Disclaimer: I wish I had a hot chocolate or ownership of NCIS. Actually, wait here. Shoot. I still have neither, so I'm having a glass of wine instead.
Spoilers: Minor for Legend pt. 2 – like, it kinda doesn't matter if you've seen the ep, minor. Other assorted eps are also referenced, plus some made up things from the realm of unicorns and faeries. Not really. Shun the nonbeliever! Shuuuuuun!
Summary: No beverages in MTAC? Since when? Since this and other things happened at some point in the past. Humor, because things are a little too serious in NCISistan and it is time for a (temporary) regime change.
Director Vance took his position behind the podium after Cynthia's unnecessary but kind introduction and cleared his throat. He knew he was about to make himself very unpopular, but he hadn't accepted the position of Director of NCIS with a view to being elected homecoming king. Glancing around the packed room as he took a sip of water, he was gratified to find that even Gibbs had made the effort to come. Vance cleared his throat again and began, "Good morning. Thank you all for coming. Several issues have come to my attention of late that I feel need to be addressed not to the agency as a whole, but to the men and women working in this building. Rather than going on the record to clarify what I believe to be simple lapses of judgment," he was unable to stop himself from looking up to check on the current behavior of the group bunched up in the rearmost row, "I expect that you will all leave this meeting with a renewed commitment to employing common sense in the workplace.
"That said, if the changes I mention today are not made of your own volition, they will be codified into policy, the breaking of which will result in administrative sanction or official reprimand."
He allowed an agitated murmur to pass through the room before continuing, "First, we have IT staff with high enough clearance to repair any piece of technology in the building. Here is their number." He tapped the left button on the remote in his hand and the extension appeared on the large screen to his right. "Use it."
O
Ziva closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to five, but holding down her arrow over the 'okay' button in the dialogue box had just resulted in a mass of overlapping, identical dialogue boxes taking over her screen. Her hand tensed into a fist around the mouse. After a glance around the bullpen to confirm she was alone, she hissed, "I know the operation is prohibited. That is why I clicked 'okay.' I agree with you! It is not like you are giving me another option."
Although the boxes did not acknowledge her logic by disappearing, she relaxed as she heard the printer come to life. She could handle losing whatever data was currently hidden by exclamation points in yellow triangles if she had the hard copy to refer back to. Reaching for the papers as the noise stopped, she was chagrined to find that they were difficult to read, being unusually light. The printer flashed a message on its tiny digital readout – 'Black ink low!' The lid gave a satisfying crunch as she yanked it up and shoved it against the partition. The fact that the ink cartridges appeared for only a second before retreating (in what was presumably fear) under the casing of the printer served to calm her for a moment. There was a simple solution, after all; she could darken the pages by adjusting the settings on the copier then fax them instead of emailing them.
The copier required more kicking than normal to produce even vaguely useable documents. The uncooperative fax machine proved to be less responsive to blunt assault.
McGee returned to the bullpen shortly after Ziva had resumed her seat. "Ziva?"
"Yes?"
"Did you…misplace one of your knives?"
She was unable to suppress a smile as she glanced at the implement in question, sticking out of the sparking fax machine. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Oh…no reason."
Before he could sit, she asked, "Would you mind having a look at my computer?"
"Sure." She was fairly certain he didn't think she overheard him when he muttered, "I'd hate for you to run out of knives."
O
"…the soap is there for a reason." Vance allowed his gaze to drift to a man from Personnel in an ill-fitting sports coat in the third row who was studiously staring at the floor.
"Number nine – leave Interrogation as clean as you found it. The regular janitorial staff is only responsible for so much, so call the appropriate people when biohazards are involved."
O
Gibbs crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, perfectly willing to wait for PFC Conrad Charles to decide that talking was the best option, given the evidence. He'd already played a round of 'How long at Leavenworth?' with DiNozzo during the car ride back from the base with Charles in the back seat and the kid was still sweating. It was a real shame – he'd had a good record and looked to have a promising career before getting mixed up in this drug smuggling ring.
Gibbs reached forward to pull the file toward him. He casually flipped through, making sure he paused on the photos that clearly showed Charles smiling at the stacked bricks of cocaine. He stopped when he got to the one he wanted. "Faceless guy with a clipboard. You can always tell the guy in charge because of the clipboard." He tempered the urge to rap on the glass to interrupt whatever glib remark DiNozzo was making in Observation about him never having one. "Don't see you with a clipboard in any of these pictures, Marine."
PCF Charles continued to stare at the table, looking vacant and pale. He was just a scared kid.
"Judge might go easier on you if he knew you cooperated with…"
Gibbs shoved his chair back as Charles threw up impressively on the table. The sudden mix of odors in the room told him that vomit wasn't the only problem. DiNozzo's voice came through the speaker, "We're calling Ducky, boss."
Ducky arrived quickly, relieving Gibbs of responsibility for the sick suspect. In the hall a few minutes later, he explained, "It's likely just a flu, Jethro, but I suggest we get this young man to the hospital."
"Yeah, do it. McGee, go with Ducky and PFC Charles. DiNozzo, David, with me. Charles gave up a name."
"Lemme guess – was it Bleurghhhhhh?" DiNozzo seemed careful to make sure that Ziva was between himself and Gibbs when they stepped into the elevator. "Is that, like, Romanian? Or something?"
"Mitchell Crowley."
"Oh. Thought his name would be coming up again. In fact, Ziva, didn't I say that right when…you don't care, boss." DiNozzo was quiet until they made it to the bullpen to retrieve their gear. "What about the mess downstairs?"
"Go get a mop if you wouldn't rather pick up a major drug smuggler," Gibbs replied with a scowl.
O
Vance clicked his remote for the final time. "Does anyone know what this number represents?"
Answers were shared among the assembled crowd, some meeting with more laughter than others, but none were clear enough for him to distinguish. "Since I know you are all dying of anticipation, this is the cost of getting a vetted carpet cleaning service to shampoo the rug in MTAC. So the twenty-fourth and final change by which I expect you all to abide is no more beverages in MTAC. Period."
O
Tony knew exactly what was going to happen when felt himself flinch as the building on-screen exploded, but was unable to do anything to stop the terrible chain of events. He thought for a moment that tightening his grip on the coffee cup would compensate for the tilt in his wrist and save them all some trouble; instead, he altered the shape of the cup just enough to pop the lid off, sending a flood of coffee into Ziva's lap. She jumped out of her seat with a shocked yell, throwing her own cup forward involuntarily into Gibbs' back. In the single piece of good luck, the lid didn't come off, keeping splatter to a minimum until the cup hit the floor. Gibbs' cup soon joined it.
Tony went with his first instinct and immediately tried to take Ziva's pants off. "Tony!"
"The hot coffee is on the fabric, so you need to get the fabric off your skin to stop the burns from getting worse." He thought she was just ignoring his advice out of spite until he caught up to her in the elevator. "Are they sticking?"
"Tony, get out!"
He knelt to help her step out of the pants. "Maybe you should…"
"Your coffee did not reach that high," she interrupted, shoving his helpful hands away.
He grinned in spite of himself. "Sorry."
"For scalding me or for trying to rob me of my remaining dignity?"
"I'm sure Ducky has some kind of magic remedy for burns." She snatched her pants from his grasp as they arrived at Autopsy. He followed after collecting the shoes she'd kicked off in the elevator. "I really am sorry."
"I don't care if you're sorry, just be more careful with your hot liquids in the future!"
"What is all the…oh, my!" Ducky appeared from one of the mysterious doors that likely led to supply closets. "My dear, I'm almost afraid to ask."
"I spilled coffee on her," Tony volunteered, doing his level best to look as dejected as possible while still appreciating the fact that Ziva wasn't wearing pants. It didn't get any easier when Ducky disappeared to gather burn-treating supplies, leaving Tony in charge of running cold water over Ziva's reddening thighs. Still… "Been awhile since I've seen your tattoo…"
O
"Thank you for your time. I trust we will not be requiring another meeting of this nature." He waited until the shuffle of feet began to move toward the door to call out, "Agent McGee! A word, please?"
McGee approached him nervously. "Yes, sir?"
"McGee, you may have noticed that I didn't refer to any incidents strictly specific to you during my presentation…"
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't interrupt me, McGee."
"Sorry."
Vance allowed a frown to do the cowing before continuing, "I didn't refer to your hacking because, on a limited basis, it has proved beneficial. However, in the future, you are not to hack into any other agency, business or teenager's email without tacit approval from above, no matter what Ms. Sciuto says to convince you to do so. Is that understood?"
"Absolutely, sir." McGee half-ran to the door, but paused just before leaving. "I especially liked your seventeenth new rule, sir."
Vance had to glance back at his notes to read, There will be no threatening of co-workers' lives, regardless of how little forensic evidence will be left at the scene.