The World Cup (football/soccer) has just begun in Brazil. England and Italy played their first match yesterday. I know Americans aren't as keen on soccer as we are in the UK but I thought that Tony might like any sport ...

I've only seen season 10 so, in my head, Ziva is still around – sorry that messes with the timeline.

"Hey, Tony. How you doing?" asked McGee cheerfully as he entered the squad room; well, as cheerfully as he could for having to come to work on a Sunday.

"Fine," replied Tony, sitting somewhat forlornly at his desk.

"What's wrong with your voice?" asked Ziva as she joined her co-workers.

"Nothing," said Tony a little defensively.

Ziva and Tim sensed a mystery so packed their weapons and backpacks away and came to stand in formation in front of Tony's desk. They delivered a joint glare which was not as intimidating as an everyday Gibbs glare but was not without effect. Tony wriggled,

"Hey, there's nothing to see here. Go about your business." He switched his computer on and tried to look efficient.

Ziva and McGee looked puzzled. There was definitely some unusual quality to Tony's voice but they couldn't put their finger on it. Or, to be completely accurate, Tim couldn't put his finger on it. Ziva thought she couldn't put her thumb on it. As they stood there considering their next move, Gibbs swept in and took the scene in at a glance.

"Too much celebrating last night, DiNozzo?

Tony's head jerked up, "No, Boss. It was a school night. I just had a couple of beers. Honest."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed as he too noted something odd about his agent's voice.

"Of course," said McGee triumphantly, "it was the match last night. Too much cheering, Tony?"

"What match?" asked Ziva.

"England versus Italy. In the Football World Cup. Not real football; soccer," explained Tim as Tony seemed reluctant to expose his voice to further ridicule. Tony, however, couldn't quite let the soccer slur pass him by.

"Don't let Ducky hear you say soccer's not real football, McSomethingican'tquitethinkofatthemomentbutI'llgethere."

"Oh, football," said Ziva in a tone which gave due testimony to her opinion of any game which involved a ball, "a game, I should have known."

Tony winced at the dismissive tone but decided to take the high road. He pulled a folder towards him and opened it with a deceptive air of interest. McGee, encouraged by Tony's unprecedented failure to find a nickname for him, hastened to explain further.

"Yes, Ziva. Tony was watching the match last night. With Maria."

"And who is Maria?" asked Ziva a little frostily.

"My cleaner," whispered Tony, apparently hoping that a lower volume would serve him well.

"Are you so desperate that you are retorting to dating your domestic staff?" asked Ziva.

"Resorting," corrected Tony.

"Aahh, so you admit it," said Ziva.

"I don't have domestic staff, Ziva. Maria is a mature student who is working her way through college by doing some cleaning work," said Tony in an attempt at a lofty voice.

"How mature?" asked Ziva.

"Early fifties," said Tony.

"I see," said Ziva in a mollified tone, "and why were you watching soccer with your cleaner?"

"Her TV's broken. And besides, who wouldn't want to watch a game on my TV?"

"I would not want to," pointed out Ziva.

"True, Ziva," said Tony, "but Maria is a soccer fan,"

"She is?" asked McGee.

"She's Italian, McGee. Of course she's a fan."

Gibbs felt the beginnings of a tension headache. His team had only been in the office for ten minutes and they had already started on one of their interminable cycles of bickering and misunderstanding. Hope triumphed over experience and he tried to cut it short.

"So what's wrong with your voice, DiNozzo?" he asked.

An odd look crossed Tony's face,

"Nothing," he protested with a touch of hysteria.

McGee drew his cell out and tapped out some commands,

"Hmmm, Italy beat England 2-1. I guess you did a lot of cheering?"

Tony shrugged his shoulders, "Not as much as you might expect, Mc ... no, I haven't got it yet."

"But you must have been excited that Italy won?" queried Ziva

"It wasn't that simple, Ziva. I had another visitor as well."

"Another cleaning lady?" asked Ziva darkly.

"No. Crispian," replied Tony.

"And who is Crispian?" asked Ziva.

"Tony's cousin, from England," supplied Gibbs.

"Of course," said McGee, "cousin Crispian, who cost Tony his inheritance from Great Uncle Clive."

"So, your voice is odd through having a shouting match with your cousin?" suggested Ziva.

"Of course not," said Tony. "He's family. You don't fight with family."

Ziva, Gibbs and Tim all considered the blatant absurdity of this reply but Tony seemed sincere. Gibbs sighed but continued to try and move things along,

"So, what's Crispian doing here?"

"He's over here on business," said Tony, "he called me. Asked if he could come and watch the game with me."

"Why?" asked a mystified Ziva.

Tony looked equally puzzled, "It's the experience, Ziva. If you can't be there in person it's much better to watch it with someone. It's about atmosphere." Tony seemed to sense that Gibbs' patience was wearing thin, "so I said yes but then things got a bit complicated."

"How so?" asked Gibbs, becoming interested despite himself.

"Well, snacks for a start," mused Tony.

"Snacks?" asked McGee.

"Yes, McGourmet," said Tony, apparently relieved he had found one nickname at least, "Maria had offered to bring snacks but I knew they would be Italian. You know, pizza, lasagne, cheeses ..." Tony closed his eyes as he fell into a happy reverie. Obviously Gibbs's glare was noiseless but somehow it seemed to penetrate Tony's dream and his eyes snapped open. "But that seemed a bit tactless so I had to think of English snacks to make Crispian feel at home."

"What are English snacks?" asked McGee.

"I don't know!" said Tony plaintively, "the Brits seem to eat everyone's food. They like pizza, burgers, chicken korma, Irish stew, kebabs ..." he fell into another happy dream.

"OK, we get the idea," snapped Gibbs, "so what did you get?"

"Sausages – not frankfurters, because that would have been German. Roast beef and ..."

"And?" asked McGee.

"Marmite soldiers," confessed Tony.

"I have not heard of a country called Marmite," said Ziva, "is it a particular region of England? One with its own army perhaps?"

The familiar tap of Tim's fingers on his cell soon brought up the answer.

"It's not a country, Ziva, it's a sticky brown paste made of a by product of beer brewing. Very popular in the UK, apparently."

"That sounds disgusting," said Ziva, "and what do soldiers have to do with it?"

"Soldiers," said Tony patiently, " are slices of bread cut into fingers."

"And why would one do that?" asked Ziva.

"So they're the right size for dipping into a boiled egg," said Gibbs unexpectedly, "good for children."

Ziva shook her head at the discovery of yet more eccentricities in her adopted country, "and you like this Marmite?" she asked.

"It's an acquired taste," said Tony, "you either love it or hate it." He cast an affectionate look at a dark brown jar on his desk which his co-workers hadn't spotted before. He unscrewed the top and dipped a finger in. He scooped out a blob of 'sticky brown paste', which indeed looked as if it could be a by product of something, and licked it into his mouth. An ecstatic look passed over his face which the others felt embarrassed to observe. "I love it," he said, rather unnecessarily.

Gibbs rapped his emptying coffee cup on to his desk. Tony took it as a signal so he reluctantly replaced the top on the jar.

"So what happened next?" asked McGee.

"We watched the match," said Tony, turning a page on his folder and clearly hoping the conversation was at end.

Ziva snatched the papers away from him, "There must be something more than that," she said, "you said it got complicated."

"Hey," said Tony, "have you ever tried eating lasagne, pizza, sausages, tiramisu, roast beef, cold Yorkshire puddings and Marmite soldiers?"

Ziva's shudder was answer enough. Tony reached to pull the folder back out of her hands but her ninja senses were too quick for him, "That still does not explain the 'complications'," she pointed out.

"It would if you'd had the night I had," said Tony rubbing his stomach.

"DiNozzo!" commanded Gibbs.

"All right," said Tony grumpily, "if you must know it was a bit emotional."

"Emotional?" asked Tim, "how so?"

"Divided loyalties, McPatriot," said Tony getting into his stride again. "I mean, Italy is the country of my fathers ..."

"You have more than one father?" interrupted Ziva.

"Metaphorically, Ziva," said Tony coldly, "metaphorically, Italy is the country of my forefathers. No, Ziva, f-o-r-e, not f-o-u-r. Italian blood runs hotly through my veins. I bear the name DiNozzo with pride." It almost seemed that a tear came to his eye.

"But?" said Gibbs.

"But," said Tony, "England is the country of my mother. The land of the Paddingtons. English blood runs ..."

"Yes, we know," said McGee, "it runs hotly through your veins,"

"Well, I'm not sure about hotly," said Tony in a reflective tone, "but it does something. So I had mixed feelings watching the game. Have you ever watched a game and wanted both teams to win?"

The others shook their heads. Ziva and Gibbs always knew who they wanted to win and McGee didn't usually mind who won his on-line games so long as the explosions were spectacular. Tony sighed at their lack of empathy, "Well, it's a painful experience. And it was a close game. First Italy scored, then England got one back. Then it was half time. Then Italy scored again. Then ..." but he sensed he had lost his audience. Tim and Ziva were backing towards their desks. Tony smiled a surreptitious smile, his sports commentating had had its usual effect. The smile was not secret enough to escape the Boss however,

"Doesn't explain what's happened to your voice, DiNozzo."

Tony tried another tactic and gazed innocently at Gibbs, willing his eyes to be as big and guileless as possible. It didn't work; Gibbs' stare hardened and Tony capitulated.

"You know I have this really bad habit of picking up people's accents?"

The others nodded a bit too readily for Tony's peace of mind. Perhaps those gangster and Sean Connery impersonations had been a bit too frequent.

"Well, Crispian has this very English, proper voice. And Maria is very Italian. Can you imagine what it was like spending an evening ... a very emotional evening with the two of them?"

A look of comprehension dawned on the faces of his co-workers. They now knew what was odd about Tony – a desperate mixture of public school English mixed with passionate Italian had mangled his voice into something ... peculiar.

"I think I'll go and see Ducky," said Tony, "perhaps he can help."

"NO!" shouted the others with one voice.

Tony shrank back into his chair, shaken by their vehemence.

"Tony," said Gibbs gently, "I don't think we should add Scottish to the mix, do you?"

"Good thought, Boss, good thought." said Tony. Or at least that's what they think he said.

If Italy or England play the United States in the World Cup I might have to write a sequel!