Disclaimer: Everybody says that there's nobody meaner than the little old lady from Pasadena.

Spoilers: General season 7-ness.

Summary: Tony thinks about milestones in male-terms.

Tony leaned against the partition and turned his considerable charm up to eleven. "So…where are you hoping to be assigned after you finish FLETC? Here in DC?"

"Oh, I…" The pretty blonde NCIS candidate gripped her purse tighter, a sure sign that she was nervous and intimidated.

He smiled even more brightly to put her at ease. "If you like it here, I could put in a good word for you."

"I'd like to go to San Diego. Or overseas, like, Europe."

He ignored Ziva's poorly concealed snort of laughter. "Yeah, those are great posts. Of course, you're not stuck wherever you work. I just got back from a trip to Paris a couple weeks ago. I was showing our probationary agent here the ropes of international cooperation and, uh, embassy relations. Got to do a little sightseeing and…"

"I think our group is leaving now."

"Huh? Oh, well, nice meeting you, Veronica. You've got my card, right?"

"All three you gave me."

"Well, any questions, feel free to…"

"Okay, bye." She was obviously just trying to make a good impression as she rushed back to the group of recruits touring the main building. Or milling around the elevator while they waited to leave. She was probably just eager to get to the airport. And intimidated. Important not to forget intimidated.

"Strike three. An out, yes?"

He turned and rested his arms on the partition. "Well, at least you've finally learned that you get three strikes and not two."

Ziva smirked as she continued typing. "I think you have had far more than that lately."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There was the Virginia state policewoman, the bartender the other night, those two Congressional interns, the corporate lawyer, her secretary…"

"Hey!" Realizing that there was only one point he could actually refute, he said, "Not secretary. Paralegal. And what are you getting at?"

"You seem to be having…trouble. Lately." She finally met his eye when he continued to stare at her, not quite understanding. "With women."

"What? No. That's part of the game. It's an intricate dance of…Ted Williams' batting record…success rate is…" He followed her as she rose from her desk and went to the copier, finally settling on a good argument as she pressed the start button. "Y'know, you have to think of it in terms of acceptable failure rates. I saw a thing on Animal Planet that said lions are only successful on thirty percent of their hunts, but the lion is still the king of the jungle."

"Male lions do not hunt."

He grabbed her pages from the tray, flipping through them while they were still warm. "So you're saying I should just tend to my luxurious mane while I wait for a lioness to bring me a nice rare piece of meat?"

He countered her change in posture, which may have been the beginnings of a pounce, with the copies of her report. She reached for them, but her hand slipped past, continuing on to the exact location on the crown of his head he was most concerned about. "Quite the mane."

"I might grow it out a little." He tried not to enjoy the fact that she was now rubbing the spot. "Little longer, little more wild."

She ran her hand down toward his forehead before doing what felt like some styling. "I like it the way it is."

"Oh. Well…"

"It is age appropriate."

He slapped the packet of papers into her chest. "Thanks."

"What? I am just commenting on the fact that there is no need for you to look like a frat boy."

"Hmph." He stalked back to his desk, where he treated his chair like the enemy, giving it a heavy – but not too heavy – slam with his still attractive though apparently hairy ass. "Valerie probably didn't want to make it look like she was getting any special advice from a senior agent. Plus, I think I intimidated her."

"I thought her name was Veronica."

"Whatever."

"You still have me." He lost his grumpiness for a moment until she added, "I am still your probie, after all."

He was still thinking about a solution to his small – though still large, he acknowledged with a glance down, that unfortunately also gave him a view of his stomach – problem. "Maybe I'll get a new car."

Ziva looked up from her computer once again. "What is wrong with yours?"

"Nothing. It's just nice to have new things every so often. It's like women with shoes. You know a woman you can talk to about shoes, right?"

"I like shoes."

"Sure you do, but normal women feel about shoes like you feel about knives." He paused for an indignant response that never came. "Right so…"

"We should think about ordering lunch soon."

He leaned back in his chair to stretch out his back as he considered the lunch conundrum and realized that the group of recruits wasn't leaving quite yet, as they were now meandering along the catwalk. Valerie was talking to a much younger fellow-recruit. Tony wondered when a twenty-five year old man had become 'much younger.' Valerie was smiling at him in a way Tony would have taken for granted until recently, possibly because the recruit didn't have any trouble remembering her name was Veronica and not Valerie. Tony sighed. Enjoy it, buddy. Someday you'll be like…me? "I'm getting to the point where I can't wait much longer. I've gotta make a move."

Ziva was considering him seriously. "What are you thinking?"

The car would be a good start. "I need something like me – hot and Italian."

"Pastrami?"

"Focus, Probie. We're talking about cars, here."

"But we do not have to drive anywhere. Gino's delivers. I will see if McGee also wants a pastrami melt on rye with horseradish, like we are having."

"Will you stop talking about the sandwiches?" He had to admit that she'd managed to set his salivary glands going with her detailed description of lunchmeats, but now was not the time for distractions. He had enough on his mind. "I'm not gonna go crazy with a Lamborghini or Ferrari, but…what do you think about Maserati?"

"I think you should consider a Fiat if you are going to insist on an Italian car."

"Yeah, and then I'll move to Queens and change my name to…okay, so I'm not gonna get much more Italian than Anthony DiNozzo, but…Maserati, yeah?"

"Perhaps we should consider sandwiches first."

"This is important!"

"Why? You have a car already. You do not need to spend one-hundred thousand to impress anyone."

"A hundred?" The pastrami on rye suddenly seemed much more important. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You wanna call Gino's?"

"What about McGee?"

"If he wanted to eat, he wouldn't run down to the lab at every chance."

She picked up her phone, but dialed a number too short to be an outside line. "Hey, Abby. We are ordering lunch. Gino's. Of course. And for McGee? Okay. Do you know if Ducky…? And Jimmy? Excellent." She hung up and turned back to him. "Five of a kind. Good, yes?"

Tony did some quick math. "Who's not eating?"

"Abby has had a crisis of conscience regarding cows. She brought a salad."

"I give it three days."

Ziva picked up the phone again, this time dialing an outside number for sure. "She gave up Caf-Pow for six days last time."

"Was it that long?"

She held up a reproving finger. "Shh…!"

He had plenty of time while she ordered to confirm online that a Maserati would be way over budget. Maybe a new Camaro. Camaro sort of sounded Italian. Sort of. It was certainly more reasonable than a GranTurismo. When Ziva concluded her call, he looked up. "Spies drive cool cars, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"I just mean that you have some crazy driving experience, both literally and figuratively. Like, what's the most expensive thing you've driven?"

She tapped her finger against her chin for an interminably long interval. "You have heard about the Bugatti Veyron?"

All thoughts of pastrami disappeared as his mouth went dry. "You…you've driven one?"

"No. But I raced one in a Koenigsegg CCXR." She leaned back in her chair and put her feet up, allowing him time to picture it. He was realistic enough to know that she probably hadn't been wearing a bikini while driving, but there was no way to be sure. Best not to ask. She either didn't notice that he was staring or he was doing a better job of not looking like he was leering than he was giving himself credit for as she went on, "I won, by the way. It turned out to be a highly successful mission. Unfortunately, I had to get rid of the car. It was the former property of a Hamas financier."

"Where?" He could almost feel the hair growing back on his head.

She shrugged, as if the car weren't important. "Outside Odessa."

"And you just abandoned it?"

She nodded. "I had to."

"Think it's still there?"

"I doubt anyone has raised it from the bottom of the Black Sea."

"Hm." He found himself wondering how much it would cost to retrieve and clean this phantom spy car. Probably more than a new Maserati. And the insurance…the Camaro was looking better and better. "I don't suppose you've got other spy cars hidden away somewhere. I'll take something German if you don't have anything Italian."

"You would be shocked how few German cars Moussad uses."

"We got picked up in Mercedes SUVs in Tel…" He wondered how he could talk himself out of the corner he'd accidentally created. "So, how long did they say before the sandwiches get here?"

She was no longer relaxed. "Twenty-five minutes. Do you think that perhaps you should consider trading for Abby's salad?"

"What's that mean?"

"It means the wrong kind of…chubby."

"I'd be proud of your grasp of English slang if you weren't insulting me." He gave another involuntary glance down. "You were talking about my stomach, right?"

"I would say the distribution is more generous. They are called love handles, yes?"

"No! I mean, yes, that's what you're thinking of, but I don't have them." He readjusted his suit to make sure he was fully covered. "I work out. I bet I can bench press more than you."

She stared him down. "Get the Maserati."

"Maybe I'll just eat half my sandwich." He stood and sucked in his gut, deciding he could pull off the Camaro and a whole pastrami on rye.