WARNING-I love cases, so this fic has a few actual complete played out cases-just letting you know if that's not your thing.
DISCLAIMER-I absolutely do not own anything to do with NCIS-if I did, adorable McGee would get a girl. Or a boy. He would get something. (Forgive me if the cases are not completely accurate-I did make those up all by myself J)
1
DiNozzo peered warily around the corner of his computer and narrowed his eyes at Ziva. She flicked him only the briefest of glances before lifting her chin in the air.
"What do you want?" she asked archly.
"What do you think our little McGeek is up to today that has made him decide he doesn't need to come in and keep me company in the wee hours of the morning?"
Ziva did not look back at him a second time. "First of all, I have always understood the Americanism of 'the wee hours of the morning' to mean the time between midnight and six a.m., and it is now nine thirty, and I have no idea where McGee is."
"Called and said he'd be late," Gibbs blurted as he strode out from the elevator. "Pile-up on the freeway slowed down the morning commute."
DiNozzo grimaced and Ziva rolled her eyes at him. Gibbs, unusually, said nothing and headed for his office.
"You got a case for us boss?" DiNozzo called out.
"Other business to take care of this morning!" Gibbs hollered back.
Ziva and DiNozzo stared at each other for a moment, each trying to read the answer in the other one's eyes. Finally DiNozzo's widened.
"Aha! The riddle of the empty fourth desk may finally be solved."
"The riddle of...but that's Gibb's desk."
"Not really-he's kinda taken over it the last few years, but when this unit was founded there were originally four agents; at least that's what the protocol calls for. Then there were three, and then there were two..."
Ziva glared at him.
"Ok," he conceded. "Two and a half, but for a few months there really were two while you did all your Mossad...desert fox...warrior princess stuff."
"So what makes you think that out of all the things Gibbs could be doing this morning that he's in the process of hiring another agent?"
"Well," DiNozzo said self-assuredly as he leaned back in his chair, "it was a little hopeless before but now that the number's gone back up to three, brass is probably putting pressure on Vance to fill the quota, and let's face it, Vance doesn't have a clue who would make a good NCIS agent and who wouldn't."
"That's true," Ziva said with a smile playing at her lips. "He certainly hesitated before reinstating me."
DiNozzo pointed his pencil at her. "Don't get cocky, fox princess."
Rebecca Compston shifted to her other foot-the one she had been standing on had fallen asleep while she waited to be shown in. The worn brown couch only a foot away from her looked so inviting, and her feet, though used to high heels, were killing her, but she just couldn't quiet her nerves enough to sit down for even a few seconds.
She chewed at her lip and speedily second-guessed every decision she had made in the past two weeks. Why had she really left New York, to make a fresh start or simply to run away from a bad situation? Did she really want this job for what it could bring into her life, or did she just want something as different from her old career as possible? And why, oh why had she listened to her sister and dressed the way she had? Amy had chosen this outfit so carefully, saying Becca would want to reflect that she was polished Upper East Side Manhattan New York, not five blocks from the Queensborough Bridge, but every woman she had seen in these offices was dressed casually, still professional but in comfy slacks instead of skirts, flat sturdy shoes instead of stilettos. She had wanted to make a good impression, but now she was afraid they would see her as a city flower-just too delicate and fastidious to attend to the dirty business of solving murders. They couldn't be more wrong. She knew it, but how did she get them to see it? Should she pull an elastic from her bag and put her hair up?
Becca shifted feet again, and the release of pressure made her honest enough to admit the real problem. She had wanted to work for the American military for forever, but the origin of the dream was the same as her fear-Jethro Gibbs. Would he even recognize her? The last time he had seen her she had been twelve years old. More than a decade had passed. And if he did recognize her, would he let that cloud his judgment? Would he dismiss her just to avoid the awkwardness?
A head poked out the glass door, making her jump.
"Director Vance is ready for you, Miss Compston."
Don't over think it, Bex, she told herself as she took a deep breath. Your resume is strong and your interview skills are stronger. Just roll with it.
Vance stood when she entered the room, and Becca immediately chastised herself again for not wearing flat shoes-in her heels she was taller then the man whom she hoped would become her boss's boss. But if he noticed, he kept it from registering.
"Miss Compston, thank you for coming," he said cordially as he motioned for her to take a seat.
"Thank you for seeing me," she answered, and looked around her. They were in a small conference room with mauve walls and a tiny set of stadium chairs at the back-she and the director sat at the close end of a long, wide oak-topped table. Only after looking down the length of this table did she see Gibbs in the corner by the coffee pot, his arms crossed, his expression nonchalant.
"This is Agent Jethro Gibbs-he'll be taking part in our interview," Vance said. Becca almost said something, then felt it catch in her throat. Her quick glance had told her how much he had aged these past thirteen years, but his blue eyes cut right through her just like no time had passed at all. She just nodded. It was Gibbs who spoke.
"Miss Compston and I are acquainted," he said quietly.
Vance looked at him for a long moment. "Well," he said at last, deciding that for now it was best to avoid the issue. Becca silently thanked him.
"So Miss Compston, you've quite a resume for someone so young."
"As you see I graduated from college rather early, so I had more time than most people."
"Double major in criminal justice and forensics with a minor in lab sciences, masters in criminal psychology, recruited by the NYPD violent crimes unit right out of school, a year spent working for a private detective agency...why did you leave that last? You were with one of the most lucrative agencies in the city and your former employer speaks very highly of you."
"I was...to tell the truth, Director, I had been used to helping put criminals in jail and finding justice for their victims, and after that, round after round of rich old husbands wanting their trophy wives tailed so they don't violate their pre-nups seemed a little petty. And...."
Vance motioned for her to go on. Becca couldn't help it-she snuck a tiny look at Gibbs.
"I've dreamed of working for this country's military since I was a little girl."
Vance nodded and opened her file. "Yes, let's talk about your relationship with this country. You've lived here for what, sixteen years, yet you only became a citizen five years ago. Why?"
What? Of all the ridiculous...she had only been a child! Becca took a deep breath. "I was not aware until I started getting turned down for jobs for false application information that I wasn't a citizen, Director. I was still a minor seven years after I came here; it never occurred to me that my mother hadn't taken that step. As you see I rectified the situation."
"Yet you still hold dual citizenship."
"English law requires a person's presence to terminate citizenship-I haven't been able to get back there to do so."
Vance sat back and looked at her. A small piece of her understood that due to the rest of her resume being flawless, he had to nitpick, but still....
"The United States military," he said slowly, "doesn't like to make a habit of employing citizens of other countries."
That was it-job interview be damned. She would take a lot, but casting aspersions on her home country and questioning her loyalty to her adopted one in the same breath was over the line.
"The United States military," she said tightly, barely keeping her temper in check, "didn't seem to have a problem with accepting England's help with the U.N., or in Iraq. There are more Brits over there than any of the rest of the American allies, and for no other reason than that England is your friend. And what about Ziva David? Does she not still hold her Israeli citizenship? And what about..."
Becca finally bit her tongue. Vance eyed her even more closely.
"If you are referring to your uncle, Dr. Mallard gave up his British citizenship years ago."
They sat looking at one another for a moment, the fiery young redhead struggling to slow her breathing, the calm older man not even twitching his mustache. In the silence, Gibbs' soft voice felt like a cannon.
"This is irrelevant," he said as he came towards them and sat down on Vance's other side. "We both knew before she came in here that Miss Compston is more than qualified for the job. If the dual citizenship is the only issue, I suggest a compromise. After one year at NCIS, Miss Compston will be subjected to a performance review. If she's an asset to the unit, you give her a little time off to go to England and have her citizenship revoked."
Vance pointed a stern finger at Gibbs; Becca felt forgotten. "A rigorous, thorough review. By me. Not a little five-minute sit-down chat with you, Gibbs."
Gibbs held his hands out toward Becca in literal offer. She narrowed her eyes.
"Wait, does this mean I'm hired if I say yes?"
Vance sighed. "You are to come on to NCIS for an extended trial period, during which you will conduct yourself as the perfect agent, at the end of which you will be subjected to a strenuous review to determine if your continued presence here will be to the best interest of all parties, at which time we will revisit the citizenship issue.
Gibbs rolled his eyes and leaned towards Becca. "It means you're hired if you say yes."
Becca fought to keep the smile from spreading over her face. "Gentlemen, may I borrow a pen?"
