For my own reference: 62nd fanfiction, 35th story for NCIS. My entry for the 2013 NCIS Ficathon on LiveJournal.
"So... remind me again why we're doing this?" Tony asks, as he pulls into the parking lot next to the baseball field. Ziva had wanted to drive them there, but he'd won that argument when he sighed and said, "Ziva, the side-effects of adrenaline include headaches, irritability, and exhaustion. I googled it," he added, when she looked taken aback.
"I told you, Tony," Ziva answers now, as he parks the car. "Vance is trying to organize an agency-wide baseball tournament. We are meeting Gibbs and McGee here for a..." She pauses, her brow furrowed. "... a scrimble?" she guesses.
"A scrimmage," he corrects automatically, "and I got that part. But what makes you so sure they'll even show up for it? You know McGee spends all his days off holed up in his apartment, turning everyone's lives into thinly-veiled fiction, and Gibbs hates playing organized sports. They probably..."
But his voices fades out just then, because as they climb out of the car, he sees that McGee is already there, leaning against the fence surrounding the baseball diamond. Tony just stares for a moment, then smirks at how McGee looks paler and geekier than ever, outside away from all his screens and monitors.
Ziva grins an I-told-you-so at him, triumphant and a little smug. She calls hey to McGee as they crunch across the gravelly parking lot towards him.
"Boss showed up yet?" Tony asks him as they join him at the fence. McGee shakes his head. Tony tugs at brim of his old Ohio State ballcap – Ziva had found it on a shelf in his closet just yesterday. "What do you think, McGoo? You think the Toothpick is serious about holding agency baseball tournament?"
"Well, he seemed to be. Didn't you read the e-mail he sent out about it?"
Tony shrugs. "Eh, I usually delete any agency-wide e-mails. They're always the same stuff." He puts on his most mocking tone. "This is a reminder to all employees to please refrain from hitting and/or kicking the vending machine in the break room." Ziva chuckles.
McGee pulls his cell phone from his back pocket. "Hang on, I was just rereading it a minute ago." He taps the screen a few times, then passes it to Tony. Tony rolls his eyes as he skims over Vance's message. The dedicated men and women of our agency typically interact with each other for dangerous or tragic reasons – dealing with cases of murder, terrorism, and espionage. As director, I've searched for a way for us to spend time together in a more positive situation – and what situation could be more positive, or better encourage teamwork and sportsmanship, than an official NCIS agency game of our country's national pastime?
As he reads it, McGee turns to Ziva. "I'm impressed you got Tony to come out here, Ziva. I know he usually spends all his days off holed up in his apartment, watching movies."
Tony's head snaps up. "Hey, I was a phys-ed major in college, Elf-Lord," he says sharply. "I could play circles around you so easily, it would make you cry."
"There's no crying in baseball, DiNozzo," Gibbs says smoothly, appearing out of nowhere behind them, like always. His three agents exchange looks that clearly ask, Did you hear him pull up? No, did you? Gibbs swings open the gate in the fence and strides onto the baseball field.
"Well-quoted, Boss," Tony says, following after him. "A League of Their Own, Tom Hanks, Geena Davis. Modern classic sports movie." Even though he's known them for years, Tony still isn't quite used to seeing Gibbs and McGee outside of work, or outside of work clothes. Today Gibbs is wearing jeans and a faded NIS shirt that look at least ten years old, and he's carrying a Louisville Slugger bat that looks at least fifty. Ziva has brought along a baseball mitt and ball that Tony didn't even know she had.
Gibbs surveys the field and takes a practice swing with his bat, clearly ready to start playing, then turns and faces his agents, holding his bat out to them. "All right," he announces, "I'll pitch. Who's first to bat?"
Tony and Ziva steal swift glances at each other, then their old competitive nature resurfaces, and they both rush forward towards Gibbs, bumping into each other and both talking at once.
"Boss, I'm stronger. I'll be able to hit the ball farther."
"Gibbs, I am faster. I will be able to round the bases quicker."
Gibbs glares, draws his bat back, and looks past them to McGee. "McGee!" he calls. "Batter up!"
McGee can't help smirking at Tony and Ziva as he walks by them and takes the bat from Gibbs.
Gibbs begins by pitching easy, straight throws, so that he can gauge how far and high his agents hit the ball. They rotate positions; each one takes a turn batting while the other two play the infield behind their boss, catching the hit balls. Gibbs gradually makes his pitches faster and harder to hit, and when one of his agents misses, they have to scramble behind the home plate, find the ball, and throw it back to Gibbs, since they have no catcher.
"See," Tony says a bit smugly, as McGee retrieves another ball from the dust behind the plate and brushes it off on his jeans before tossing it back to Gibbs. "Now, this is exactly why we should've brought Ducky along. He would've been a great catcher. All he would have to do is just put on some gear and squat there."
He looks across the infield to Ziva for support, and she has to nod in agreement. Ducky would be well-suited to play catcher. After all, it isn't very different from what he always does at their crime scenes – squatting over the dead body, checking the liver temperature and pupil dilation.
"Perhaps we can bring him with us next time, Tony," Ziva says, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, her dark eyes following the ball as Gibbs throws another pitch to McGee. Her own words surprise her. Gibbs had been so reluctant to hold this baseball practice that just earlier today, she was sure that there would never be a next time. But now, as they're playing the game together, all of them seem so loose and relaxed, even Gibbs. She thinks that she finally understands why Americans call baseball their national pastime. She smiles, and then the sharp crack of bat breaks the silence, and she and Tony are both running across the grass as the ball sails through the air.
It's a hot summer day in DC, and they play ball until all of them are sweating in the sun. Gibbs has just signaled for them to take a break when, as if on cue, Abby shows up, waving to them as she walks across the grass in her black platforms.
"I wonder why she did not arrive earlier," Ziva says, as they watch her approach.
"She probably just told the boss she wasn't going to play," Tony answers with a shrug. "She's the favorite – she can get away with it."
"Hey, maybe if this baseball tournament actually does happen," McGee puts in, wiping the sweat from his brow, "she can come as the cheerleader for Team Gibbs. She's already got the skirts for it."
"And the enthusiasm," Ziva adds. As Abby comes closer, they see that she's carrying a cardboard tray of drinks.
"I knew Gibbs would probably be running you guys ragged out here," she says motherly, joining them and handing them each a to-go cup, "and I didn't want my Three Musketeers to dehydrate, so I brought you all some Caf-Pow slushies. Here, drink up."
They chorus Thanks, Abby, as Gibbs joins them from where he's been kicking the dust off home plate. Abby pauses dramatically before holding the fourth drink out to him. The cup is clear, and the liquid inside is the same light-brown color as Gibb's coffee, but there are ice cubes bobbing in it.
"And for our fearless leader," she says, "I brought something special – an iced coffee."
Gibbs's peers at the cup in Abby's hand as suspiciously as if it were a suspect in interrogation. He makes no move to take it.
"Now, Gibbs," she scolds, "don't knock it till you've tried it."
He finally slides the cup from her hand. "Didn't even say anything, Abs."
"You didn't have to, Boss," Tony says, who's just drained half his Caf-Pow slushie in one gulp. "That look on your face was enough of a knock."
Gibbs's eyes narrow as his gaze shifts to Tony. To deflect an incoming head-slap, Tony grabs Ziva's arm and they walk across the infield and flop down on the shady grass near the dugout. Abby and McGee follow and sit down next to them.
"Man, this really hits the spot, Abs," Tony says, raising his Caf-Pow cup to her. "You showed up just at the right time."
"Yeah," McGee agrees, after a long sip from his. "You are a lifesaver."
"Oh, I know," Abby answers, smiling so sweetly that McGee – after a furtive glance at Gibbs, who happens to have his back to them just then – leans over and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.
"I gotta say, I'm surprised at you, Tony," McGee says, leaning back on the grass. "I don't think you've referenced Field of Dreams once since we got there."
Tony shrugs. "That's because I always found it overrated and sentimental."
"That was the movie with If you build it, they will come, yes?" Ziva asks him.
"Yeah," Tony answers, smiling, proud of how much he's taught her about classic American movies, even the ones that aren't his favorites. He goes on, "That, and Kevin Costner's dad coming back from the dead to play ball with him."
"Yeah, that part was kinda sappy," Abby agrees, "but I liked it. My dad used to play baseball with Luca and me all the time when we were kids. He said the signals for safe and out were two of the only signs that everybody knew."
Tony falls silent for a moment, musing. He had never once played baseball with his father; maybe that was the real reason why he'd always disliked Field of Dreams. He had played baseball with other boys at his various summer camps and boarding schools, but never with his father. He couldn't remember Senior ever even watching one of his games, which, Tony imagined, had been a far cry from the mild-mannered games of suburban Little League teams. The boys at his school had all played aggressively, almost violently – a runner could never take a base without slamming hard into the baseman – and looking back now, Tony realizes that they had probably been taking out their anger over being shipped away to boarding school in the first place.
He looks over at Ziva, sitting beside him. A lock of hair had slipped loose from her ponytail and fallen forward over her face. Tony has to resist the urge to brush it back from her eyes. Not in front of the boss, DiNozzo, he warns himself. He and Ziva were lucky enough that Gibbs doesn't seem suspicious of their driving here together.
He doesn't ask Ziva if she had ever played baseball with her father; after all, the answer was almost certainly no. Tony couldn't picture Eli David doing anything as harmless as playing baseball. He was a father who'd blindfolded his young children, taken them deep into forests, and left them there to find their own way out. Ziva had thought it fun.
He looks from her back over to Abby. He always sensed that Abby had had something that the rest of them didn't. Tony had spent years taking out his anger over that in various ways, but for the last few years, he hadn't felt so angry anymore. Now he had Ziva and his teammates, and they all had Gibbs. Sure, their boss could be a hard-ass, but for him and Ziva especially, he was something that they'd never found anywhere else in their lives. Tony felt sure that Gibbs had played baseball with his daughter.
"You know," Ziva volunteers suddenly, "I just learned how to play baseball recently."
"What?" Tony asks, surprised. "You mean they let you become an American citizen when you didn't even know how to play the national pastime?"
Ziva just smiles. "I never played it when I was a child..."
I called that, Tony thinks.
"...but Gibbs taught me, not long ago. I have been working on getting him agree to play in this tournament."
Tony smiles at the thought of Gibbs teaching Ziva how to hold a bat. Perhaps it was better that she had learned the game from him, instead of Eli. He could've ruined baseball for her. His smile turns into a full grin as he stands up and tosses his empty cup in the trashcan near the gate. Back at home plate, Gibbs is taking practice swings with his ancient Louisville Slugger.
"Come on," he says to his teammates. "It's my turn to pitch. Who wants to bet I can strike out the boss?"
FIN