Title: Anything you can do, I can do better
Author: Aunt Kitty
For: MissJayne
Rating: K+
SECRET SANTA!
Leroy Jethro Gibbs almost groaned aloud. (Almost.) There was only one person who was a reasonable suspect in the case of the mysteriously appearing holiday flyer. Who else had a love of weird—hell, bizarre—fonts? Who else had CDs full of pictures and art clips and doo-dads—snowmen, Santas, presents and trees, stars and punchbowls, turkeys and cookies and, and, and—!
(And who had stayed well past the time he had gone home last night?)
Who else? Abigail Sciuto.
It's that time of year! Yea! The office party is set for the Friday before The Big Day, from 6 to midnight, so mark your calendars NOW!
Our Secret Santa exchange is going to be bigger and better than ever before! Instead of each team doing their own thing, this year we're going to be ONE BIG NCIS FAMILY!
Now he did groan. Yes—he did think of his team as a family of sorts. A screwy, dysfunctional (though highly talented) family, but a family nonetheless. But Secret Santa? Please spare me from another year of Soap-On-A-Rope.
Now, this is not mandatory—
Thank heavens for small miracles.
But it would be really, really cool if everyone participated! So—go to the link listed below (everyone is getting this as an email and a hard copy, just in case!), enter your name, your department, your likes and interests. (There's also a section for dislikes and allergies, after Marisu's trip to the ER for anaphylactic shock last year—and we're so glad you got over that so quickly, Mari!) You'll get an email linking you to your Secret Santa giftee two weeks before the party, so sign up now—
Pass.
Gibbs considered chucking the flyer in the trash but decided that would be too harsh on the first day of release. He wouldn't hurt Abby's feelings for the world.
"Ho, ho, ho!" Tony rubbed his hands gleefully and snatched up his sheet. "Abigail Sciuto's Secret Santa Club is open for business! Sweet!"
"I didn't realize you look forward to the holidays so much, Tony." Ziva's look was bemused.
"Cookies, candy and presents," he said, drawing out the 'r' in a trill. "What's not to like?"
Gibbs ignored the comment. He always put in an appearance at the holiday party—partly to be marginally polite, partly because even in her scrambled mental state, Mrs. Mallard made a gingerbread that was worth waiting all year for. She guarded the recipe jealously; the only written copy was in an envelope with 'to be opened after my death' in spidery writing on the front. Ducky had, at her demand, put it in the wall safe; Abby had offered to steam it open, but Ducky had declined. He'd honor her wishes, and if the envelope didn't have the intended recipe… well, he'd do his best to recreate it on his own. (Abby planned to do a chemical analysis this season. She just wasn't going to tell Ducky.)
"Coffee… coffee…" McGee muttered under his breath, setting paper cups on Gibbs' desk, then Tony's. "Tea—"
"Thank you, McGee."
"—and… hot chocolate." The last cup was lovingly placed on his own desk.
"Thought you were watching your weight, McChunky," Tony teased. "Chocolate the new weight watcher's regimen?"
"Ignore him, McGee," Ziva counseled. "You look fine. You can certainly afford a cup or two of hot chocolate." Her inflection made it clear that someone else could not. She gave him a wink. "Even with whipped cream."
McGee popped the lid to his cup, revealing slightly melted swirls of cream. "Perfect." He caught sight of the flyer and his eyes lit up. "Secret Santa! I love this time of year!"
A message popped up in the corner of Gibbs' computer screen. Only 29 shopping days 'til Christmas! Gibbs rolled his eyes. Great.
"You joined the Secret Santa exchange?"
"Why are you so surprised?" Ziva looked at Director Shepard, head cocked.
"Oh, I don't know… maybe, Christmas?"
Ziva's brow furrowed slightly. "Did you not enjoy the Hanukkah feasts those years?"
"I never said that," Jenny said quickly.
"Did you—convert—to Judaism while I was getting the dessert from the kitchen one year?" Ziva asked with a 'shocked' look.
"No, no, I—" Jenny gave her a wry smile. "Point taken."
Ziva grinned, an open face she felt safe to show her longtime friend—and was shown in flashes to her teammates. "As Tony said, cookies, candy and gifts—what's not to like?"
"Abby certainly is the Christmas spirit around here."
Ziva laughed. "And then some." She gave Jenny a sly look. "So you are in the Secret Santa exchange?"
"Of course. I'm hoping for a solid gold Porsche."
"Don't hold your breath."
"So—who did you get?"
"Jenny! What part of 'secret' did you not understand?"
"He didn't sign up." Abby propped her chin in her cupped hands, staring at her computer screen. A static fingerprint on the left was being compared to a whirling database on the right.
"My dear, are you surprised?" The hand Ducky rested on her shoulder gave a gentle squeeze. "You know hard we sometimes have to work to drag him to the table for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner."
"Yeah." She sighed. "And it's not that I don't enjoy 'the family' exchanging gifts, but—this is Secret Santa! It's different. It's special. It's mysterious." She sighed again. "It just makes me sad."
"I understand." Abby took her holidays very seriously. So far, the only holiday to escape her loving attentions was Groundhog Day, and he was sure she'd come up with something one of these years. "I saw you had a 'second round' for those who were out of town or otherwise incapacitated. Perhaps he'll change his mind. There's still time," he said encouragingly.
Fat chance, each thought.
Parents shouldn't show favoritism. So Jenny was scrupulously careful to participate in Secret Santa at work, with one recipient, but otherwise only her beautiful bulldog of a secretary, Cynthia, received a gift—until Christmas. Dinner at Ducky's (and what a dinner!) was off the clock. Family time. Gifts given to Jethro and his team, to Ducky, Abby and lovable but awkward Jimmy Palmer, were family gifts—and if anyone questioned that, she'd point them to the stuffed animal she'd found for Mrs. Mallard (a Corgi so realistic it could easily be mistaken for one of the pack). Mrs. Mallard was definitely not on the NCIS payroll.
"Jethro never did sign up?"
Abby slumped in her chair. "No," she said morosely. She blew on her cocoa and took a sip.
"Are you totally surprised?" Ziva looked from Abby to Jenny, breaking off a bite of her muffin.
"No… I guess not," Abby sighed.
The three women were tucked in a corner of a crowded coffee shop, gathering strength for her task before them: Secret Santa shopping a week and a half before Christmas…
…in a mall…
…on a weekend.
Figuring there was strength in numbers, Abby had suggested they meet for breakfast and descend on Tyson's Corner Center en masse. Ziva had hesitated—she had drawn Abby's name for the exchange and knew that shopping for someone when they were a foot away was not only hard as hell it was downright almost impossible… but figured if anybody could pull it off, she could.
Fortified by a good breakfast (and several cups of strong tea (Ziva), coffee (Jenny) and cocoa (Abby)), they mentally linked arms and stormed the castle.
The first stops were self-presents. Ziva wandered into a music store and wandered back out with a bag full of CDs (two of which were earmarked a gifts; the other ten were hers). Abby all but fell into a trance in front of Gothix, almost drooling over a pair of black patent leather boots with 6" high platforms, gold tassels and cutouts of skulls and crossed bones. While Jenny gently nudged Abby toward parting with the money, Ziva snuck over to the other side of the store and found the perfect gift for Abby. She had barely paid for it and slipped it into her tote when Abby came over, boots in hand. She had a moment of panic when Abby cried, "Oh, look!" and pointed to a duplicate choker in purple, but easily distracted her with a display of amusing and irreverent (and often downright dirty) bumper stickers.
Halfway to Barnes and Noble they almost passed by the find of the day. Ziva and Abby stopped short, Jenny nearly colliding with them. "Oh, Jenny." Ziva stared at the display window. "You must buy that. It is simply stunning."
Abby nodded. "What she said."
"Where would I wear it?" Jenny protested. "Not to mention, I'd freeze—"
The younger women exchanged a glance. "Office party," they chorused.
"In that?"
"Gibbs will be there," Ziva murmured.
Hmm. Jenny cocked her head, causing the glittering trim to wink and flash. "Well… there's no harm in trying it on…"
(They found complementary shoes at the Shoe Rax.)
"I love bookstores." Ziva scanned the titles in the MOVIE/TV/FILM REF section.
"Me, too." Abby shifted her basket, making sure the Dictionary of Slang and Idiom was covered. Ziva pounced on Bond—James Bond, the Definitive 007 History and put it in her basket and they continued to wander the store.
Jenny's perusal of the cookbook section had resulted in a reprint of a Victorian 'professional bakers' manual of instruction' for Ducky; a left turn had brought her to the HUMOR AND CARTOON section. Abby was perched on a low stool, flipping the pages of a large book, Ziva peering over her shoulder. Every few seconds they'd burst into similar giggles.
"What are you reading?" Jenny asked, curious. In many ways the young women were quite alike; in others, vastly different.
"Calvin—" Ziva started.
"—and Hobbes," Abby finished.
Jenny grinned. "I adore Calvin and Hobbes. I almost cried when they printed the last cartoon," she confessed.
"I did," Abby readily admitted.
Jenny joined Ziva in peering over Abby's shoulder. "Spaceman Spiff!"
Abby turned a few pages. "Poor Miss Wormwood."
"Poor Suzy," Ziva countered.
They finished off Calvin and Hobbes, thumbed through other books and laughed at other characters (Jenny snagging an anniversary reprint of Sad Sack cartoons as a gag gift for her favorite Marine), then semi-reluctantly got back to the task at hand. Abby found a gift for her Secret Santa recipient, a book of blueprints for making historical replica dollhouses as well as a book on haunted houses and sites on the east coast (Jenny figured the second book was for Abby herself). Barnes and Noble a done deal, they headed back into the mall, joining some fifty million other shoppers, many of them channeling one of the seven dwarves (Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey—and occasionally Happy). ("And a couple of reindeer," Abby grumbled after almost being flattened by a group of teenagers. "Dasher? Prancer?" Ziva suggested. "I was thinking more of Blitzen," Abby retorted.)
Hours later and laden with bags they parked themselves in the food court and celebrated over snowman sundaes from the ice cream store. "To a very successful day," Jenny toasted, raising her spoon.
"Hear, hear," Abby raised her own.
"Seconded." Ziva frowned. "Or would that be thirded?"
"How 'bout, 'motion carried?'" Abby suggested and took a mouthful of ice cream. Her eyes suddenly squinched shut. "Argh! Brain freeze!" she croaked.
"Oooh." Jenny flinched in sympathy. "Not fun. What are you doing?" she asked as Abby clamped a hand over her mouth and huffed and puffed.
"Brain freeze is caused by stimulus to the nerves on the roof of your mouth, it makes the blood vessels in your head dilate rapidly and if you warm them back up it makes the 'freeze' dissipate more quickly." At least that's what she thought Abby said, being that she still had her hands over her mouth and was puffing like she was warming her hands after playing in the snow.
Jenny stopped in mid-bite, staring at her slightly melted snowman. "Oh…" A tiny smile appeared. "Oh… ladies…?" They turned to look at her. "I… have an idea…" Her smile grew, enchanting—and just a hair wicked.
Abby and Ziva glanced at each other and smiled in response. "I like it already," Abby said.
"Whatever it is," Ziva added.
"Howzyer mom, Duck?" Gibbs kept his manners in the forefront; he didn't pounce on the platter of gingerbread as soon as Ducky unwrapped it, instead letting a few people snatch fragrant squares before piling his own plate high.
"Quite well, thank you. She's looking forward to seeing you for Christmas dinner." He fixed Gibbs with a quelling look.
Gibbs knew better than to argue. Besides, he was coming to enjoy the 'family dinners' during the holidays. "Noon, right?"
Ducky smiled broadly, having won another holiday battle (though it seemed to be becoming a non-battle). "Correct. That will give us plenty of time—" he broke off, eyes widening as he stared past Gibbs. "Oh, merry Christmas," he breathed.
Gibbs turned and gave a soundless whistle. "Not bad," he said grudgingly.
"Not bad?" Ducky scoffed. "Remind me to check your eyesight." He quickly crossed the room, Gibbs a step or two behind him. "Director Shepard," he said with a slight bow.
"So formal, Doctor Mallard," she teased.
"You look smashing."
"Thank you, my dear sir."
Gibbs had managed to collect himself. "Can you… dance in that… Director?"
"Only one way to find out, I'd say."
"True." He shoved his plate toward DiNozzo. "Guard it. Don't eat it." Without waiting for acknowledgement, he offered Jenny his elbow and they headed toward the other end of the room.
DiNozzo looked longingly at the plate. (Mrs. Mallard's gingerbread was legendary.) "I'm getting my own. Guard it, McElf."
"Hey—" McGee started to protest as Tony pushed the plate into his reluctant hands. Sighing, he turned to Ducky. "We set?"
"Supplies at the ready," Ducky said with a slightly devilish smile.
"The weather promises to be ideal," Ziva said.
Abby rubbed her hands in glee. "This will be better than the year we wrote 'Rosedale High Eats Genetically Altered Worms' in sodium metal on the front lawn. Burned it into the grass for the entire year. Talk about scorched earth…!"
McGee smiled broadly. "Should I bring cameras?"
"Shh!"
"Oh, please. Gibbs won't hear a thing unless we go inside."
"You want to cross a pissed-off sniper woken up at midnight?"
"I mentioned that when you suggested this!"
"No time for cowardice, McCowardly Lion."
"Gentlemen—and ladies—may I suggest less discussion and more—"
"It is rather cold. Jenny—do you have the plans?"
Christmas morning.
Gibbs stared at the ceiling in his bedroom. It was still pitch black outside; dawn wouldn't break for another hour at least (not anything worth noting, anyway). Christmas was for kids, for waking up at an insanely early hour, for stockings of tiny gifts wrapped in tissue, for candy canes and big, fat oranges, for squeals of joy—
He sighed and swung his legs out of the bed. Maybe that's what Christmas should be—but it wasn't what Christmas was.
Deal with it, Marine.
He shrugged into his robe and ambled downstairs. After the coffee maker had grudgingly given up the first cup of the day, he opened the kitchen door, hunting around for the morning paper in the half-light. The newspaper boy (actually a retired postal worker) sometimes got the paper near the side door, usually got it along the side of the house and sometimes merely got it to the right address. Today was a good day—he could see it against the fence, atop some eighteen inches of snow.
His next-door neighbor, Mrs. Patrick, was on her own paper hunt. "Good morning," he called. She was a decent neighbor—collected his mail and paper on his rare trips out of town, gave him homemade cookies on a regular basis and was friendly but not overly so. And she wasn't nosy.
She carefully bent over and snagged her newspaper. "Good morning, Mr. Gibbs!" she called back. "You certainly are a surprise!"
That stopped him. "Surprise? How so?"
"Your little, ah, tableau?" She jerked her head toward the front of his house. "It's a good thing we know where you work, or the neighborhood might be worried. Jerry already sent pictures to the kids," she called over her shoulder as she went back inside.
Gibbs stared as the door to her kitchen clicked quietly shut. Feeling uneasy, he grabbed the paper and went back into the house, tossed the paper on the counter and ducked through to the front door. He cracked the door open and peered outside.
A snowman.
More human in form than the usual snowman, it had bent arms sculpted to its' body; one 'hand' held something that looked suspiciously like a paper cup of coffee, and it had a dark baseball cap on its' head.
What the hell…?
He opened the door all the way and stared openly. "Abby," he groaned. "It's gotta be Abby."
It had snowed heavily for several days, but had stopped just after dinner the night before. And sometime during the night, Abby and her elves got busy.
His yard was neatly edged in yellow "CRIME SCENE" tape. Snowmen—a whole flock of them—decorated the yard. Almost in a trance, he stepped forward. A large red envelope was stuck to one of the pillars; "GIBBS" was neatly printed in the middle and the background was dotted with stark fingerprints. He slipped the card out of the envelope (the card was a Charles Addams cartoon of the Addams family atop the house, preparing to pour a cauldron of boiling oil on the unsuspecting carolers below—yeah, this was Abby's doing) and opened it cautiously.
The game is a pes!
(A foot. Get it? A foot—afoot!)
He groaned at the pun—but laughed, too.
A dead petty officer has been found in Rock Creek Park!
Of course.
Your job is to use the clues at hand and in the scene before you to ferret out the bad guy and see that justice is served. (You might want to work fast, in case the victim starts to melt.)
Your clues are as follow:
Five officers are involved in a smuggling scheme to bring knockoff backscratchers into the U.S. from Spotsylvania.
Definitely Abby.
Two are women; three are men. They are Frank, the red-headed sailor, the woman who plays online poker, the officer who was divorced last year and our dead petty officer.
Gibbs grinned. A logic puzzle. Abby had created a logic puzzle for him. He scanned the rest of the clues.
Work fast! You have until dinner is served at Ducky's to solve the case! Merry Christmas—Your Secret Santas.
Santas, plural. Yeah, she would have needed help. His feet forcibly reminded him that he was no longer sixteen and it was frigging cold out there. If he was going to traipse around in the snow, warmer clothing and footwear was necessary. He ducked back into the house, quickly threw on sweats and a jacket, jammed his feet into boots and hurried back outside.
She'd really done quite a job. The 'petty officer'—an undefined blob (nice touch, can't tell if it's male or female)—lay in the middle of the lawn surrounded by a crowd of snowmen. One knelt by the body (which had a meat thermometer stuck in its' gut); he wore a cropped straw hat (yeah, can't see Ducky giving up his Tilley) and a pair of reading glasses from the dollar store. Neatly etched into his back were the letters NCIS with cutout letters in yellow construction paper stuck in the recesses. Surrounding the body were three figures, all wearing NCIS baseball caps. One had a neatly sculpted braid (had to be Ziva), one had a paper coffee cup stuck in its' hand and seemed to be arguing with the Ziva figure (probably Tony) and the third held a toy camera (Tim, by default). Another figure, with toy "disguise" glasses on his nose was clearly Palmer (apparently the battered-beyond-use sled leaning against him was a stand-in gurney)—even Abby was present, though she was never at a crime scene. (The pigtails were impressive. He'd have to ask her how she did some of the details.) The first snowman he'd seen was slightly removed from the group; like the others, it had NCIS on the back and in addition to the coffee cup in his hand, there was a small spiral notepad and pencil tucked in his chest pocket. Apparently they were intended to be used; Abby had carefully placed them in an evidence bag so they wouldn't turn into papier-mâché. He actually regretted destroying the pocket when he pulled the bag free.
He turned and surveyed the scene. All of the figures had been misted with water to create a hard shell, a trick he'd taught Kelly long ago. But they wouldn't last forever. He walked over to the center of the crime scene and squatted down next to the victim. "Whaddya got, Ducky?"
This sure beats Soap-On-A-Rope.
"Did he call you? He didn't call me. I was sure he'd call me. I would be his first suspect. Especially since I wrote the card. But he didn't call me." Abby suddenly gasped. "Maybe he hasn't seen it!"
"Abby, Gibbs only sleeps, what, two hours a night? He's seen it," Tony said, picking at the hors d'oeuvres tray Ducky had set out.
"Perhaps he is planning revenge," Ziva suggested.
"Knowing Jethro—you could be right." Ducky refilled her wine glass, then Jenny's, "And if he does… it will be exceptional. But I don't think it will be in the spirit of revenge, more 'one upmanship.' He will want to do it up right."
"Do you think this will become a yearly competition of holiday pranks?" Jenny was starting to have doubts about the project she had spearheaded. Once was one thing; an escalating contest (she had visions of Caltech's Ditch Day) could look bad on her resume.
The doorbell rang and the conspirators exchanged nervous glances. "He's the only one not here," Palmer pointed out.
Mrs. Mallard's, "Matthew! How lovely to see you!" clinched the deal.
"A very merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Mallard," floated back from the front hall.
"Oh, such pretty gifts!"
"After dinner…" He made his way into the living room, arms full of boxes and bags. "We always open gifts after dinner."
"Did I invite you to dinner? I'm sorry. I can't remember…"
"It's Christmas Day, Mother. We always have the team to dinner for Christmas."
"Of course we do," she agreed. But her puzzled look made it questionable that she knew what she was agreeing to.
"And dinner shall be served at three," Ducky announced to the room in general.
"Now that we're all here…" Abby scrambled up from her position on the floor while Gibbs tucked his gifts under the tree. She pulled a large cardboard box into the center of the room and opened it. "Stockings!"
"Sweet!" Tony's face split into a side grin.
Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Stockings?" Until now, she had only done a stocking for Mrs. Mallard.
Abby held a finger up to her lips. "Shh. Don't tell the children, but Timmy and I put the stockings together." At Gibbs' glance toward McGee, she added, "Well, I couldn't very well do my own stocking, could I?"
"And Timothy enlisted my aid," Ducky said with a small smile.
"Cool." She grinned; Ducky had good taste and interests as weird and varied as her own.
Abby handed out the stockings (including one, of course, for Mrs. Mallard—and four stockings of doggy treats for the Corgis) and the room regressed to childhood en masse. It's possible to be a grownup about gifts, carefully slitting tabs of tape, rolling ribbon and folding paper for re-use. But there is something about tissue paper and little treats and trinkets that brings out the kid in a person.
Sounds of glee spit the air. Rustling paper, giggles, laughter, cries of delight—a Buck Rogers play set got teasing comments form Tony, but Abby knew Tim was tickled over it; the roles reversed, and Tim poked fun at Tony over the replica AstonMartin DB5, getting a, "But this is Bond—James Bond, McGeek," in response. Mrs. Mallard actually cried over her box of Callard and Bowser chocolate toffees; "Santa always put these in my stocking when I was a girl! I haven't had these in years!" (Every year Abby put them in her stocking. Every year she said the same thing. Every year she cried.) Jenny's eyes grew wide over the coffee mug (a tongue-in-cheek 'inspirational' mug with the phrase 'if you don't like my opinion you can always improve' on it) with small bags of coffee (Mocha Java, Kona—even Jamaican Blue) scattered throughout the stocking. "Oh, Santa, thank you!" she breathed.
"Speaking of Santa…" Abby fingered the lacy collar that encircled her throat and spread over her shoulders and chest, silver links and dark green stones that formed a delicate spider web. She pointed to Ziva. "You were my Secret Santa, weren't you?"
"Guilty as charged," Ziva laughed. "When you almost bought the same necklace, I was in fits."
"In a fit," Tony automatically corrected. Ziva gave him a mild glare.
"What about you?" Abby prompted Ziva.
"Secret Santa? Did you not see it at the party?" At Abby's nod to the first and negative headshake to the second, she said, "A basket of the most beautiful collection of tea things you can imagine. Ten or twelve tins of loose tea. The tea mugs have quotes about books and reading, and the teapot has a lovely reproduction of a painting—a woman in a hammock, reading a book. It makes me think of Renoir…" She frowned in concentration.
"Sandra Hayen, 'Reading in—'" Ducky broke off.
Ziva slowly smiled. "You were my Secret Santa?"
Ducky smiled, a little embarrassed, and nodded.
"It's perfect! I made tea with it this morning, the India Morning Spice blend. Wonderful. Thank you so very much."
"You are quite welcome, my dear."
"Two Secret Santas within the same team? What are the odds?" McGee laughed.
Gibbs looked up from his half-unopened box of chocolate covered espresso beans and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah… what are the odds?" he asked drily.
His team looked at each other in trepidation. Ducky blushed faintly, Palmer looked more frightened than normal… and Jenny just smiled.
"So." He unwrapped his last stocking stuffer (a button reading OOH-RAH! on a camouflage background). "To whom should I give my case report?" he asked formally.
Jenny's smile grew larger as Ducky said, "Why, I would think that would be Director Shepard, Jethro."
Gibbs glanced quickly from Abby to Jenny. Hmm. So Jenny had been the mastermind. It kind of figured. He pulled the notepad from his jacket pocket and propped his reading glasses on his nose. "Okay. Our victim is Petty Officer John aka 'Jack' Frost."
"Abby!" Tim half-laughed/half-moaned. "You didn't!"
"She did. The other four are Midshipman Frank Lee Mydear—" The whole room groaned on that one. "Ensign Ohnleea Butler, Lieutenant Marion Haste and Warrant Officer Abel N. Willing."
Everyone was laughing out loud by the end of the list. "I swear, the 'case' was all Abby's doing, all Abby's writing," Jenny said around her giggles.
"That I never questioned," Gibbs said. "Moving on. In order: single, married, married, divorced, single. Hobbies, beyond smuggling knockoff backscratchers into the U.S. from Spotsylvania—"
"Whatever you were on when you wrote this—please, don't share," Tony begged.
Gibbs ran through the hobbies, hair colors, places of birth and where each person claimed to be and where each person actually was during the time of the murder, Abby nodding all the while. "So. Your conclusion, Special Agent Gibbs?" Jenny asked, trying to be serious (and almost succeeding).
"The Ensign, aided by her non-serviceman husband, committed the crime."
McGee was the first to understand the implications. "Oh, no." He dropped his face into his hands.
"Yes." Gibbs tucked the notepad back into his pocket. "The Butlers did it."
As always, dinner was wonderful and the guests stayed until the remnants of good manners drove them home. Jenny, whose car had refused to start that morning, had driven in with Ziva; Gibbs immediately offered to take her home. McGee and DiNozzo headed off their separate ways, and Abby stayed to help clean up and keep company with the Mallards for the evening. (Jenny remembered Abby's panicked, "No, no! Wrong tag!" when Ziva handed Ducky a box marked to Duckman, love Abby on it. "That's for Sister Rosita! My bad!" Baloney. It was just a gift not meant for public viewing. Yeah, Abby was going to help 'clean up.')
"So. Are we forgiven?" Jenny asked as they approached her doorway.
"Yeah, I guess so," Gibbs laughed, teasing. "Actually—it was a lot of fun. The neighbors probably think I'm a little weird, now—"
"A man who builds boats in his basement isn't already looked upon as 'a little weird' in your neighborhood? Boy, are they forgiving," she shot back.
"You should meet some of my neighbors."
"I'm so glad we all make our own family Christmas."
"Yeah." His smile was small, but genuine. "Yeah. Me, too." His eyes traveled upward. "Hmm."
Jenny followed his look. "What—" She gasped slightly at the clump of mistletoe dangling from the overhead porch lamp. "Jethro, I didn't—"
"Hey. Tradition is tradition." He tugged her closer and gave her a long, lingering goodnight kiss that tingled down to her toes. "G'night, Jen."
Still smiling happily, she let herself in the front door—
—and almost fell over the potted plant in the hallway. Irritated, she snapped on the light.
No, not a plant. A small tree. A tree with a couple of items tied to its almost-bare branches: a small Christmas tree ornament shaped like a gold pear and a flat envelope about 7" square. Happy First Day of Christmas! was written on the outside. She slipped it open, removed an old 45 record and began to laugh.
The A side song title? I Think I Love You.
The singing group?
The Partridge Family.
"Thank you Santa," Jenny murmured, savoring the first cup of coffee. She had crafted her own blend from the bags in her stocking: 1 part Jamaican Blue, half a part Kona, half a part Italian Roast and a quarter each Java and Viennese Roast. To die for.
The kitchen doorknob rattling surprised her. "Noemi! What are you doing here this morning? You should be home with your family!"
"Oh, Senora—I hide gift for my granddaughter, and forget to take it home!"
Jenny laughed in sympathy. "Oh, Noemi, I'm so sorry! I remember you putting it in the closet—" She walked with the housekeeper to the front hall. "It completely slipped my mind when you left the other day."
"Is not your fault." The doorbell caused both women to look at the door in surprise.
"Who could that be—" Jenny glanced at the hall clock. "And at seven in the morning?" She tied her wrapper a bit more securely as Noemi opened the door.
"Yes?"
"Jennifer Shepard?"
Jenny stepped forward. "Yes?"
"Delivery. Sign here." The man shoved a clipboard toward her.
Late Christmas gift? But from whom? Jenny signed the board; before she could find tip money in the drawer, the man was gone. "Huh. Wonder what it is." She carried the box—a good ten pounds—into the hallway and set it on the credenza. "I wonder—" The doorbell rang again. "Who that is," she laughed.
"So many visitors. And the day after Christmas!" Noemi sounded scandalized.
Jenny opened the door—but the only thing there was a potted tree… with two Christmas ornaments attached, a gold pear and a small bird. With a dawning sense of realization tinged with horror she hurried back to the box and tore it open.
Happy Second Day of Christmas! was written atop the heavyweight Styrofoam cooler. She cautiously lifted the lid.
Somewhere a Marine was sipping his coffee.
Smiling.
Nestled inside were two plump chickens, their outer wrapping proclaiming La Viandeet La Volaille Fine, a select butcher's in D.C.
Two… French… Hens.
As Jenny did the math, she swore she heard a chuckle and Ducky's comment from the day before rang in her ears: "I don't think it will be in the spirit of revenge, more 'one upmanship.' He will want to do it up right."
It was going to be a long twelve days.
Ooh-rah!