The Third

2

Bombs are less complicated.

This is the conclusion any sane person will reach when faced with such a nefarious latticework of obstacles. The wires, cables and ties are designated to halt any attempt to gain entry and retrieve the crucial object. There are screw in crevices that no mortal tool can reach and plastic bindings that defy the sharpest cutters.

This calls for a professional. Unfortunately, she's busy channeling Betty Crocker.

Meanwhile, The Third's face is crumbling into what will soon be a colossal event. The first seconds of Pompeii's destruction looked strikingly like the boy's expression. Since there exists sparse patience in either parent's DNA code, what chance did their offspring have?

The calendar hangs from its peg with an innocent, hand-drawn tree from the Ziva Crayon Studio marking the date, but the appropriate designation would be D-Day. With one hand firmly gripping the hostage toy and the other struggling to pry the packaging away, Tony tucks his curses under his breath and offers nothing but hope to the watching lad. Light brown eyes take in the scene with ever increasing skepticism. Learned that one from mom.

It's a difficult blow to pride, condemnation by a judge in feety pajamas.

None of their friends have children, which explains the stunning lack of warning about moments such as this. Christmas with a toddler. Unwrap the present and undo the father.

But yesterday the boss had delivered a slap to Tony's shoulder, practically a hug on the Gibbs Scale of Affection and it makes sense now. It had been a gestural wish of luck and a deposit of sympathy. Gibbs has experienced this day, when a child looks to the male role model with anticipation of receiving the shiny new toy from the clutches of a complex contraption. The child neither understands nor cares what sort of procedure is involved with freeing said toy from its box, inserts and numerous booby-traps.

It's a Hasbro landmine.

"I would have completed the task fifteen minutes ago," Ziva observes, hands coated in flour from a fit of baking that does not assuage her lethal stare. Dangerous with a gun. Deadlier with a rolling pin. She'd already chopped the head off a gingerbread man that refused to lift from the tray. Foreshadowing Tony's fate should he disappoint the child.

"You'd have incinerated the roboty destructo thing to get to it."

"And you would have been in charge of reassembling the bits." A delegation diplomat, his loving bride. "Although I am no longer certain of your glue handling skills."

Witness the large Mickey Mouse ornament which dangles from the tree limb, formerly of a round nature that now resembles Picasso's take on a sphere. It had met the ground last night in Tony's haste to have his present under the tree. There is every evidence that gluing circular objects is not Tony's strong suit, but in his defense, they hadn't found several missing shards until later. They'd been stuck to Ziva's back.

"I'm almost done, buddy. Ask Ima to give you a cookie to tide you over."

"Bribing with sugar?"

The tsk sound, genetically woven into every mother, fails to condemn. Because her first attempt at crafting holiday fare sits before her grateful child, who painstakingly selects the desired shape like a sniper choosing a rifle and then devours it before Ziva can settle his butt into a chair.

Every chew eats away at Tony's available time.

The last remnant of cookie is swallowed and with it, Tony's final hope to avoid a bundle of flailing impatience. As the countdown dwindles to zero, delayed only by a quick sippy cup consultation, a desperate yank is given and the robot leaps from its confines. With a painfully askew head. And minus one arm. But certainly whole enough for the delight of a clapping toddler. Who fails to notice, in his youthful rapture, that his mechanical menace comes complete with a realistic blood smear.

Tony sucks on his index finger while his boy pretends the robot can fly. No one will mention that wings D and F have not yet been inserted into slots E and G. The flight assists remain trapped in the shredded package and aren't likely to escape until tomorrow. Or ever. Ziva follows her congratulatory kiss on the cheek with a slap to the head. Three syllables are mumbled over her retreating shoulder, sounding suspiciously like big baby.

But as he watches the Christmas movie scene unfold, momma and son sprinkling colored sugar on fresh cookies in a warm kitchen, Tony feels neither big nor babyish. He feels small, in a 'not the priority, not the pinnacle, not the point' sort of way. This must be that fabled sensation called humble.

And while the title Father has struck him sideways many times over the last two years, he's rarely felt so much like a daddy.