Disclaimer: Close your eyes. Make a wish. Did you wish for me to own NCIS? Yeah, you obviously didn't because I still don't.
Spoilers: Brothers in Arms and Boxed In. I like to spoil episodes with the same first letter. Also, the McNovel eps. Also, also, entire seasons.
Summary: Anybody see McGee pick that lock on the door just before he shot the tattooed bad guy? Okay, I know it was just a pair of hands, but they looked like they were picking from McGee's direction, so good for him. I suspect he learned it somewhere other than the Internet, possibly while discussing Tiva.
McGee knocked nervously on the door of the apartment he'd visited only once before. He hadn't been anxious on the occasion because he'd seen Gibbs enter just before he had. He clenched the neck of the wine bottle he'd brought as…as a nice guy. She'd told him she'd make dinner in addition to teaching him a new skill. It was the least he could do.
He was about to knock again when the door swung open to reveal a smiling, barefoot Ziva. "Hey, you're early. I should have expected that."
She turned to walk toward the kitchen, leaving him standing in the hall with nowhere to put his bottle of wine while he took off his coat. He managed an awkward switch from one hand to the other without dropping either the wine or his coat. He held both and asked, "Can I hang this somewhere?"
"There are some hangers in the closet," she answered, poking her head around the corner. "I've just started dinner, so we might be able to punch out the basics before we eat."
He nodded, not bothering to correct her with 'knock out,' and pushed aside several of her coats in the hall closet to make a space for his own. Closing the door carefully, he walked to the kitchen, set the bottle on the counter and stated the obvious, "I brought this. As a thank you for dinner and the lock picking lesson and…"
He waited as she inspected the label of the Sauvignon blanc he'd selected. The clerk at the liquor store had assured him it was a good combination with any meal. Ziva nodded, placing the bottle on the door of the refrigerator. "Not bad, McGee. I didn't even tell you I'm making salmon. The marinade is a little spicy, so this should be perfect." She held up a broiling pan with several pink salmon steaks in it for his inspection. "Let me put these in and we'll get started."
He stood at the counter, unsure of where to sit. She allowed the oven to slam shut and pointed him to the table, clicking on the overhead light. Rather than a traditional setting for two, a number locks and doorknob assemblies were lined up beside a row of small tools. She handed him a padlock and two picks as he sat. "I know you don't want to hear this, but a lot of lock picking is about feeling. You start by…"
Several minutes later, he was still struggling with his first lock. "Just maintain the tension and try to feel for the pins. It's like hacking with your hands," she encouraged.
The intractable lock seemed to disagree as much as he did. "I already use my hands to…" He stopped. Although he never minded the information obtained through hacking, Gibbs never liked to hear the word itself. McGee gave himself a mental headsmack and continued, "…perform computer analyses."
"Work with me, McGee. I am simply trying to put you at ease."
Alone…with Ziva…in her apartment…learning spy tricks. There was no part of the situation that was likely to put him at ease. He set the lock down and followed her to the kitchen. "You could have just hit me with a tranquilizer dart at the door."
She pulled on a pair of oven mitts and took out the salmon. "I thought that would be rude. Ready to eat?"
He carefully stepped to the other side of the counter, as if that offered him any protection. "Um, the table is a little full at the moment."
She pointed to two plates and rolled napkins on his left. "You don't mind eating at the counter, do you?"
"Oh, not at all."
She distributed the fish and some colorful vegetables, allowing him to fight with the corkscrew. Other than some discussion about the food, they ate in silence. When her salmon was gone, she looked up. "Can I ask you a question, McGee?"
"Um…sure."
"Do you really think…I know you keep saying it's fiction…" He took a long sip of wine, draining his glass in preparation for the question he felt coming. "Do you really think I look that desperate?"
He coughed, willing himself out of a choking spasm. He'd expected a question he could answer with less risk of bodily harm. "What?"
"I…Moussad Officer Lisa, I mean…she's the only one who ever seems to notice Special Agent…Tommy. I was just wondering if that's how it looks in real life." She refilled both of their empty wineglasses.
"Um…well, I can't stress enough that it's fiction…"
"I know."
"Right. Well…you and Tony usually go back and forth and it comes out pretty even, I guess, even though it seems like you usually end up on top." Her small smile heartened him to continue, "In Deep Six…look, I didn't know how successful it was going to be when it came out, so I tried to leave some things open-ended and leave the potential for some romance in the future to hold people's interest. I know that you guys only saw the crazy letters to my publisher, but there have been a bunch of people who want to see Tommy and Lisa get together. Not that I think you and Tony are going to…" He sensed he was treading on dangerous ground and tried a clumsy segue, "So why isn't Tony in on this little master lock picking class?"
"He never comes by anymore." She kept her eyes down as she grabbed his plate and dropped it into the sink. "I mean…he's always busy after work."
A hundred questions buzzed through McGee's head. He never comes by anymore? Had there been a point when Tony was stopping by Ziva's apartment regularly? The look she was giving him said that asking would result in an impromptu lesson in using common kitchen implements as deadly weapons. He stood and pointed to the table. "Maybe we should go back to the locks."
Ziva nodded, bringing her glass of wine with her. "Good idea. Give it an hour and you'll be a pro. In the right situation, you can demonstrate your expertise at breaking and entering for Gibbs, if not your knife throwing." She watched him struggle with the padlock for a few minutes before he successfully opened it. "See? It's about feel."
He grinned as he set the conquered lock on the table. "Yeah, I started to feel the pick catching on the last few tries."
"Good." She snapped the lock closed. "Do that a few more times and we'll move on to the doorknobs."
"Okay."
"I'm glad your writing is going so well, Tim."
He looked up in surprise. "Oh. Thank you."
"If you share that, I will hurt you in ways you cannot imagine."
His smile froze as he turned back to the lock. "Right."