A/N: Written for the NFA "At Your Service" Challenge. The challenge was to write a story inspired by the works of American poet, Robert William Service. The story could be inspired by just the title or the actual poem itself written by Service. I found one called "A Pot of Tea" and it inspired this.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to NCIS and make no claims thereof.

A Mainstay of Civilization

By: Vanessa Sgroi

He filled the gleaming kettle with fresh cold water and plugged it in to the outlet, refraining for the moment, from actually turning it on. First, he wanted to ready the tea. Ducky perused his selection with a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow before finally selecting a sturdy, dependable Earl Grey—the black tea kissed with bergamot to keep it slightly on the cheeky side. Satisfied with his choice, the ME quickly filled measured an appropriate amount of loose leaves into the humble-looking earthenware pot. To that, he added a pinch of cinnamon and precisely one drop of pure vanilla—a sacrilege he'd learned as a young lad.

The good doctor bent over the pot and inhaled the sweet and spicy musk of the tea leaves just before finally starting the tea kettle. Though he would've preferred a good boil over open flame, the electric kettle would have to do here—here in this place shrouded in clinical woe where the dead chronicled their last hours and days, or perhaps on occasion their entire lives.

While he waited for the water to roil and geyser steam, Ducky left the tiny alcove and turned his attention to the most recent storytellers to briefly travail his stainless steel realm. Two seemingly fine young lads cut down long before their prime, assailant as yet unknown. "Gentlemen, forgive me if you will while I partake of some refreshment," he entreated. "I understand you both have more to impart, but I fear I am not as young as I used to be and find myself in need of a short break while Mr. Palmer retrieves some of the items I've requested. Rest assured, I shall return to you very shortly."

Going back to his self-appointed niche, Ducky retrieved a patterned cup and saucer from the small cupboard tucked in the corner near the small table. "Did you know," he regaled the greater room, "that tea has oft been considered one of the mainstays of civilization? But," the Medical Examiner wagged his finger, "the manner in which this stalwart beverage is made has been the subject of some violent disputes. Why, the illustrious author George Orwell himself had no less than 11 rules for brewing the perfect cup of tea. Every one of which he considered golden. He published them in an essay titled 'A Nice Cup of Tea' for the Evening Standard way back in 1946." Ducky paused in his narration and sat the cup and saucer down on the table. "I fear, however, I am breaking more of those rules here today than a grand tea devotee would think proper. But needs must, I suppose."

The water reached its rapid-boil fruition and the electric kettle switched off. Dr. Mallard quickly poured the water over the leaves, filling the pot with precision. "There now." Replacing the lid, he gave the pot a good shake. Orwell would be proud.

Five minutes later, he filled his cup with the fragrant steaming beverage, eschewing sugar but not a good dollop of milk albeit skimmed—to his regret. He'd just taken his first satisfying sip when Leroy Jethro Gibbs marched into Autopsy, determined scowl present on his face. "Whatda ya got for me, Duck?"

"Ah, Jethro, I was just brewing a pot of tea," Ducky called, and then knowing precisely what the answer would be, he continued, "Would you like to join me for a cup?"

When Gibbs' scowl darkened, Ducky smiled and stood. "No, I suppose not. You most assuredly prefer that uncivilized swill you call coffee." The medical examiner looked back at his still steaming cup and sighed with great regret. "I shall return, though probably not until you are cold and bitter."

"Duck!"

"Coming, Jethro!"

The cup of tea sat resolute; its steam slowly wending its way toward the ceiling.

FIN