I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't apologize enough. I've got nothing to say for myself, except to offer lame excuses. Shall I try to explain myself? Sure, why not.
This is the longest I have ever gone without posting, and for that I apologize. I'm a little bit traumatized over it. But you have no idea how crazy my life's been. I've been frickin' exhausted, between school and school and, well, school.
So that's all I can say. I'm writing as fast as I can. Updates will follow, I swear. It's a proven fact that I update faster when I get more reviews, which is a very subtle hint in your general direction, if you can see what I mean . . . So this has got some establishment in a very exciting Abby subplot, some Tony/Ziva friendship, and the beginning of my Jibbs. I'm pretty happy with it. What doth y'all thinketh?
Disclaimer - I don't even want to own a high school at this point. Just attending one is draining enough, as is . . .
Abby banged her fist down against the cafe table triumphantly, causing the silverware to rattle and several diners to shoot questioning looks in her general direction. The pretty blond did not even have the grace to blush.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed triumphantly, pumping her fist in the air with as much enthusiasm as any of the cast of Jersey Shore.
The girl sitting across the table from Abby flinched despite herself. "So, um, that was helpful?" she ventured dryly.
Abby grinned at the petite Asian sophomore. "You have no idea. You officially rock, Michelle. Who says the debate team is a bunch of wannabe lawyers, huh?"
Michelle frowned. "People say that?"
Abby shrugged. "I'm sure they didn't mean you personally, Michelle, because you are cool and have possibly just saved my life."
Michelle shifted in her seat a bit. "Thanks . . . I think. So why was this stuff necessary anyway?"
Abby grinned. "That's for me to know and the rest of the world to find out. Just wait until Monday."
Michelle smiled at the freshman girl. "I'll be waiting," she promised, "believe me."
Abby didn't answer. She was peering at Michelle in a way that made the captain of the debate team a bit self-conscious. She wondered if there was something in between her teeth.
"Is something wrong?" she asked finally, when Abby continued to be unresponsive to Michelle's subtle clearings of the throat.
"I was just thinking . . ." Abby said slowly, "that guys seem to have a thing for dark-haired girls. I mean, Jeff with Shannon, Mark with Maria, Prince Charming with Snow white, Palmer with you, Tony with Ziva . . ."
Michelle blinked. "Wait. Who with me?"
Abby waved her aside casually. "Oh, Jimmy Palmer. He's a freshman and he's really cute." She wrinkled her nose. "Well, in a nerdy kind of way. Anyway, he's got some huge crush on you, only he hasn't actually talked to you, but apparently he stepped on your bag of Doritos yesterday, and now he's scared to talk to you, only you really should talk to him, because he's a sweet guy." The Goth stopped to take a breath at last. "You know, in a nerdy kind of way."
Michelle was a little too stunned to absorb any of this, so she just nodded. "Oh."
Abby thought about this, cocking her head and making her pigtails swing. "Do you think Timmy likes dark hair?" she questioned abruptly.
Michelle blinked. "Um, I don't know, Abby, but I'm pretty sure he likes you already."
Abby thought for another second before gulping her drink and shrugging. "Whatever. I've got more important things to worry about right now."
...
"We're not dating."
Ziva did not look up from where she was sprawled on the bed doing her geometry homework. "Good, Tony," she said calmly, "you are finally beginning to develop social skills. Now if only we could teach you how to knock . . ."
"The door was open!" he protested, flopping down beside her on the queen mattress and looking around. "And I was just saying, 'cause one of my friends-"
"One of your idiot friends, you mean?" Ziva smirked.
"Yeah. Them. They were talking about the Halloween dance, and-"
"Your friends talk about dances?" Ziva interrupted again. "I thought only girls did that."
Tony laughed. "So did I, actually. But, remember, these are idiots we're talking about. We can't set our expectations too high."
Ziva snorted and returned to her homework. Tony watched her work for all of three seconds before getting bored and seeking out further entertainment.
Wow. Your room is really bare," he commented finally, studying the blank walls and the neat, sparse layout critically.
"I have only just moved in," Ziva explained, not bothering to look around. "There has not been much time for decorating."
"Yeah, well maybe you'd have some time if you didn't spend your Friday nights doing homework," Tony suggested, shaking his head in disgust at Ziva's pile of notebooks. "Geez. You're pretty nerdy for a ninja."
"Ninjas are from Japan, are they not?" Ziva slapped Tony's hand away when he tried to steal her notebook. "I am-"
"Canadian," Tony supplied with a grin. "A lifeless Canadian loser. Come on, CaNERDian, we're going out."
"Out where?" she asked patiently, not moving. "I thought that we were not dating?"
"We're not," Tony assured her cheerfully, "but I'm bored, and my friends are idiots."
"Then why are they your friends?" she asked, pretending to be irritated, but packing her books away all the same.
Tony shrugged. "Why do I hang out with you?"
Ziva grinned wickedly. "Because you get your pick-up lines from that boy who is stalking me."
Tony grinned and led Ziva to the door. "Jordan? Please. His pick-up lines suck. Mine are a million times better.
As the teens thundered down the stairs, Tony remembered something. "He texted me today. I swear, it's the greatest piece of hate-mail I've ever gotten in my entire life, and believe it or not, I've gotten a decent amount."
"Astonishing," Ziva murmured. "Mostly from females, I presume."
"Pfft. No! Well, yeah," he admitted ruefully.
Ziva grinned. "May I read it?"
"In the car," promised Tony. "Come on, or we're gonna be late."
"Late for where, exactly?" Ziva asked, locking the door behind her as they stepped outside into the cool autumn evening.
"You, Canadian," Tony announced grandly, sweeping open the passenger-side door with an overly-dramatic flourish, "are about to be exposed to your first American party. Prepare to have your mind blown."
...
Gibbs was doing some major thinking.
The house was quiet and beginning to darken. Ziva had gone out somewhere with that DiNozzo kid she refused to call her friend about half an hour earlier, and he had no idea when she would return.
She had not, as a dutiful daughter would have done, promised to call and check in, nor had she even informed him of where she was going. Ziva was not exactly the domestic type.
But, then again, neither was Gibbs. So he had resorted to science-y methods, imbedding a tiny GPS tracker in Ziva's favorite knife, which he knew she would never go anywhere without.
This way, they were both happy. Minimal conversation, and Gibbs didn't get fired. It wasn't exactly a compromise, but it worked.
Now, Gibbs was sipping coffee and poring over the details of dear Ziva's predicament.
The intruder who had been shot in the yard had been identified as Aaron Rafaad, a twenty-eight-year-old gun-for-hire, whose last known residence had been in Israel.
While no fingers had been pointed yet, it was rather obvious who had hired Aaron. Eli David was not the tie-wearing, bespectacled father of fiction who drank coffee from a mug as he read the newspaper each morning, that was for sure.
The secretary, Barbara Newcomb, was a overweight woman of forty-six with beady eyes and a deep-rooted dislike for gym teachers who did not believe in knocking. She had met her demise early Thursday morning, the ME had pronounced, which followed with Vance's statement.
Newcomb had called in sick on the first day of school, that Wednesday. She had not arrived on Thursday either, but this time she had failed to call in sick. The postman had found her earlier today, Friday, when ringing the doorbell with a package, which turned out to contain cat food. This was not a surprise, given the eleven cats that had served as Newcomb's companions.
Newcomb had been killed with a single shot to the head from behind. Surface burns suggested the shot was made at close range, and silenced with a couch cushion, which lay in tattered pieces on the living room rug.
The evidence had been contaminated, in the most literal of senses. Everything was coated in a fine layer of cat hair. There were several interesting stains on the rug, some blood, others cat urine. Lovely.
Suspicions right now lay on the attractive red head whom Gibbs had briefly conversed with over coffee in the break room. She had been one of the first to see Miss David, and had had access to the girl's records. She would benefit from the death of the secretary, giving her both a permanent job and a way to get closer to Ziva.
After a while, Gibbs came to a conclusion, putting down his papers and picking up his cell phone. If Franks wanted him to get close . . .
"Hello?"
Gibbs cleared his throat. "Hey. Jenny?"
"Yes?"
"This is Gibbs, the gym-"
"Hey there, Jethro. What's up?"
Gibbs smiled despite himself. "I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight?"
Yay! Some Jibbs in the making, a guest appearance by Michelle Lee (let's hear it for the debate team!) and Tony and Ziva are going partying, which I think will be soooo much fun to write. What do you guys think? If I get enough reviews, I might be able to squeeze in an update tomorrow!