Turning the Tables
Jimmy's soft-soled shoes squeaked faintly against the shiny sterile floor as lustful images, awakened by the familiar surrounds, danced before his eyes. Michelle was fabulous last night: willing and able to do just about anything, pretty much anywhere. His mother would be shocked to discover that, rather than spending his nights squirreled away studying hard on that medical degree she was paying for, he was making mad passionate love to a beautiful girl in obscure nooks of a federal government building. On the other hand: wasn't she was always asking if he had found someone nice? She couldn't have it both ways.
The work locations added an extra dimension of excitement to proceedings. Not that proceedings were in any way bland without them but when Jimmy saw Ducky walk within inches of somewhere they had explored, oblivious to its erotic history, it always invoked a smug smile of insider knowledge from him. He and Michelle had tried just about everywhere in the building now. As an added bonus, his claustrophobia was all but cured.
Now he was dealing with the inevitable aftermath – the hunt for clothing missing in action. He had already spent his overly long lunchbreak surreptitiously searching the broom closet, under Gibbs' desk, the interview room and MTAC. There were only a few other places left. Before him, the curtained autopsy table loomed, tantalisingly within his grasp. They had been there last night on the hard firm metal tray, her buttocks sticking stubbornly to the unforgiving surface. He was almost sure the recalcitrant bra was lying just behind the...
"Nice of you to join me, Mr Palmer," said Ducky.
Jimmy straightened guiltily. "I was looking for some…lost equipment."
"Well, you won't find it under there."
Ducky's slightly breathless voice caught Jimmy's attention. A closer inspection revealed the old M.E. was uncharacteristically dishevelled with flushed cheeks and an uneven gait.
All thoughts of his quest were banished as Jimmy's attention focused on his superior. "Are you alright, Dr Mallard?"
"Of course, Mr Palmer," Ducky panted, hobbling past him.
"Are you sure?" Jimmy carefully trod the line between comradely concern and patronisation.
Ducky stopped and turned. "Oh, don't worry about me," he dismissed Jimmy's concerns. "I've been, what did you call it - 'pumping iron'."
"Ohhhh," Jimmy said, relieved. "You know at your age, you should probably take it a bit easy. You know: work up to it."
He snapped his mouth shut, worried he had offended his mentor.
But Ducky only smiled. "Yes," he agreed, "you're probably right. I used to do a lot of it in my youth but, in the heat of battle, it's easy to forget the physical limitations age thrusts upon one."
Jimmy waited until Ducky had shuffled all the way into the adjoining office before dropping quickly to one knee and lifting the curtain. There was the bra! He grabbed at the lacy article and stood quickly, tucking it into one pocket as he went. Then a strange anomaly struck him: Michelle didn't own a red bra. Slowly, very slowly, he threaded the bra back out of his pocket. That wasn't Michelle's bra. A quick check of the tag revealed it wasn't even her size. It looked like something a woman of his mother's vintage would wear.
Horrified, his eyes swivelled to Ducky. The old man was sitting back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head and whistling.