Donald Where's Your Trousers?
- -.-. -. . .
Present
The door to Autopsy slid open to let two quibbling special agents in. They fell silent as they looked around, expecting the Medical Examiner, but finding the room empty.
"Ducky?"
Ziva peeks through the door leading to Ducky's office. Not a soul in there, either. Tony squirms between her and the door frame to step in.
"His computer is still on, so he must be around."
"Call of nature, perhaps?" Ziva observes as she makes to retreat.
Tony had other ideas and sauntered purposefully towards Ducky's desk and the computer.
"What are you doing?" Ziva hissed, glancing over her shoulder to check the elevator. Never having been one for invading other people's privacy – least of all at NCIS and, more specifically, her friends' and coworkers' – she didn't want to be caught in the act, doing that very thing.
"Oh-ohohooooo..." Tony laughed in his peculiar way when he'd found something funny he could use against one of his favorite victims.
Ziva glanced his way and, curiosity getting the upper hand from caution or respect for Ducky, she quickly joined Tony at the ME's workstation.
"Have a look a THIS, Zee!" He chuckled, unable to contain his glee.
She stared, blinked, stared again, her eyes nearly popping from their sockets before she burst into laughter.
Tony didn't hesitate and emailed some of the pictures to his own account, before making sure the action was deleted from the Sent Messages.
They couldn't stop themselves from giggling and they both were still at it when they boarded the elevator. By the time they exited at the bullpen and sank down at their desks, they were their professionally selves again. As if nothing had happened.
Their coworker only briefly peeked from his position under his desk where he was fixing some cables and only frowned when, after a minute, he heard a stifled snort from Tony.
- -.-. -. . .
One month earlier
Agent Timothy McGee put the coke and popcorn on his bedside table before throwing himself on his bed with a contented smile, pulling some cushions behind his back.
He settled back and turned on his LG flat screen. Now, at long last, he had time to watch that DVD that Tony had insisted he take with him. It was an old black and white movie - with actors that had in all probability long since died - Tony himself had burned from an old video. Tim leaned over to the bedside table to check the title: The Odd Man Out. He pursed his lips and shrugged, leaning back against the cushions. Well, it better be good.
He picked up the remote control, aimed at the screen and pressed the on-button.
The movie was only halfway through the opening credits when the doorbell rang.
Tim reluctantly got off the bed again and padded bare-footed and clad only in boxers and an old T-shirt, through his apartment to answer the door. He yanked it open, expecting Tony having decided to pop in to bug him.
"Timothy."
McGee squinted and asked a little puzzled: "Ducky?"
Nope, this was certainly not the person he'd anticipated - au contraire! The Medical Examiner making a social call would be pretty much like a train derailing.
"Yes. Yes… I do realize my showing up on your doorstep is rather unexpected. For that I wish to offer my most abject apologies. But…" Ducky started.
Tim could only stare for what seemed like an eternity, "...his mouth literally agape…which gave him the appearance of a fish on dry land." Ducky couldn't help but think.
"Unexpected?" Tim softly repeated to himself, before he recovered himself from the shock and, stepping out of the way, invited the doctor inside.
"What happened, Ducky?"
"Ah! I'm awfully sorry to disturb you, but, well…"
McGee was becoming increasingly worried by Ducky's uncharacteristic nervousness and begged him to sit down and went to prepare the man some tea. By the time he'd darted into his room to get his coke, the water was boiling and he poured it into a pot which he took to Ducky, along with a box containing a variety of tea-bags.
When both were good and well enjoying their drinks, Ducky cleared his throat.
"I'm here to ask you a favor, Timothy."
Tim waited for more to come, but Ducky was anything but forthcoming, which had Tim fretting with impatience. Would he have to literally drag out of Ducky why he showed up at his door at this hour?
"A favor…?" Tim gently pressed, inclining his head and raising his eyebrows. This was so odd: the otherwise eloquent Ducky having problems expressing himself.
"Eh…yes…yes… You see: the thing is..."
McGee stifled an exasperated sigh and decided to speed things up a bit for the good doctor.
"What's the problem, Ducky? You needed a favor. Where do I come in?"
Ducky took another sip of his tea and eventually the words tumbled out.
"I have family coming over for St. Andrews... From Scotland. This year, it's my turn to host the supper. You should understand, my dear Timothy, I don't see them that often." He explained.
Then he continued, waving his hand to demonstrate a long stretch of ... whatever. "You know, an ocean to cross and all that. They still keep to the old traditions."
"Yesssss...and... I still don't see what this has to do with me."
Then, he blanched as a thought occurred to him. No. No way. The ME wasn't going to ask him to play pipes or anything? Or do a Sword Dance? Oh nononononoooo...
"Of course I'll be doing the cooking. Good old Scottish fare. A cock a leekie for starters. Haggis with bashit neeps an' champit tatties. For dessert, I'm thinking of a tipsy laird... Yes, I might do that. Or, maybe not... An Edinburgh Fog... Ah, we still do have some time. No need to hurry."
"Ducky... Please?"
If the doctor didn't hurry answering that question, there would be no guarantee that this very Special Agent Timothy McGee wouldn't be the first to Gibbs-slap the good man! "Aarghhh!"
"Ah yes... what I would like you to do... Yes... Ah... I was wondering, Timothy, if you would help me – be my 'usher' so to speak." Ducky explained.
"Your what? No, nonononooo... You're joking, aren't you. Yes. You're kidding. C'mon, what do you really need me for?" Tim laughed a little too nervously to be genuine.
"Honestly, my boy. I can't do it all by myself!" Ducky threw his hands up.
"Can't you find someone else? Gibbs? Yes, that's right: Gibbs. He's your buddy."
"He has other plans already." Tim could hardly believe it, but he actually saw Ducky pout.
"Tony?" Tim offered, with a look of the most abject pleading ever displayed on a person's face.
He fervently prayed. "Please, please, make him call Tony and leave me out of this."
"In all honesty, young man, do you see an Italian ever take the place of a true Scot?" Ducky made it almost sound like as if it was blasphemy.
Tim frowned and protested. "I'm not a Scot, either, Ducky."
Ducky waved his hand in dismissal: "Fiddle-faddle, lad."
He leaned over to jab a finger in Tim's chest in his eagerness to press home his conviction. "Yuw arre a Scot by naaame, Timothy Mag Aoidh..."
Needless to say, his statement set off another thing and he promptly engaged into a song.
"Ye Jacobites by name..."
Tim closed his eyes in exasperation and a frustrated groan slowly rose in volume.
At last, the ME took pity and become his sober self again.
"My sincere apologies, my dear Timothy. It was such a good opportunity and I..." He waved his hand in dismissal. "Oh-aye."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Oh-aye indeed..."
"Could you just come to the point, please? What is my connection with this...this... whatever! Just for the record: last time I remembered, the McGees came from Ireland. Not Scotland, Ducky, and..."
"Oh but there you are very very wrong, my dear laddie. The McGee branch that emigrated to the Americas may have come from Ireland, but the clan definitely has its origins in Scotland!"
McGee couldn't but stare at this Ducky sporting as smug a smile as he'd never seen in all his years at NCIS. He rubbed a hand across his face in exasperation and shook his head.
"However, I will spare you a long story about your ancestry – or rather, what little I know of it. But I'll tell you in short about mine."
Tim sighed with relief. Finally!
"I'll oblige you by giving an answer to your questions, Timothy. As you may already have surmised, my name has nothing Scottish about it. No. In fact, my family, on my father's side, is of Swiss origin. My mother, on the other hand, was a Campbell. They were rather infamous, I'm afraid. I could regale you with numerous horrific tales of murder and the everlasting feud between the Campbells and the McDonalds."
Tim waited and, relieved when Ducky didn't embark on one of those tales of murder, only just stifled a sigh.
The doctor poured himself another cup and they enjoyed their drinks in companionable silence.
Ducky decided to continue.
"It's been a longstanding tradition in my mother's family to get together on St. Andrews for dinner followed by a wee ceilidh. Usually, there is quite a large number of our clan attending this dinner and, to accommodate such a crowd, the clan rents a hall. This Campbell branch is a large one. Ah, Timothy, you should see this. Quite a spectacle, you know? Impressive."
Slightly more patiently, as Tim had by now resigned himself to the situation, he waited for Ducky to continue.
"Of course, it will not be on such a large scale as in Scotland, since few could afford the crossing, time wise or otherwise."
Tim nodded in agreement.
"So I plan to book a small hall. We do have one in George Town that's perfect for the occasion."
Ducky took another sip of his tea and Tim reached for his glass of coke.
"Can you dance, Timothy?"
Tim sat bolt upright and spluttered, spilling coke over his T-shirt and boxers, and some even spurting from his nose! Going all crimson, he quickly brought his hand up to his face and made a dash for the sink, a worried Ducky in his wake.
"Oh my dear boy! Let me help!"
McGee grimaced and waved the good doctor's help aside as he blew his nose in a paper towel he'd torn from the kitchen roll. He then dashed into his room to change into fresh boxers and some sweat pants, for some more modesty now that he had the chance, before returning to his seat, a little out of breath.
"Well? Can you?" Ducky pressed on.
"I...ah... accompanied my mother to dance classes... My father... Well... Uhm... yes, I think I can dance. Left handed I may be, but at least I'm not cursed with two left feet. I didn't stumble too much over my own feet, nor did I step on my mothers..."
His eyes assumed this faraway look as he thought back to those classes with him mom, and then he resumed, admitting: "...and I rather enjoyed myself. Even if I was partnered with my own mother."
Then he was focused again. "Don't tell me you want me to dance?"
"Well, there's the ceilidh, my lad. Since I'll be doing most of the cooking – some of the ladies will insist on helping, as usual – and considering my age, I won't be much good at calling and dancing. Of course I'd like to participate in some of the dances... When I get the chance, that is."
As he saw a protest starting to set on Tim's face, he hurried on. "But I will teach you the most popular ceilidh dances."
Tim groaned in defeat. If Tony ever learned about this, there would be no end to his teasing, Tim knew.
- -.-. -. . .
St. Andrew's Night
"Oh, Ducky! This really won't work. Aw, man!" Tim complained like a petulant child.
Tim was fidgeting as the ME was turning him around, adjusting straps here, flatten pleads there, pulled the pair of braces tighter.
"Will you stand still for once?" Ducky gave him a sharp jab in his ribs which was harder than intended, for McGee cringed and winced.
"Awww! Was that absolutely necessary?"
"Sorry… If you would just stop acting like a child!" Ducky chided.
Tim grudgingly obliged and let Ducky fiddle away. He sensed the doctor was a little nervous and it was best to let him have his way, for all parties concerned. So he let Ducky turn him this way and that and was relieved he didn't suffer any more stomps in his ribcage.
He buttoned his starched, white shirt and went to stand in front of the mirror to tighten his bow-tie, and heaved a sigh as he took in himself.
"Ducky, I'm really sorry man, but I…" He pleadingly tried to explain, spreading his hands out in frustration as he turned around to face this man he considered a dear friend to whom it was hard to deny anything.
"Nonsense, young man. Don't you fret. You'll do just fine. Just – fine." Ducky replied and patted Tim on the shoulder in encouragement. "Now pull on those hoses."
"Oh dear…you do need to put on some more flesh, my dear lad. A good thing there are adjustable and elasticated garther flashes." Ducky chided gently. He thought Tim's ribs stood out a little to prominently and he had to make some extra adjustments to the garment, but now, as he looked down at Tim's legs… bony knees – oh-aye. Can't be helped. - Ducky had little doubt that the ladies would still find his young friend quite the looker… even if Timothy would never be convinced of the way the fairer sex felt attracted to him.
"Now do sit down a second, Timothy, for I want you to consider a few behavioral adjustments... I recall my grandfather giving me some good advice when I was a wee lad... He said: "Donald, be a man when you wear your kilt and sit like a lady.""
Tim gulped, promptly stopped his leg bouncing and squeezed his knees tightly shut. He cursed himself that he let himself in this. He was secretly dreaming up a number of excuses to call this off. Now, if he played sick? He groaned. Nah. Wouldn't work: Ducky would be the first to check on him and find him to be malingering.
He didn't realize his not so silent groaning had attracted Ducky's attention. Ducky's medical attention!
"Timothy, my lad? What's ailing you?" Ducky asked him with a look full of concern.
"Oh, ah... nothing, Ducky, I was just thinking... that..." he desperately tried to come up with something, puffing up his cheeks and rolling his slightly bulging eyes upwards "... I'll need a haircut." He smiled sheepishly. "God, hadn't he tried that one before?"
"Timothy, you look absolutely dashing! No need for a haircut..." It suddenly dawned on him and he frowned at the odd excuse Tim had uttered. "Haircut?"
"Sorry, Ducky," came the mumbled reply.
"Never mind. I want you to meet someone, Timothy. Someone...close to me...Very close. Anyroad, let's get back to you. Now what we can do is ..."
And so they discussed the last minute details for an unforgettable night.
- -.-. -. . .
Present
Both Tony and Ziva scurried back into the bullpen, trying to outrun the other like two schoolkids. The looks of glee on their faces was priceless.
One of the other agents, on his way back to his desk from a trip to the break room, a styrofoam cup and a Mars bar in his hands, nearly spilled his coffee as they ran past him. Oh yeah, the close-knit Gibbs-team were a bunch of nutcases. Was he lucky the people he worked with were at least behaving like the professional agents they were instead of these illustrious four... He shrugged and continued his trek to his desk at the far end of the room, dismissing the odd behavior of his colleagues on the MCRT.
Tony was first at his desk and impatiently opened his mailbox and clicked the email he'd sent himself mere minutes ago from Ducky's PC. Soon, he had a slide projection going on the plasma and he joined Ziva in front of it.
They both snickered and laughed as one picture after another appeared on the large screen.
Ducky at the head of the table, standing very erect and solemnly, holding up a knife. The next picture, he'd plunged the knife into some yucky looking dish.
"What's that...thing!" Tony exclaimed, pointing at the screen in disgust.
"I believe that's haggis." Ziva explained, scrunching her nose as she went on. "A Scottish national dish of offal in a sheep's stomach."
Tony turned to him disbelieving. "What?"
Ziva chose to merely shrug.
"Oh! Who's that with Ducky!"
"They look close, don't they? And...isn't he smiling?"
Ziva leaned closer and her mouth dropped open at a picture of McGee in full kilt-swirl as he swings with a beauty in a long ball-dress.
"He appears to be enjoying himself." Ziva observed, tilting her head this way and that as she studied every picture of a kilt wearing McGee – he did look quite dashing, dancing with a variety of ladies – some very young and others...not that young anymore. Tim standing on some sort of a stage holding a microphone and gesticulating with the other hand, explaining...whatever. Smiling Tim at dinner, leisurely leaning his elbow on the table, a glass of wine in that hand, and engaged in a lively conversation with the lady on his right...
There was something oddly familiar about this lady... Onto the next photo, taken at a closer range. In this one, Ducky held the woman in a warm embrace. And on yet another...she was...kissing...laughing Ducky...on his cheek, albeit. They were certainly well acquainted, close even.
"Oh...my...God!" Tony involuntarily stepped back in shock, till he felt the edge of McGee's desk.
"She... Doesn't she look like... Don't they look... Does Ducky have a...a...daughter? How come he never mentioned her?" Ziva squinted as she tried to look closer.
"H'm... We can check this out later. I want to see more McGoo pics. I wonder what he wore under that kilt."
The both laughed at a photo of Tim, flattening the back of his kilt to his thighs as a young boy, sitting on the floor on his knees, tried to get a peek.
"Seems like you're not the only one, Tony." Ziva smirked. "A relative of yours, maybe?"
At that moment, McGee entered the squad room. He slowed his pace as he neared the two staring in rapt attention at the plasma.
The next picture saw McGee sitting on a settee, one leg crossed over the other.
"Wonder if Ducky hasn't any pictures the Kilt Inspector took...Is it true what they say about men in kilts? I'm dead curious about what you wore under that kilt, McStripper." Tony cheekily asked as he turned towards Tim, who stood behind him and Ziva.
Ziva chuckled. "Wouldn't that be considered a sexual assault if that...what did you call that person, Tony?...ah, that Kilt Inspector took a photo without consent?"
"Next time you're on a gig, McTighty-Whity, I volunteer to check the kilts, right? By the way, you seemed quite comfortable..."
Tim went beetroot, and with a growl threw himself at Tony, grappling for the remote control.
His personal coach had trained him well and soon he gained the upper hand. He flicked off the screen and resolutely seated himself at Tony's computer to delete the mail sent from Ducky's.
Tony, straightening his clothes and combing his fingers through his hair, didn't object. He'd had his moment of fun.
Finished, McGee was his cool self again and got up to go over to his own desk, smirking at Tony and Ziva.
He'd just flipped open the first file from a stack that sat waiting for him on the corner of his desk when Ducky walked in, making a beeline for Tim, waving a CD.
"Ah, Timothy! I've just returned from taking Ailsa to the airport. You left quite on impression, my lad! She has confided to me how much she enjoyed your company and what an accomplished dancer you are! And she was quite persisting that I let you know she hopes you do keep in touch with her."
He nodded, his eyes alight as he remembered this latest St. Andrews Night, which proved quite a succes.
"Yes. Ailsa also said she couldn't remember when she last enjoyed the Strip the Willow as much as she did dancing it with you."
That was enough to make McGee go crimson again, and him noticing how Ziva and Tony were listening intently, smiling broadly, didn't improve matters.
"Oh and I've put all the pictures on a CD for you. There are some really nice ones, Timothy. Memories of an unforgettable evening. I can't thank you enough for being there." Ducky laid the CD on Tim's desk and turned on his heels to walk back to the elevator, oblivious to the three pairs of eyes following him.
There, as he stood waiting for the doors to open, he faced Tim again.
"Which reminds me...will you do me the favor of joining me for Burn's Night, too!"
-oo-FIN-oo-