Disclaimer: The intellectual property which is NCIS and all it's offshoots and affiliates does not belong to me. I can only claim some piddling fanfiction and some impatience concerning how long it takes for two weeks to pass.
This wasn't really a prompt, but the stories themselves came out to 365 words altogether. I certainly didn't plan it that way, but it helps to give it some classification.
Remember, brevity is the soul of wit.
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Snapshot
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The imperative came from on high: "Get to choosing another agent, or I'll choose for you." So Gibbs dropped the crate of dossiers onto the floor in the middle of the bullpen and said, "Vance walks by, make it look like you're doing something."
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Tony picked up a manila folder from the crate, and just as quickly dropped it back in. "You know, it's McGeek's turn for a probie. Let him pick one out."
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A slow summer meant that the yellow folders had to be opened, however reluctantly. But judging by McGee's vacant stare, opening them did not mean reading them. They didn't need to be read. "They're not Ziva," he said to an empty room.
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The next time, Vance had to make it perfectly clear: "You're not looking for another Ziva, you're looking for another agent." Gibbs nodded, coffee in hand, and Vance could already see him thinking of ways to slow the process down. "I am not your enemy," the director had to add, before the agent could leave. So Gibbs smiled his most sardonic smile and said, "Then start acting like it."
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As Keating watched his interrogators, it was clear enough from their eyes that hazing was the last thing on their minds. They saw him as an invader, a squatter, and he dared not incur their wrath by glancing to the desk he hoped to occupy.
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It was all well and good for everyone else to try and forget – they could try and try again for all Abby cared. But the night Ziva didn't come back, Abby went on a shopping spree for ninja paraphernalia. Everyone else might try to forget, so she would just have to make it that much harder.
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"Sorry, Doctor!" was all that Ducky seemed to hear from Palmer these days. The boy had become so absent-minded that he would knock over trays, send notes sprawling across the floor, and get his scrubs caught in doors. "You'll have to forgive him," Ducky said to his newest cadaver. "These days, no one much seems themselves. You see, we, to, have left our hearts somewhere they do not belong."
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