Chapter 7 – Gibbs' Day
"A shameless gigolo, a raving alcoholic, an illiterate foreign assassin, and a vampire?"
Gibbs was glad he wasn't swallowing a mouthful of coffee when Ducky had filled him in on how the last several days had gone for the team.
"Well, it's good to know what I'm up against," he'd said, an amused gleam in his crystal blue eyes.
"God only knows what she'll think of you, Jethro," Ducky said, smiling slightly. In truth, Ducky knew that Jimmy was sorry that he hadn't been available to care for his mother these past few days. It might have spared their friends and colleagues a great deal of frustration and trauma. But, what was done, was done. They all still seemed to still be speaking to him, at least.
"She doesn't know how many times I've been married, does she?" Gibbs had finally managed to calm his chuckling fit.
"Oh, if she does, it wasn't me who told her Jethro," Ducky said, shuddering at the thought. "Anyway, the good news is, I will be doing the final interviews today. Hopefully by quitting time, I'll have a replacement for Judith."
"Well, that's a relief, Duck. I don't know how much more juggling I can do with the shift schedule. We're pushing the Director's limits as it is."
"Yes, well, hopefully it'll all be over soon. I can let Jimmy out early, if it would help. He can care for Mother for the rest of the day then."
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"Hmmm," Tony pondered, as he licked the spoon from his take-out dish of ice cream.
"Maybe we could sic the Director on her next." He couldn't quite stop a diabolical little giggle from escaping his throat. McGee looked up from his own cup of ice cream, and pointed the spoon at his colleague as he waved it in the air towards him, emphasizing his words.
"Tony, that's just wrong. We can't do that to a helpless old woman." He dunked the spoon back into his ice cream and shovelled out a mouthful, popping it in his mouth as he waited for a reaction.
"Come on, Probie, Ducky's mother is hardly helpless," Tony said, rolling his eyes. McGee waited for DiNozzo's eyes to re-orient themselves in their sockets, before saying, and not without some amount of mischief, "Who says I was talking about Mrs. Mallard?" He raised an eyebrow and gave Tony a crookedly wicked grin.
Tony choked on his ice cream, then looked over and grinned. "I'm impressed, Timmy. There's hope for you yet. Okay, seriously… we've all done our time at Ducky's house, except for Gibbs. I'm not sure he'll want to take time out of a weekday to look after Mrs. Mallard, even if it's for Ducky. He's got a job to do here."
"I will be taking my turn, DiNozzo, just like the rest of you have. We don't have any pressing cases right now, and I can work from Ducky's house, just like Tim did on Friday," Gibbs said, as he breezed into the squad room. He stopped at his desk, dropping his phone on the slightly cluttered desktop. He flipped the back of his jacket, and sat down, wiggling the mouse on his computer to rouse the machine from its slumber.
Tony and McGee exchanged looks, one that said, "Should we tell him about her… eccentricities?"
The look, oddly enough, was lost on Gibbs, as he quickly made short work of the new messages in his inbox. When he again stood up, he picked up his phone, reached into his desk drawer to retrieve his weapon, and headed to the elevator. "You know where to find me if you need me," he said, smiling at them as the doors closed on him.
"Is it just me, or do you also feel like a lamb was just sent off to slaughter?" McGee said, almost regretfully. "I mean, Gibbs is hardly helpless… but Ducky's mother would put the fear of God into God Himself." Tony remained silent, nodding as he sighed in agreement. Both men shuddered slightly at the thought.
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Jethro Gibbs straightened his jacket and cleared his throat as he prepared himself for battle.
He reached out and pushed the doorbell, waiting patiently for the summons to enter. He only needed to wait a few moments, when the door swung open.
"Who are you?" Vanessa Mallard said, her usual air of stiff dignity hovering about her like a proudly worn shroud.
"Jethro Gibbs, Ma'am. I'm here to keep you company today." Gibbs smiled his most charming smile.
"Gibbs… Jethro Gibbs. Sounds vaguely familiar. Do you know my son, Donald?" Mrs. Mallard questioned, without making any motion to welcome him into the house. Gibbs nodded cordially, and said, "Yes, Ma'am. I work with your son at NCIS. May I come in, Ma'am?" he finally asked.
"Very well," she said, moving aside. "Are you armed, young man?"
Gibbs almost looked around himself, wondering who she was talking to. He rolled his eyes at himself when he realized that the elderly woman was referring to him.
"Yes, Ma'am. It's just out-of-office protocol. On-duty Agents in the field have to be armed. It's just standard procedure."
Mrs. Mallard led the way to the kitchen, informing him along the way of the now infamous hidden "knife-in-the-brassiere." Gibbs smiled inwardly – remembering Ziva's story of how she'd unwisely countered Mrs. Mallard's threat by informing her that she, herself, was armed with a hidden weapon.
"Of course, Ma'am. It's understandable. A lady has to protect herself in this day and age."
"Who did you say you were, again? You have an air about you. Of coffee." Gibbs blushed, quite uncharacteristically. "Well, Ma'am… I do like a cup of coffee now and then."
Gibbs backed up suddenly as the old woman turned suddenly.
"Jethro. Yes, I remember now. You are the one who has been married multiple times. Well, don't be looking to me for your next conquest. I have no interest in marriage, since my husband passed away. I am impervious to smarm. You will be doing yourself a great service to remember that."
Gibbs was glad at that very moment, very glad in fact, that he hadn't been trying to swallow a mouthful of brew at the time of that comment. He was sure he would have choked on it and spit it up, all over Mrs. Mallard's ivory satin blouse.
"I wouldn't think of it, Mrs. Mallard," he said, most sincerely. He thought to himself, that if it weren't for the fact that Jimmy had only been thinking of Ducky at the time, he'd love to have the young pup's ass to nail to the wall right now. But of course, Jimmy had been the very first one to take his turn, and you didn't turn on a soldier who had suggested a very effective battle plan, and then had been the very first one to put himself directly in the line of fire.
And really, it was only one day. How bad could it get?
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Gibbs sat down carefully in Ducky's easy chair, and began clicking the keys on his laptop as quietly as possible. He dearly hoped he'd be able to go the remainder of the afternoon without doing something to it that would make him lose his temper, and try to "reboot" it – with a real boot.
That would wake Mrs. Mallard up.
He had spent most of the day fielding questions and defending himself, which, in retrospect, he found himself scolding himself over being so easily dominated by an elderly woman.
Granted, Vanessa Mallard was a particularly formidable elderly woman. But still – an elderly woman she was, nonetheless. He was grateful now that he'd had the sense to keep that rather inflammatory thought to himself.
No, he wasn't a gold-digging former marine. In fact, his collective alimonies kept him in a pretty modest lifestyle. Mrs. Mallard had given him a once-over then, scrutinizing his wardrobe with the eye of a refined, style-conscious woman, and with a slightly raised eyebrow, conceded that he most certainly did lead a modest lifestyle.
No, he wasn't a substance abuser. True, he did drink his fair share of coffee, but that was nothing compared to the gallons of Caf-Pow that Abby managed to put away every single day. All he drank was coffee. Delicious, steamy, black, aromatic, tantalizing… no, he definitely didn't have a problem. He could quit anytime. He just didn't have time to. End of story, Mrs. Mallard, now can we please talk about something relevant?
No, he was not crazy. Granted, yes, he was building a boat in his basement. No, he didn't know at this point how he'd be getting it out of his basement. He thought he'd consider that once the project was closer to completion. True, he had to agree, it did seem a bit ludicrous, but lots of people had hobbies. This was something that allowed him to use his hands and create something with them. Okay, so maybe it was a bit big… it wasn't exactly a ship in a bottle.
Okay, so admittedly… maybe it was kind've like a ship in a bottle. But who ever thought of taking the ship out of the bottle? That would completely defeat the point. Well, granted, yes, he would like to actually launch the boat someday. Which would, of course, necessitate removing the said ship from the said bottle… and Mrs. Mallard, I really should get into the kitchen and think about starting dinner…
And so it was, that Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Gunnery Sergeant (retired), United States Marine Corps, had desperately taken refuge in the kitchen, peering fearfully now and then into the living room – or "parlour," as Mrs. Mallard insisted on calling it, to ensure that she was still, indeed, in deep slumber in her chair.
It was a simple dish, one that Ziva had shown him how to make. She'd gotten the recipe from Abby, who'd learned how to make it from McGee, who had gotten it from his sister, who had learned how to make it – or rather, how not to make it – in home economics class.
It had undergone modifications through its passage through the many hands that had previously prepared it. But nothing major… okay, so Ziva had said that McGee's sister had marvelled at it, and asked for the recipe, one time when she and Abby had met the youngest McGee for dinner, and a day of chick bonding.
In any case, here was Jethro Gibbs, not exactly a Domestic God – his cookbooks at home consisted of nothing more than a list of phone numbers to his favourite take-out places… but he was trying. He just wished there was a way to do what he had to do without sounding like he was attacking the kitchen cupboards with a wrecking bar.
When he'd finally gotten the dish into the oven, he sneaked stealthily to the passageway, peering in carefully. He needn't have bothered – the resounding snore that emanated from Mrs. Mallard sounded only vaguely like an asthmatic bull moose. He snuck back into the living room, carefully settling down, wincing as the springs in the old, comfortable chair squeaked loudly.
He opened the lid of the laptop, watching Mrs. Mallard carefully for signs of wakefulness, and tried to get to work without disturbing her. He started typing, carefully tapping the keys with as light a touch as he could manage.
Unfortunately, he had set the kitchen timer, which had an unusually loud and obnoxious ring – for 5 minutes, instead of 50.
This, unfortunately, resulted in him jumping in surprise, his heart in his throat and his computer taking a tumble off of his lap, Mrs. Mallard waking up with a start and a shriek, the dogs going completely berserk, Tyson attacking the laptop, now on the floor, with surprising ferocity…
And Jethro Gibbs sat, wincing, eyes closed, and feeling more than a little fed up and sorry for himself.
He was about to reboot Tyson, when the doorbell rang.