Summary: Some relationships can be murder. Literally.

Note: Mildly AU.

Betas and cheerleaders: LosingTrack! This story came from a challenge she had posted; you were to

select a number and it was paired with a random song. Mine was "She Only Smokes." I was in big trouble—I am an eclectic music fan, but I don't do rap and what I know about Country/Western is only slightly larger than the amount of horseradish I use in a year. (None.) But I gave it a shot—and TGIF was the result. One sequel has been posted, one is almost complete and another is in the works. I think it's safe to say her challenge got me past a nasty writer's block! (I owe you brownies.)

Genre: Casefic/General Drama/Romance

Pairing: Ducky/OFC (well, a hint of one)

Rating/Warnings: Rated T: contains random strong language throughout. No slash; no BDSM.

Spoilers: None; very vague reference to Witch Hunt (Abby's party).

Time frame: Fall 2006

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.

T.G.I.F

by Aunt Kitty

Chapter One – Bumped

Bumped refers to the corners or spine ends of a book that has been damaged by being dropped, or carelessly handled or shelved.

In 1975 Janis Ian had a big hit with "At Seventeen." I remember my seventeenth year—a little before the song. I was graduating from Langley High, my boyfriend (a sophomore at University of Virginia—a 'sophisticated older man') had just asked me to marry him, and I had been accepted at Old Dominion, Darden College of Education in Norfolk on a full scholarship. Life was skittles and beer. Well—cashews and Coke, anyway.

Fast-forward 3 years. My parents were adamant that I was not going to get married before I had a degree in hand and had marched across the field in front of friends and family. (Hey, Mom? Dad? THANK YOU!) So I busted my ass to get out in three years. Said degree in said hand, I started working at Granby High and the wedding plans went forward. Over the next year I made some important discoveries:

One, student teaching—with a senior teacher in the room at all times—had been a breeze. Two sets of eyes to see passed notes, spitballs and contraband, four hands to snap fingers and point, two voices to demand order. Working in the real classroom, on your own, was like comparing Hogan's Heroes to a real battlefield.

Two, 80% of school administrators exist to do a job and do it well. The other 20% make a teacher's life living hell. (In the ensuing 30 years, that percentage has reversed itself. In my opinion, that is.) Unfortunately, like the fringe lunatics of any group getting most of the press, the good admins were stampeded by the minority on a regular basis.

Three, I don't like kids in large quantities. Of any age. That one was a shocker. Really. I was fine with kids until I had to deal with the monsters every day for 7 hours a day—on my own. Newly minted teachers, of course, don't get "Honors English" or "History of Drama" let alone the hot project of the 70s, "Humanities." No, you have to put in your time red-penciling tedious essays, trying to pound "their-they're-there" into resisting minds and hunting futilely for that one student who loves to learn. Room 222 was a lie. The idea of doing this for the next 30 years made me want to cry.

Four, my sophisticated older man, the prince of my dreams—was a frog. A very warty frog. Was he a liar? A con man? A cheat? All three, actually. Although I wept copious tears into my I'm-just-barely-legal-to-buy-them sloe gin fizzes, once I sobered up I thanked my lucky stars that his pregnant not-so-ex-girlfriend had turned up before our 'I dos.' The $2000 I had loaned him was long gone. But because my father—who had thought Jeff was perfect son-in-law material—felt so bad about the 2K (he hadn't dissuaded me in the least), he willingly co-signed a loan to buy a small bookstore in neighboring DC. I buried myself in the eclectic used/esoteric new books store and never looked back.

Over the years I met any number of men. Most were nice. Aleksander, the gay Russian mathematician, was the best. He was totally upfront about needing a green card and I was actually toying with the notion of a marriage of convenience when his father died. Aleksi returned to Kiev and I never heard from him again. (Pity. He gave great neck rubs. He was a great cook, too. Taught me how to make some phenomenal Slavic and Russian Christmas cookies. Mmh.) The nice guys and I parted on good terms, with best wishes and a heartfelt sigh. The others—clones and cousins of Jeff, who made me pound my head in frustration over my blindness—ah, those were heartfelt curses and wishes for retribution worthy of a Danielle Steele novel. My response was always the same: drink myself blind, smoke like crazy—and then bury myself in work. Since the good guys outweighed the bad 4:1, I only went crazy every few years. Well... maybe 3:1.

So when I met Commander David Sutton, I wasn't on the rebound. My last romance—with a horticulturist associated with the National Arboretum who promised to name a hybrid rose after me (a very sweet parting gesture, I thought)—had ended months ago on a positive note. I wasn't looking for romance, but I tripped over it. Or, rather, over him.

It was a gorgeous spring day. A Monday. The van was in the shop for its zillion-mile tune-up; taking the Metro for my errands was an insanely long drive, but even keeping my pace to a casual stroll was only a forty0five minute jaunt. And the day was picture postcard perfect, crisp and clear, Washington in early spring after the snows have fled.

David was enjoying an al fresco lunch at Anacostia Park. I had met a vendor for lunch and was walking back to store via the scenic route, ignoring the scenery of the scenic route and thumbing through a catalogue of Tarot cards and other mystical items. The catalogue proved too interesting—I veered off the path, tripped over my own feet and landed half on David's bench. His lunch ended up all over his uniform; I apologized profusely and promised to pay the cleaning bill or for a replacement (Navy whites being hard to keep spotless). He demurred; I insisted. I won (I got his card); when the bill came a few days later, he refused to tell me the amount until I agreed to let him take me to lunch. "I don't normally fall in love with every woman who lands in my lap, but for you I'll make an exception."

"You get a lot of women falling into your lap?" I pretended not to hear the 'fall in love' as I munched my salad.

"Thousands," he confided, grinning.

I could believe it. He was, to use the parlance of my younger employees, "DDG." Somewhere between 45 and 55, ash blonde hair that had gone snow white with nobody noticing the difference, dark green eyes and a killer smile. Quiet, yet commanding presence (which made sense, he being a Commander and all). He was the Navy liaison with Blackthorne, a local think tank. "What do you do?"

He gave me a Cheshire cat smirk. "We think."

Over the next few months, things escalated rapidly (for me, anyway) and as summer moved to fall, I actually found myself thinking those scary words: this might be the one.

Of course, life is what happens while you're off making other plans.

The end to a perfect week: a far from perfect Friday. Or, if you will, a personalized definition of "tres awk" as my youngest niece would call the moment.

What could be more flippantly romantic than dragging a picnic lunch to my sweetie's office? Nothing, according to my besotted mind. So I, dressed in my ego-enhancing favorite outfit, left the store in capable hands and showed up (unannounced, of course) lugging my special Asian chicken slaw, broccoli pasta, iced raspberry green tea (decaf for David) and—ta-da!—cream puffs. His secretary was just walking out, so I walked on in. To my delight, David was there.

To my horror, so was his wife.

Seems she lives in Los Angeles and flies out once or twice a month. He returns the favor the other weekends (so much for 'confidential Navy business'). She was cool enough to compliment my outfit, catty enough to add, 'Spring, '93, yes?'—and sympathetic enough to finish with, 'Chanel never goes out of style.' (She was in the rag biz; show-off.) It gave me the élan to smile and toss off, "Enjoy the lunch," and leave.

Surprise!

Yeah, just like the old story about Noah Webster—supposedly his wife walked in, caught him in flagrante delicto and cried out, "Noah! I am surprised!" to which he replied, "No, my dear, I am surprised, you are astonished." Ba-dum-bump. I'll be here all week, please remember to tip your waitress.

I know I'm well past that age where I've got a better chance of being kidnapped by a terrorist than I do of getting married—and that's okay. At the half-century mark, I'm happy to skip the whole white lace and orange blossom crap if I could just find a guy who isn't a class-A jerk of some definition… and the relationship lasts more than three months. I wasn't taking any bets. It seemed to be a mathematical law: if we made it past 90 days, I discovered he was a louse, a scoundrel, a rogue. Or, maybe after three months, I brought out those qualities.

Boy, what a depressing thought.

I drove back to M Street like a bat out of hell and put David on call block just to be safe. I then changed back into clothing more suitable for scurrying up and down rolling ladders, locked myself in my office and took my angry embarrassment out on my delinquent accounts for a couple of hours.

Threatening people with late fees, hearing suppliers' voices quivering over delayed shipments and eliciting promises of hand delivered payments the following week improved my mood—for about ten minutes. After bitching and sniping from one end of the store to the other, I was gently taken outside by Ev Campbell, my manager of more than a decade, and politely informed that if I didn't get the hell out of Dodge, she and the rest of the staff would quit en masse. (The last time she made that threat, she carried it out—nobody showed up the following day and I had to grovel to get everyone back. Grovel a lot. I also had to stay away for a week.) "Bad breakup?" Yeah, she had known me for a while.

"You could say that." I leaned my back against the cargo van and kicked my heel against the tire over and over. How adult. "He's married."

"Sandy … He's not worth it." She slipped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick hug. "You deserve better. Much better." She left it at that; she didn't ask for details, and I sure as hell wasn't in the mood to give them.

"Can I pick 'em… or can I pick 'em?" I muttered morosely.

She ducked into the office and returned with my purse, which she none-too-delicately shoved into my unresisting hands. "Go. Don't come back. I'll turn the office lights off." She plainly remembered my M.O. from my prior big pileups on the romantic freeway. I went. I didn't plan to come back. And if she turned the lights off—well, hell, it would match my mood.

With a stop at Circle K for cigarettes (buy 2, get 1 free on Camels—it still killed most of a $20; when the hell did smokes get so high?) I stomped the half-mile or so down the road to The Salty Dog. Not the closest bar, true, but it's got a four-hour happy hour on Fridays and staff that will let you sit in a corner and pickle yourself and make sure you get home in one piece. Plus, it's right down the way from the Navy Yard, so infrequent bar fights are settled very, very quickly.

I parked my sorry butt on a corner stool as far away from the door as possible. Happy hour? What a misnomer—for me, anyway. "Strawberry margarita. Frozen. Extra large. Double." Woo-hoo, first of five fruits and veggies for the day.

"Half price appetizers until seven," the bartender encouraged.

Never did have lunch, come to think of it. "Okay, gimme a plate of Whupass. Extra guacamole and lots of chopped tomatoes." Two more for the food pyramid. "Got a match?"

He handed me a box of small wooden matches with The Salty Dog logo—a bulldog in a sailor's suit—on the front. I shredded the wrapper to a pack of cigarettes and shook my head as I lit the first stick. I swear, the last time I broke up, smokes were half what they are now. Hmm. The last breakup was a couple of years ago, but I had relied on cigarettes stuck in the back of the fridge—bought during the Clinton administration—so I could be right on the price. But they still were just what I needed to hit that achy-breaky spot.

"Well, hel-loooooo there!"

I almost groaned out loud. Spare me the former frat boys on the Friday night prowl. "Hi," I said shortly, turning back to my margarita, hoping he'd take the hint.

He didn't. "I'm Tony." He flashed his pearly whites.

"I'm not."

He laughed like I was the lead act at Comedy Tonight. Please. It wasn't that funny. "I've never seen you before."

It was sorely tempting to tell him I'd had the bookstore down the road for almost thirty years—but that might encourage his GQ-and-Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition-reading self to cross my front door. Pass. "Nope."

"Tony?" Great. Two of them. This one didn't look like a Predatory Pi Kappa at least. He looked like the kid the Greeks bullied into writing papers. Jeez. I really should go home and drink. Cheaper, no guys hitting on you… but I don't like smoking in the house. (Plus, I make crappy margaritas.) Not to mention the killer nachos, which had arrived. I took a last drag on my cigarette, ground it in the ashtray and attacked the nachos.

"Hey, those look great. Are they as good as they look?"

Before I could say anything, his friend piped up. "You got those last Friday, Tony, with the extra jalapeños and—"

"Did I ask for your input, Probie?" The smile was still game-show sharp, but the tone was off a notch from before.

"Listen, I'm old enough to be your mo—" I reconsidered. "Much older sister." I figured anyone over 35 would be out of range for Tony the Tiger; he was just hitting on me to keep in practice. "I came in for a drink. By myself. And a smoke. By myself." And after my lunchtime melodrama, I didn't want the time of day from anyone with a Y chromosome.

He threw his arms wide. "But it's happy hour! Emphasis on happy! You need someone to help you be happy!" He was the self-appointed happiness czar. Goodie.

"And my emphasis was on 'by myself.' Said it twice, even." Why was I talking to this jerk? Would I never learn? I let out a breath and tried to be polite. "Sorry. It's been a bad day." Hopefully he wouldn't take that as encouragement.

"No problem. Been there, done that."

"I just really… really… want to be left alone. Please." Maybe sincerity would succeed where sarcasm had failed.

"Gotcha." Proving that there is some sort of higher power in the universe and it just might be female, he grabbed his friend's arm and tugged him a few feet away.

I picked at my nachos and ran through my first margarita and half a pack of Camels, giving the bartender a finger up and a point to the glass when I was down to the last half inch. The crowd around Tony and Probie (it had to be his last name, no parent would give a kid Probie for a first name without considering the money it would cost in shrink bills) had tripled. Another nerdy guy with round glasses, a mop of wavy dark hair and a kind of scared, rabbit-y look to him—Tony probably steamrolled over him, too. Two young women—one looked like she could be a model or maybe a club singer; every time Tony started going over the top, she'd lean over and say something to him that would smack him back down to earth. I immediately liked her. The other sounded like she was maybe in her thirties, but looked like she was shooting for thirteen. She kind of reminded me of my youngest niece, Sharon. Obviously dyed black hair, overdone make up, tats, outrageous clothes—a Goth by anyone's definition, but with a joie de vivre most Goths would sneer at. I didn't know her name, but I'd seen her in the store a couple of times. (She was pretty memorable.) So when she got shuffled to the edge of the group and made a pouting frown at my cigarette (number 11) and said, "Those'll kill ya," I didn't take much offense.

Instead, I flipped the pack over to the Surgeon General's warning. "I'll be damned. You're right." I took a drag and blew the smoke away from us. "Of course, the way people drive in this town, I'm probably gonna get picked off crossing the street before Joe Camel gets me in his crosshairs." She wriggled her shoulders and bobbed her head in a comme ci,comme ça gesture. "Besides, I don't smoke."

She looked at the overflowing ashtray and lifted an eyebrow. "You're doing one heck of a good imitation, then."

That made me laugh. "Well, you know how it is. Sometimes the only cure for what ails ya is a smoke and a drink." My second fishbowl-sized margarita arrived. "Definitely a drink."

"I'll get that." The voice came from over my left shoulder.

My peripheral vision caught a slick suit closer to my age than Tony and his crowd. "No, thanks."

"Pretty lady like you alone on Friday night—"

"No thanks." There was something that reminded me of dear departed Dave—minus his Navy duds. I wanted to throttle him. (David, too, for that matter. Despite my strawberry anesthesia, I was still 'righteously pissed' at him. The idea of closing my fingers around his neck and squeezing the life out of him had a certain appeal.) (Oh, my, maybe I shouldn't share that with the universe.) "I pay my own way." I deliberately turned toward not-Sharon-but-a-good-substitute and realized my cigarette had gone out. I reached for the matches and found my unwanted friend reaching for them, too.

"Allow me."

"No." My voice was sharper and louder than I'd planned, and it caught the attention of Tony and his group. Their conversation screeched to a halt as they all gave him what my mother called 'the hairy eyeball.' Particularly the petite brunette who kept Tony in line—she looked like she could kill with a snap of her fingers. I definitely liked her. With a muttered comment that it was probably better I couldn't understand my 'friend' melted back into the crowd.

"Some guys just don't understand 'no,'" not-Sharon said sympathetically.

"Yeah, well… I'm just not in the mood for crap like that tonight."

She cocked her head. "I know you from somewhere, I just can't place it."

"See people out of their element…" I trailed off. Jeez. I came in to get lost in a margarita, not to chitchat with the populace.

She snapped her fingers. "Papyrus!"

I sighed. "Yep."

The last member of the group, a man a few years older than I with gorgeous blue eyes (uh-oh, warning buzzer—danger Will Robinson, danger!) looked up. "I thought you looked familiar. You were kind enough to locate a copy of Rutlidge's Encyclopédique de Poisons, les Toxines et les Venins for me." His pronunciation was flawless.

Tracking down a book on poison… published only in French… from the 1920s and long out of print … had been a challenge. "Hope you enjoyed it." Enjoyed probably wasn't my best choice of words, given the topic. I sure had enjoyed the $400 sale, though.

"It was riveting. Astonishing." I remembered some of the other purchases from his customer history—opera, ethnology, etymology, history of printmaking, medical and surgery reference books from pre-1900, plus a plethora of mystery authors, just to name a few. Astonishing kind of applied to him, too. I had only dealt with him a few times, but he had quite a sales history over the years. You tend to remember sales cards like his—they help make the payroll.

Okay, I was still pissed at the male half of the species, but I wasn't going to let David screw me over professionally as well as personally. "You used to bring your mother in."

He looked surprised—and pleased. "It's been quite some time. At least ten or fifteen years."

I wracked my brain. "She wanted… an OED. Unabridged."

He grinned. "Until she discovered that the regular-sized print version ran twenty volumes and would cost well in excess of a thousand dollars. She decided to cease challenging in Scrabble and concentrate more on bridge." He tapped a finger to his chin. "She also became quite captivated by a dress you were wearing, wouldn't give me a moment's peace until I had tracked one down for her."

The infamous Chanel suit. "I remember. Hope she liked it." I was considering burning mine.

"Oh, it's one of her favorites. She swears it knocks twenty years off her age."

Nifty. I smiled politely and turned away. Ugh. Lounge Lizard was two seats down. If I moved, would I find a corner in the bar where people would leave me alone?

I managed to stay out of future talk by concentrating on my cooling nachos and staring at the row of exotic liqueurs along the back of the bar and working on my second—then third—drink. The nudge for another cigarette asserted itself; I almost jumped when a lit match came up to the end of the cigarette, lighting it before I had a chance to say yea or nay. I turned, ready to shoot the bar reptile down in flames as it were, and found myself looking into slightly amused blue eyes. I bit back my snarky comment. "Uh—thanks."

"You're welcome. I may decry the habit—"

"But you're a gentleman, nonetheless."

He inclined his head slightly. "I try." I couldn't help but smile; he wasn't the type I usually drifted toward, but he was nice (as well as good-looking). And god knows my usual type had given me some real winners over the years. "I heard you tell Abby you don't smoke." He looked faintly perplexed.

"I don't." He cocked his head further and gave me an, 'oh, really?' look. "Really, I don't."

"You can quit anytime?"

His smile should have made me want to slap him silly, but instead it made me laugh. "No… because I'm not really smoking. Not like other people who smoke. I just smoke once in a while."

"Mm-hmm. Far be it for me to act as your conscience—"

"No, really, the last time I smoked was—" I had to do some mental math. "Two years ago. Almost three."

"Good heavens! Why end such a successful break of an addiction now?" He held up a hand. "I apologize. That was beyond discourteous of me. It was absolutely boorish."

I shrugged. "I'm not offended. It's… habit. On occasion. I knew a writer who hated even being around cigarettes—but when she was doing a final draft, she chain-smoked like she owned stock in RJ Reynolds."

"More a psychological need than a physical one." He looked at me shrewdly.

I didn't ask if he meant Charlotte —or me. I held up my credit card for the bartender and knocked back the last of my final drink. It was still early enough to be safe walking back to the store, even after my primarily liquid dinner. I smiled at him benignly. "Dunno."

"Are you going back to the store?"

"Yep. Long weekend ahead." I made a snap decision right then to completely rearrange the store layout. Booze and cigarettes would distract me only so long; a massive project would be better. "Moving everything in the store; total reorganization."

He shuddered faintly. "Did you walk?"

"Sure didn't drive."

"Will you be all right going back? Would you like a ride?"

I stopped in mid-signature, taken aback. There was none of the 'hey baby, hey baby' you normally get at that hour and with that question. There was just… concern. "No, I'm… I'm okay." The bitchiness drained from me. "Thank you." I handed the credit slip back to the bartender and slid off the stool.

"Be careful." He smiled, taking the sting out of the words.

"Angels and ministers of grace will defend me," I misquoted.

"Hamlet."

Of course he'd know that. "Star Trek, too, I believe." Some perverse imp gave me a mental tap on the shoulder. "Our revels… now… are ended." The words came from memory long ago, halting at first. "These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air." I could feel him staring as I pulled out the words. "And like the… the baseless fabric of this vision… the cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself," I was on a roll. "Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial pageant faded… leave not a rack behind." A chill swept over me. "We are such stuff as dreams are made on… and our little life… is rounded… with a sleep."

He stared at me for the longest moment. "The Tempest." His voice was barely audible.

Nobody else had heard my absurd tangent. "Mmh," I said in agreement. I was still a little unsettled; where the hell had that come from and why? Jesus, I memorized that for a sixth grade recital! I shoved my cigarettes into my purse. "Good night." Out of left field, a name popped into my head. "Good night," I repeated, "Dr. Mallard." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, I slipped through the crowd and into the night.

Our revels now are ended… I thought of Dave and squeezed my eyes shut. Shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial pageant faded… leave not a rack behind.

One can only hope.

-1-