Summary: Continuation of "TGIF," "OHIM" and "Life Is What Happens To You While You're Busy Making Other Plans." You can probably figure out what the heck is going on without reading the other parts but I've never been fond of jumping into a serial in the sixth reel; personally, I recommend playing catch-up. This is the fourth AND FINAL tale for Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge.

Note: Mildly AU.

Betas and cheerleaders: As always, I owe Tallis224 for giving me a nod, no or nudge, each where appropriate. Huge thank you to a couple of people IRL: Julie, my accountant, who took time DURING TAX SEASON to answer all manner of financial questions and Dixie, my longtime friend (yes, the same one who helped me create the Scrabble Game From Hell for "Enharmonic Interval"—as well as the dominoes variation in "Life") for the stories of being her late husband's study buddy.

And for all those who looked at the end of "Life" and said, "Wait! You're not going to leave it hanging there, are you?"… be careful what you ask for.

Genre: Drama/Minor Mystery (not precisely a casefic...)

Pairing: Ducky/OFC

Rating/Warnings: T (mostly for language and references to adult situations; you've seen worse on prime time TV and heard worse on HBO, trust me)

Spoilers: none

Time frame: Summer 2007

Disclaimer: All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

By the Way…: The title and all chapter titles are taken from a button collection started by my best friend in college who passed away far too young. She "left it" to me when she died; I have only added a hundred or so to the box, and the number is well in the thousands. She was my co-author back in the days of printed fanzines and would have had a field day on FF. In addition to the titles, she makes a brief appearance in the story; that scene is lifted 100% from real life, only the bookseller's name has been changed. (Hi, Dave!)

CHAOS—It's Not Just For Mathematicians Anymore!

by Aunt Kitty

Chapter One: Sometimes Life Will Drive You Right To The Edge… And Then Floor It

When I was eight, I almost became an only child.

My 'big' brother, Ray—fourteen and sure he'd live forever—went buddy-riding with his best friend, Jerry, on Jerry's brand-new-for-his-birthday motorbike. I'll start off by saying neither one of them were wearing any protective gear (let alone helmets). I'll segue to that light rain earlier in the day raising oil on the road—and then make a left turn into a '58 Studebaker made of solid Detroit steel. And it really was a left turn Jerry was trying to negotiate when he skidded into that chunk of metal. Jerry rolled over the hood, shattered the windshield and a list of bones as long as his arm (one of the bones on the list, as well). Ray… Ray wasn't so lucky. He flew over the Studebaker with the greatest of ease, ass over teakettle for almost three rotations, according to the stunned kids skateboarding nearby. If he had made three full rotations, he might have done better (probably landing on his butt). As it was, that last half flip landed him smack on his melon.

I was in school when it happened. (The high schools all had a short day for some sort of staff meeting, thus the free time to get into trouble.) The neighbors called Dad at the bank and tracked down Mom (she was subbing at Roosevelt Junior High that week) but I got lost in the shuffle. Nobody was home when I streaked through the (back then) always-unlocked back door. Not unusual. I grabbed my skates and made it back to the playground at Marshall Elementary in a flash. I knew I had to be back by dinnertime—but that was ages away.

Of course (though I had no clue why) the place was still empty when I got home hours later. Dinnertime came and went. Feeling a bit disgruntled (not to mention hungry), I fixed my own darn dinner, figuring it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. Peanut butter, honey and banana on Wonder bread. Not something Mom would normally okay, but I couldn't cook at that age and figured what the hell (actually, what the heck), go for the gold. I dumped half a bag of Fritos on the plate and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. I plopped in front of the tube and watched "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" with nobody hogging the set or complaining because I wanted to watch Ricky Nelson instead of "The Virginian." (Daddy and Ray always outvoted me. Mom usually abstained; she was more often than not busy grading papers or doing something to keep the house running, so she didn't watch much TV.) I was in hog heaven.

"Ozzie and Harriet" was followed by "The Patty Duke Show" (something Ray would sometimes agree to watch because he had a huge crush on Patty Duke). I wasn't keen on any of the singers on "Shindig!" so I swapped out to "The Beverly Hillbillies" and raided the cookie jar for dessert. (It was awfully tempting to dig into the cherry chocolate cake my mother had made that morning but I knew it was slated for the bake sale the next day—and I valued my life. But I put one hell of a dent in the chocolate chip cookie stash.)

It was 9:00 and I was starting to get more than a little edgy. The bizarreness of the situation was starting to hit me. My parents should have been home ages ago. Even if there had been a PTA meeting or dinner put on by the Elks or Lions or Warthogs or whatever group it was that Daddy belonged to and they had forgotten to mention it, they would have asked Gamma to come over for the evening… and where the heck was Ray? Fighting my nerves I switched from ABC to CBS to NBC, back and forth. I made a huge mistake of turning on NBC's Wednesday Night Movie—that Wednesday, it was "Midnight Lace." 8-year-old kid, alone in the house for the first time (well, alone late at night), watching sweet, innocent Doris Day being menaced by shapes in the mist and voices on the phone; it's a wonder I didn't end up on a shrink's couch. But I was so hooked into the movie, I couldn't bring myself to turn the TV off.

My parents finally got home about half past ten. The thrill of being on my own had turned into being scared because I was allllll alooooone (and still watching that blasted movie). Thus when they came in the front door, I didn't care if they grounded me for a month for my culinary digressions, I was glad as hell to no longer be the only beating heart in the house. "Where were you?" I cried, launching myself at my mother.

Being young enough that I was stuck in 'me, first' mode, I didn't notice how upset my father seemed or that my mother looked as though she had been crying.

It took Mom a minute or two to focus on me. "Oh, Cass." Her voice sounded far away, like she was on another planet. "I'm so sorry, you must be famished."

"I—I made a sandwich." No response. "Peanut butter and banana and honey."

"Oh. That's good."

"And—Fritos." She just smiled vaguely at me. "And a Coke and chocolate chip cookies." That was sure to get noticed (not to mention the fact that it was heading toward eleven o'clock on a school night!).

"I'm sorry I wasn't here, baby."

My eyes grew wide. Who are you and what did you do with my mother? I wanted to yell.

"Cassie…" Daddy took my arm and walked me to the couch to sit down. "There's been an accident. Ray's been in an accident."

It couldn't be a bad accident. He was my big brother. He was immortal. "What happened?"

He gave me an edited version of Ray and Jerry's accident. (I discovered the whole truth years later.) He spoke in the kind of Mary Poppins voice parents use when they're trying not to scare the crap out of the kids. One thing he didn't mention was my brother was in a coma.

For over a month, we had a weird rhythm. I went to school, Dad went to work, Mom called the district office. If she had an assignment for sub duty, she went to work. If not, she went to the hospital. If she went to work, she spent her afternoon at home getting dinner ready, going over my homework and grading papers and waiting for my grandmother to arrive. Once Gamma was there, Mom and Daddy went back to the hospital for a few hours to be with Ray. Nobody made a big deal about anything, so I didn't realize Ray was sitting by Death's door, twiddling his thumbs.

Years later, I asked Mom about that fall. She looked at me, puzzled. "You—do—remember Ray's accident?" I asked, worried which of us was crazy.

"Of course I do." She frowned. "I remember being at the hospital constantly, scared to death…"

"I didn't notice at the time because I was a selfish little brat, but you did an amazing job, Mom. You never fell apart. You had a hot dinner on the table every night, the laundry was always done, the house was spotless, and you never once said, 'I can't handle this.' If Gamma hadn't been there to watch me every night, I probably wouldn't have noticed the difference. How did you keep it together like that?"

"I honestly don't remember that time. I know the meals got cooked, the laundry got washed—I'm sure Mother did a lot more that just stay with you in the evening. I just don't remember the details. I guess… you just make it work."

(This was long before "Project Runway" was even conceived. The first time I heard Tim Gunn say that, I laughed until I cried.)

"I know life went on around Ray being in the hospital. Things were done that needed to be done. But…I feel as though I sleepwalked through that whole season."

I didn't really understand what she meant. Even during hell week—when I was under suspicion for having killed my ex-lover in an alcoholic fog—I noted every moment of that week in excruciating detail. (Okay. Except for the alcoholic fog part.) I just don't do fugue states.

Oh, yeah?

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

I stared at the plastic stick in my hand, uncomprehending.

There must be some mistake. I can't be pregnant. (Wanna bet?) I'm fifty-one, for god's sake. (That little fact doesn't seem to be changing the color stripe, bubbe.) I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath. And another. And another. I opened my eyes and looked cautiously at the wand again.

Yep. Still blue.

I made my way to the living room in a daze and sank onto the couch.

Pregnant.

Me.

Me. I. Pregnant. Knocked up.

I dropped my face into my hands. Oh, my god. How the hell am I going to tell Ducky?

/ / /

"Rab—" I stopped myself in mid-word and stared at the check in my hand. Check. Personal check. Signed by a Lisa McKenzie for $32.64.

"Is there a problem?"

I smiled at the young woman in front of me (presumably Ms. McKenzie). "No. Sorry. My train of thought just got derailed."

"It's Monday," she laughed. She took her bag (one of the reusable ones we sell for the princely sum of a buck, with Groceries? Sure, but I really need it for books. stenciled on one side), waved cheerily and left.

Monday. It's still Monday. Good. I glanced at the clock: 2:45.

"—order?"

I blinked and looked to my left. "Hunh?"

"Jeez, Sandy, where are you?" Valerie stared at me, clearly concerned.

I managed a smile. "Front counter?"

"Only about ten per cent of you," she said, still frowning. "I was asking if you had finished the Atoz order. I have some stuff to add to it."

Still in a daze, I pulled the catalogue toward me. Finished? Hell, I hadn't even started it. "No. No, I'm not done yet."

"You've been in a fog since you got here. Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Just—just thinking about ten things at once and only room for five in the brain."

She still gave me a gimlet eye. "If you say so… I'll bring you my list in a sec."

"Take your time…" Everything was… removed. I felt like I was three seconds behind everyone and everything else, and had the eerie sensation of being in a fishbowl. I was sure that if I reached out, my fingers would stub against a glass wall. Sleepwalking, like Mom had during the fall of '64…

I forced myself to look through the catalogue, trying to get my thoughts on an even path.

Snap on shelf tags, priced per two dozen. How the hell did I get here? Well, obviously, I drove. Did I mow anyone down or nick a fire hydrant on the way?

Plastic topic dividers, priced per dozen. Did the rug guys show up? Yeah, yeah, they did; carpets are clean, furniture catawampus and sitting on disks, area rugs will be back in the morning.

Filters for the coffee machine (nobody else on the planet carries them any more), priced per box of fifty. Oh, god, I can not be pregnant.

Perforated cardstock for bookmarks, priced per ream. Maybe it was a false positive?

Perforated cardstock for reader program punch cards for the schools, priced per ream. That's it. It was a false positive. Do it again tomorrow.

Boxes of suckers for the charity tree on the counter—Charms, Unicorns and Astro Pops, priced per three dozen in a box. (Atoz rocks. Costco, Sam's and BJ's have the mundane stuff, Office Max, Office Depot and Staples have the mundane office stuff—but Atoz (so named because they have everything "from a to z") has a little bit of everything, including stuff that hasn't (supposedly) been manufactured in years. I think the owner has a time machine in his warehouse.) You can do this. One day at a time.

Dymo labelmaker tape rolls, priced per box of six (assorted). Is this fair to Ducky? Fair to me?

Double-track Rolodex cards, priced per box of one hundred. Fair to the maybe-baby?

All the while, a metronome in the back of my mind kept time. Preg-nant. Preg-nant. I am preg-nant.

"Is there a holiday coming up?" I called out, trying to silence the tick-tock. "A party we need stuff for?"

"Labor Day?" Valerie yelled back.

I groaned faintly. Labor Day? Jeez. "So, in other words, Halloween?"

"Yeah, Halloween."

Halloween. Ducky and I started dating Halloween a year ago.

And here I am, a year later—

Not going there. Halloween we could handle with OTC, USA, BulkToys and the usual. "Oh! Hey! Cool!"

"What?"

"Atoz has a soda section now! Oh, Delaware Punch! I haven't had that since I was a kid!"

"Were the dinosaurs really that big?"

I turned and glared toward Valerie's office, even though I knew she couldn't see me. "God'll get you for that," I said in a decent Maude imitation. I ticked off Delaware Punch, Cactus Cooler, White Rock Cream Soda, Hires Root Beer—boy, it's a good thing Abby took on the end room as a project and put up about ten miles of shelving. Is soda safe while you're…

I grabbed the phone and punched a number I knew by heart.

"Autopsy, Abby Sciuto speaking!"

I couldn't help but laugh. That girl has levels of perky nobody else can mine. "Hey, Abby, it's Sandy."

"Sandy!" she squealed. I heard a faint, "Cassandra?" Good; Ducky was there. "Ducky's kind of, um, messy right now… hang on, he's ditching his gloves…"

I almost yakked at the mental image.

"Shoo," Ducky scolded. Abby's giggles faded away. "What a lovely surprise. I hadn't expected to hear from you until Wednesday."

Despite the wheeee! roller coaster ride my mind was on (not to mention my blood pressure and hormones), I smiled at the sound of his voice. True positive? False positive? We'd muddle through. Make it work… "Well… I got a lot of work done last night." (True.) "And a lot this morning." (Also true, now that I was able to recall it.) "And since Mother has all of the girls in residence for the next couple of days… I thought you might like to come over to dinner tomorrow…?"

"Not tonight?" He sounded so sad.

"All the furniture is shoved around. I had the carpets cleaned. I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Why don't you just come home to Reston?"

"The carpet cleaners will be back in the morning to put things back to rights. Seven a.m." Plus there was no way in hell I was going to take a pregnancy test with anyone else in the house. (No sense in giving both of us heart attacks if the test this morning had been a false positive. I was even glad Foot was at Ducky's (Foot can be a dreadful blabbermouth).)

"Oh. In that case—tomorrow would be lovely."

"I'll fix something special. And we can work on the floor plan for where to put what we're keeping of my stuff and what needs to go away."

"You're not putting it into storage?" he asked in surprise.

"Well… we can discuss it…" Not a lot of my stuff would merge with his. And if I put it in storage—that would be sort of like thinking the marriage might not succeed and I should keep my furniture 'just in case.' Sort of a property pre-nup.

"I wouldn't mind a new style in the house," he confessed.

"We'll make a list. Or play Go Fish and whatever pieces have the most pairs, we keep."

"Or chuck it all and start afresh?"

I stared at the phone. "You win the lottery and forget to tell me?" I know he's got money in the bank, even though I've never looked at his checkbook. But, jeez…

"Much as I love antiques—and there are a few I'd like to keep… such as Mother…"

I burst out laughing. "You are so bad!"

"You don't want to keep her? I wonder how much she'd fetch at a yard sale…"

"Ducky!"

"We'll hash over the furniture list tomorrow. Shall I plan to stay the night?" he asked, mock coy.

If you pass out when you hear the news, it may be a moot point. "I'd like you to," I said in a similar tone.

"With summer school out as of Wednesday and camp not yet started, the girls will be staying most of the week. Charlotte, for certain," he laughed. "She came right out and asked last night. Before either Lily or Evelyn could scold her, she was huddled with Mother and they were making plans left and right."

"Thick as thieves." Hmm. Imagine having a kid like Charlie…

"And Suzy was encouraging them. I'm sure any one of the three adults would happily stay with Mother and Charlotte tomorrow night."

"Probably all of them. Double the house insurance coverage—just in case." Imagine having a kid like Evelyn—a self-confessed holy terror. I wonder if Suzy does duty as a nanny, too…

"Oh, I forgot to mention—Lily got a call from the camp, they've had some sort of problem at the site. They've offered her either a cancellation with a full refund, or a half refund and move the session back two weeks. So Charlotte will be leaving this coming Monday and her farewell party is this Saturday."

"I thought we were going out someplace special this Saturday. You wouldn't even tell me where it is."

"I'm sorry, my dear, I must not have been clear." It never would occur to him that I heard things wrong; no, he was the one to make the error. "It's the following Saturday that I intend to whisk you away for the evening. And Suzy has already agreed to stay the evening with Mother."

"Can we just skip the middleman and hire her directly? There's room in back, we could build a guesthouse for her!"

"A marvelous idea, in my opinion." He cleared his throat. "So. Now that various crises are behind us…"

Silence. "Mmh?" I prompted.

"Perhaps we could discuss…?"

More silence. He was clearly waiting for me to fill in the blank. "Uh—furniture?"

"Already on our list."

I wracked my brain. Nothing. Well, nothing he knew about yet, anyway.

Ducky hummed softly. It took me a minute to recognize the bum-bum-ba-bumm… bum-BUM-ba-bumm…

"Oh," I laughed weakly. "Wedding."

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he quickly reassured me. (Considering that the last time we discussed the topic, I all but fainted in his arms from sheer panic, darn tootin' he wasn't pressuring me.) "I just thought it might be helpful to start making a list… or two…"

Oh, Ducky… "Yes," I said firmly. "We'll start making lists." Wedding lists. Furniture lists. Baby name lists. (Shiver.) "And I'll start raiding the store for books on throwing the perfect wedding." And pregnancy manuals. I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach. (Big shiver.)

Make it work. We'll make it work.

"Anything I can bring tomorrow? What time should I be there?"

"Sixish? And just your gorgeous self."

"Oh, you do the most wonderful things for this old man's ego."

If I fathered a child now, I would be eighty or thereabouts when that child learned to drive, and I don't think those two demographics should be in a vehicle with a learner's permit between them.

"You're not old!" I heard a panicked snap in my voice and quickly brought forth a laugh. "Remember what Indiana Jones said—"

"It's not the years, it's the mileage," he finished with his own laugh.

"Ducky—" My voice left me and I clutched the receiver with both hands. "I love you," I finally managed.

"And I love you." It wasn't the perfunctory, automatic response. He was thinking about the words he was saying.

"Tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow."

/ / /

It was almost six when John Mulder called. "Got your message from yesterday. Dana and I just got back from that retirement home—"

"Dana?"

"My photographer—"

I burst out laughing. "Oh, my god! Lily said they found you a photographer named Scully—they actually found one named Dana Scully?"

He chuckled in response. "Nah, her real name is Stefani. But she calls me Fox, I call her Dana and we get X-files and alien crap every Christmas at the office party. So. The retirement home. Neoma Keithley."

"Whatcha got?" Valerie was at the front counter; I was in my office, alternately doing paperwork and eating leftovers from our lunch the day before.

"Only one Neoma Keithley in the tri-state area; not surprising, it's an unusual name. She's a subscriber to the paper, both paper edition and internet alerts. 76, widowed for eleven years, late husband was a firefighter, died from liver cancer. She has two dogs, Lulu and Pickles. Collects Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, books and stuff. Loves to bake. Gardening nut. Favorite food is Italian. Goes to Atlantic City two or three times a year to play slots. Member of All Saints Presbyterian Church. One child, two grandkids."

I stared at my phone with a bit of unease. "How the heck did you get all that info?"

"Well, as I said, she's a subscriber. All sorts of information in our files. Used for our demographics and target marketing. And there's all sorts of stuff on the web; she even has a Facebook page."

"Okay," I said slowly. "I am getting just a little paranoid, now."

"I advise you don't ever watch The Net. Or read The Handmaid's Tale."

"Too late. On both counts."

"Shall I continue?"

"Sure."

"Vulunteers part-time at the All Saints Thrift Store and—ta-da—is a retired RN."

I jumped on that. "Oh, my god! Someone must have stolen her identity and they're impersonating her because, believe me, no way was the Neoma Keithley I met anywhere close to her seventies."

There was a faint snort from the receiver. "Could you pull off pretending to be an RN? I know I couldn't. First time I have to give someone a shot—hell, just read a doctor's instructions—I'd be shown up."

I slumped back in my chair. "Oh. Good point. Hard to fake specialized training."

"Plus, when you flash a license that shows you graduated college fifteen or twenty years before you were even born, don't you think someone wouldn't raise an eyebrow?"

I sighed. "Good point. Again."

"So. I called No Place Like Home—god, I need an insulin shot over that name—told them we were thinking of doing a piece on the good retirement homes, as opposed to an exposé of the 'we beat grandpa daily' type of places you usually hear about. The director was, to say the least, thrilled. Got brochures on the place, we did the tour, spent, jeez, three hours there. I've gotta tell you—" I held my breath. "It's pretty impressive."

I was almost disappointed. "It is?"

"Yeah. It's owned by a Tokyo-based consortium—very big on treating the elderly well—it's one of ten or fifteen facilities they've got out here in the tri-state, plus Delaware. Nice, bright, clean—we actually did an article on some of the dumps they have for the elderly, I'd kill someone before putting them in a place like that. But this place? Dorky name, great place. The residents seem happy, they have good staff, the place is clean, doesn't smell like—"

"Got it." I cut him off before he could ruin my appetite.

"I'm not joking, the place is like a five-star hotel. You need to be in Dunn and Bradstreet to walk in the door." I laughed. "Not far off. When we got there, there was this nice old guy applying—they have a waiting list, by the way—and part of the application is they run a credit check. Gotta make sure you can afford the place. I don't think they have poverty scholarships available."

"Yeah, they aren't cheap. Even the crappy ones."

"Listen, Dana took a ton of pictures. I can stop by tomorrow afternoon, show 'em to you, see if anyone rings a bell? There are a lot of women who sound like the Neoma you were describing, maybe she works there?"

"Okay, sure. I'll be home tomorrow, though—you mind driving to Silver Spring?"

"No problemo. What's your address?"

"8714 Blue Spruce Circle. Cross street is Military Court. Brick, white shutters, split-level ranch."

"Got it. What time?"

Ducky would be there about six… "Two?"

"Works for me. See you then."

I wolfed down the rest of my leftovers and went shopping in the store. Miss Manners' Guide to a Perfect Wedding. Do-it-Yourself Wedding Planner. Cheap Chic: Weddings on a Budget. The shelf next to WEDDINGS was, appropriately, PREGNANCY AND CHILDBIRTH. What to Expect When You're Expecting. (Popular book. We sell at least two a month.) Popular Baby Names. Unique and Euphonious: Unusual Baby Names—Let Your Child Stand OUT From the Crowd! (After what Chanda showed me in her yearbook, I was going to stick to relatively 'normal' names.)

"What'cha got?"

"Wedding books." I slipped the Expecting book under the stack. "Gotta get started."

Valerie grinned. "I can't wait for you to go all Bridezilla."

"Yeah. Right. Do I look like the Bridezilla type?" I snorted.

"You never know," she laughed, heading back to the front counter.

I sighed. Better Bridezilla than MommieDearest.

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