his rolling stomach. His red eyes he visually shot daggers at the young sailors. "You will wish you had never heard of drugs by the time I am done with you," he said.
They quaked. The reputation of the man who let his delicate stomach control his nerves was a fierce one. He would, they know, make the charges stick to them like lint. Glued lint. Superglued lint. One of the sailors looked ready to cry.
The CPO felt a little sorry for them. Certainly, there had never been a tougher, meaner Agent Afloat than Timothy "Upchuck" McGee. Since he'd arrived on ship, 31 sailors had been taken off on charges, and another eight were begging for reassignment. On the rare times that he left his cabin, the crew always "made a hole" for him.
Eli David looked back and forth at the planner spreadsheet on his computer. Tomorrow, Tangiers; next week, Khartoum. It was a hectic schedule for a singer, but he was sure this one could pull it off. Reasonably sure.
Somewhat sure.
Okay, maybe there was one chance in 100. He sighed.
The door burst open. "Eli, what they're asking of me is too much!"
"Tony, Tony, Tony; relax…"
"Relax? How can I relax? They want me to wear a violet lounge lizard suit when I'm up there on stage! Even Liberace wouldn't be caught dead in this…sequined monstrosity!"
"Liberace is dead."
"That's not the point. You have to get them to give me a better wardrobe, or I just can't do it! And don't start in again about that blue backless dress! The DiNozzo men do not wear dresses! Ever! End of story!"
"If the fit is too tight, I can get it altered…"
"I am not wearing a dress!"
"No need to shout; my age-related hearing loss isn't that bad. Is it my fault that Leon Vance, my otherwise good friend, sent you to be a singer-spy rather than my daughter? The dress would look stunning on her."
Tony thought a moment, and considered that seeing the dress on Ziva would be A Very Good Thing. "But Ziva's not here, and I am. You have to deal with my wardrobe requirements."
"Tony, my friend, you have such a good voice that you could sing onstage naked and no one would notice. Except the local authorities, so don't try it. So tell me; how can we compromise?"
Tony hesitated. "Make the suit navy blue."
"The sequins stay."
"Black, then."
"Done. Knock 'em dead, as you Americans say."
"Be very careful, Robert. I'd suggest you take the long way around."
"Why?" the tech guy whispered back to his coworker.
"Don't go by Ziva's desk. She has a brand new box of paperclips."
Gulping, Robert did indeed take the long way around the subbasement, where the Cybercrimes people worked, to get to the men's room. He had no desire to cross Ziva David.
"You stupid—!" Ziva suddenly yelled at her computer, following it with a string of swearing in Hebrew that pinkened the faces of those who understood it, and worried everyone else.
"You!" Ziva suddenly barked at the closest co-worker, a middle-aged, rather plump and frumpy woman named Rosie. "There is clear evidence of bank account theft going on at this address, the home of a Marine couple. Go bring them in for questioning. Arrest them if you need to. We have probable cause."
Rosie gaped at her, not feeling her bad back for once. "But, Ziva, I—I'm not an agent. I don't have a gun. I can't just—"
"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?"
"N-no, Ziva. Of course not," Rosie said fearfully.
"Good! That is what I like to hear." Ziva printed the address as Rosie reached for her purse and raincoat. "Oh, and since you do not have a gun, take some of these." She smiled as she shook a few paperclips from the new box into the woman's hand. "I hope you do not have to use them."
Ziva settled back in her chair as Rosie left. This as a good job, and a good fit for her, she knew. If only she didn't have to have someone tell her which program to use half the time.
Quitting time came. All of her coworkers scrambled to get on the elevator first, as they did every day. Why they did so puzzled her. Just because she had lashed out one time when that man, Tyler, pushed the close door button in her face…He was back at work now, after all. He had only been out for three days. Or was it three weeks?
"Goodbye, boss!" the workers chorused to her, now all smiles because they were leaving. Secretly, most of the men thought that her dangerous air was hot.
I can't work with these people. I'll go insane. Gibbs picked up the desk phone, as he did at the same time every day. "Leon," he said, "you know what I want. And I want it now. Bye."
"Trouble, boss?" asked the man in the desk across from him.
"Nothing to concern you, Palmer," Gibbs said, stifling a sigh. "Go back to what you were doing."
"Okay, boss," Jimmy Palmer grinned. But his grin wasn't for Gibbs, but rather the new file clerk who was walking by.
Jimmy Palmer, girl magnet, Gibbs thought in amazement. It was the same with every case: women flocked to him, confessed to him in Interrogation, even made up crimes so that they could confess to him. They were wild about him. He must throw off pheromones like a sheepdog sheds hair.
"Got anything on the supplies-locker bandit?" Gibbs asked another of his team.
Cynthia Sumner didn't look up; her eyes were on the beautiful fingernails that she was perfecting with an emery board. "He has been taken care of," she murmured.
"Aw, not again, Cynthia! You can't use deadly force on every case!"
"Watch me."
"That's not what I mean."
"Isn't it?"
"Stop murmuring," snapped the third team member. "I have age-related hearing loss. I can't hear you when I'm typing."
"I thought you had all our desks bugged, Kort," said Jimmy.
"I do. But the quality of these listening devices that the General Accounting Office gave us isn't great, and I have age-related hearing loss."
Gibbs felt a pain, and looked at his clock. 9:25. Yes, his daily headache was right on schedule. "Kort, can't you do something geeky to impress my superiors?"
"I am a master of geekitude," Trent Kort, formerly of the CIA, said from behind his cobra-hooded eyes. On his desk was stacked the popular book series, Computing for Hopeless Adults¸ volumes 1-6.
"Geek out a location for the embezzler we started after yesterday, then."
"Ah…okay." Kort called up an online Yellow Pages, and started searching under 'E'.
"I'm going for coffee," Gibbs sighed. First, he went up to Vance's office.
Vance had not yet found a secretary to replace Cynthia, so he was rotating NCIS employees in the position. "Ah, Jethro!" Ducky greeted him from behind the big, outer office desk. "Go on in! I'm sure he's not doing anything important."
Gibbs halted. "Do you ever ask?"
"Now, what fun would that be?"
Gibbs nonetheless knocked, and went in.
"Leon, I want my team back."
"So you said, a few minutes ago, on your daily phone call. The answer is 'no'."
"But the team you've given me is ridiculous! Two of them aren't special agents, and certainly haven't been to FLETC! I think Palmer thinks FLETC is a city in Romania! And Kort…he isn't even on our payroll!"
"You can't argue with success, Gibbs. Your team's stats are through the roof!"
"Sumner is leaving a trail of bodies everywhere she goes!"
"You exaggerate," Vance tutted. "Nonetheless…I am prepared to return your team to you."
Gibbs did a double take. "You are?"
"Yes…David's feisty attitude is doing something to the computers in Cybercrime, McGee's costing us plenty in seasickness medication, and I don't move fast, we'll lose DiNozzo to an Italian recording deal."
"Well…good," said Gibbs, being too surprised to say anything else. "What will happen to Palmer, Sumner and Kort?"
"Back to where they came from. I gave them to you because I thought one was a mole. Now I'm convinced they're all just…strange. Let them go back to their old playgrounds. Besides…I really want Cynthia back. I'm convinced Ducky listens in on my conversations and doesn't give me phone messages."
"I do not!" came Ducky's angry voice over the intercom.
-END-