Part 2: In Practice

Five days later, Tony had to admit that perhaps he had underestimated the task at hand. So far, his investigations had turned up nothing whatsoever. To the best of his knowledge, McGee's greatest secret was that he had no secrets. True, he didn't really seem to be trying to keep that fact a secret, but come on! Anyone would be embarrassed to have a life as boring as that. Or they ought to be, at least. Sighing, he thought back on the past few days.

Wednesday.

"Wow. I can't believe we're actually getting out of the office at a decent time, today. This is nice."

"Big plans, Probie?"

"Yes, Tony. In the three minutes since Gibbs suddenly announced that we could go home for the night I arranged to have big plans. Without using my cell phone or in any way communicating with the outside world."

(It had taken them three minutes to get in the elevator mainly because Gibbs' decision to call it a night had left them all too stunned to move for quite a while. Granted, there had been no reason to stay later than standard office hours, but that fact did nothing to diminish the weird feeling not staying late gave everyone. They hadn't even been made to finish what they were working on. In Tony's case, that was a Very Good Thing, since he hadn't actually gotten any work done.)

"Geez, no need snap, McSnippy. Can't a guy casually and innocently inquire after the plans of his co-workers?"

"A guy? Sure. You? No. There is never anything innocent about anything you do. So what do you want?"

"To make conversation. So, you're not doing anything exciting and oh, possibly illegal tonight?"

Behind them, Ziva snorted. Let her. He knew what he was doing. The direct method often worked best of people like McGee who simply weren't made to keep secrets and would divulge them instantly upon being cornered.

"No, Tony, I'm not."

Hm. It seemed the Probie was made of tougher stuff than he'd thought. Luckily, he had a Plan B.

Thursday.

"Hey, Abby."

"Tony! What'cha got for me?"

Tony produced Step One ("Win Hearts and Minds") of Plan B, in the form on an extra large Caf-Pow.

"Ooh, a super-sized one. You must want something really difficult. So, what is it? Another hair I need to examine for miniscule traces of drugs? That actually wouldn't be that difficult now, 'cause I made friends with Marty and he could probably let me use his IMS. It was the weirdest thing, 'cause he bowls and I bowl and-"

"I haven't got a hair for you, Abby."

"Oh. Someone poisoned with an untraceable toxin, then?"

"No."

"You found pollen in a victim's nostrils and you need me to find out exactly where he's been?"

"Uh-uh."

"You… need me to lift a print from a disembodied limb again?"

"Nope."

"Okay, I give up. Tell me what impossible feat Gibbs needs done in half the time it would take Superman to do it. I didn't even know you guys had caught a case! You really should keep me in the loop more. But I guess if you were busy hunting bad guys-"

"Abby, we don't have a case."

"What do you mean, you don't have a case? Are you working cold cases, then? Do you need me to retest old evidence?"

"No, we don't have any case at all. We're still dealing with our backlog of paperwork."

"Well then why are you here?"

"I thought I'd come visit you. You know there's no one I'd rather chat with."

"Aw, that's really sweet of you, Tony! After all, I'm all alone here all the time when you don't have a case to bring me evidence from. But aren't you going to get in trouble with Gibbs?"

"On a coffee run. So, how is my favorite forensic scientist today?"

"Curious about what you really want from me, actually."

"I don't know what you mean."

Ziva, who happened to be walking by, snorted audibly.

"You brought me an extra large Caf-Pow and you risked the wrath of the Bossman to come down here. You definitely want something from me, and it's a big something."

Okay, so maybe his subtlety needed a bit of work.

"Spit it out, Mister!"

"All right. So, you remember when you were dating McGee?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it dating, but yeah, of course. Why?"

"Did you notice anything?"

"Anything, like…?"

"Like a secret, maybe?"

"Okay, tell me what's going on right now!"

"I can't."

"Tony…" she intoned, threateningly.

It wasn't caving, he told himself. It wasn't caving because he was giving in voluntarily. He was humoring her. Yes, that was it, he was humoring her to keep her in a good mood, so she would tell him what he wanted to hear.

"IbetZivaIcouldfindMcGee'sMOASbutIdon'!"

"You're looking for McGee's MOAS? And you thought I'd help you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"McGee's my friend. Why would I help you find his secrets?"

"…because I brought you an extra large Caf-Pow?"

"Good point. But even if I wanted to help you, there's nothing I could tell you. I really don't think McGee has a MOAS. I mean, he's McGee. He's sweet and stammering and he probably couldn't keep a secret of his life depended on it. He's like an adorable baby hippo!"

"Baby hippo?" One glance at Abby's expression told him he had better not have anything bad to say about hippos, so (with great difficulty) he swallowed all the comments on the tip of his tongue. "So you can't help me?"

"Well, you already know that he spends most of his free time playing an elf lord in an online video game. What could be more embarrassing than that?"

She had a point. McGee never really tried very hard to keep things like that from the team. Even the possibly only person to ever have slept with him (he shuddered at the thought) wouldn't know more, then. There simply were no more incredibly embarrassing secrets to be had. So whatever the Probie's MOAS was, it had to be something he couldn't share with anyone, ever. Well, time for Plan C.

Friday.

"Heya, Ducky."

"Tony? What brings you down here? Has a body been found somewhere?"

"No, I-"

"So you need me to do a psychological autopsy?"

"No, we don't have a case." Tony made a mental note to visit his coworkers more often just to chat. How was he supposed to subtly sound them out if they got suspicious at the very notion of having a non-work related conversation with him? "I just felt like a chat."

"About something in particular, perhaps?"

"What makes you say that?"

Ziva stuck her head through the door to deliver a snort, and left immediately.

Ducky just raised his eyebrows at him.

"All right, all right. I wanted to talk about McGee."

"Timothy? Why?"

Time to be devious. "I'm worried about him, Ducky. He seems off, somehow, lately. I think something's wrong with him, but he won't talk to me. I was hoping maybe you could help."

"Well, he hasn't said anything to me, if that's what you're wondering. And I have to say, I thought Timothy had been looking rather better than usual, lately."

"But he's been acting odd, and there has to be a reason for it. Maybe something's wrong with him that we don't know about. And I was thinking, since you have access to his medical files…"

"That I might break doctor-patient privilege and divulge his medical details to you?"

"Well, yeah. But not like that. Just, you know, so I know what's wrong and can try to help."

"I'm afraid even that would be deeply unethical. I'm sorry, but I simply cannot do that. I can talk to him, however. Perhaps he will confide in me, as a friend."

"That'd be great, Ducky, thanks." Tony tried not to let his disappointment show.

"If it's any consolation, Tony, any medical problems Timothy may have must be very recent. I reviewed his files only a few weeks ago and saw nothing out of the ordinary."

Tony sighed. So much for Plan C.

"Well, thanks anyway, Ducky. Maybe whatever's wrong with him just isn't medical."

"I would certainly hope so."

So would I. 'Cause if it is, I'll never find out now.

"You know, this reminds me of a young lad I once know back in Scotland who…"

That was Tony's cue to leave.

"I'm sorry, Ducky, but I really have to get back upstairs. I told Gibbs I was hitting the head, if I stay away any longer he'll probably send Ziva to terrorize the men's room."

It was a good thing Tony was a patient man (if only by his own assessment; anyone else would be far more likely to describe him in very different terms), otherwise he might have been somewhat frustrated by this point. It was a good thing, too, that he was an inventive man (no one who knew him would have any inclination to disagree on that point), or he might be running out of ideas. As is was, however, he still had quite a few letters of the alphabet to go through. And as long as this investigation was keeping him from having to do paperwork, he had all the patience in the world.

Now for Plan D.

"Hey, Gibbs?"

Gibbs just looked at him.

Tony swallowed. Well, Plan D had been a long shot, anyway.

"Uh, when I'm done with this report do you want me to email it to you or print it out?"

Another look.

"Printout, gotcha."

Tony went back to his scribbling, which was in no way related to the report he was supposed to be working on.

"Hey, Tony?" McGee turned to him right after Gibbs had gone for coffee, again. (His caffeine intake seemed to increase exponentially with every day they didn't catch a new case and were stuck with the paperwork they ignored the rest of the year. No one was entirely sure how that was even possible, considering the already enormous amounts of coffee he consumed on a regular day. Rumors abounded, especially because he didn't appear to visit the head any more frequently than he usually did. Abby seemed like the best person to go to for an explanation. "Of course there's a scientific explanation for it. Gibbs is magic!" No one wanted to admit believing it, but the faith was drawing more and more disciples every day.)

"What's up, Probie? Do you have a deep, dark secret you just have to confide about in me?"

Tony's computer pinged and he noted that Ziva had sent him an email reading "*snort*".

"Uh, no. I was just wondering why you've been writing stuff by hand since Wednesday. You do realize that even if Gibbs wants hard copied of everything, we still have to type our reports up so they can be added to the digital archives?"

Tony looked at the piece of paper on which he had just finished crossing out "Lure McGee into a deserted circus tent and have him hypnotized by a crazy clown."

"Well, we can't all be McGeeks, McGeek. Some of us like to write things down with an actual pen before surrendering it to a computer."

"But then you'll have to do the work twice! You have to write the report and type it up. You know, statistically speaking, if you spend…"

Tony tuned out his lecture on efficiency in the workplace. McGee had just given him an idea for plan E.

Saturday.

Who the hell came to work on a Saturday? A Saturday when there was no case, anyway. No one, that's who. Nevertheless, Tony was there, at his desk, working on Plan E, "Follow the Paper Trail." Or rather, "follow the digital trail." There had to be a clue to the Probie's MOAS somewhere in the gazillion tons of paperwork they all had to file all the time. And sure, snooping through McGee's personnel file wasn't technically legal, but surely it was in the spirit of the Freedom of Information Act.

Problem was, Tony didn't really know how to get into McGee's personnel file. It was the sort of thing he usually had McGee do. He tried to replicate the commands he'd seen the Probie use, but received nothing but flashing error messages for his troubles. There had to be an easier way to do this. Some way that didn't involve needing a geek. But how to get at the files without having to use a computer…

"Hi, Trish."

"Tony! I didn't know you were working this weekend."

"I'm not. Well, not really. I've got some paperwork to catch up on, but I got bored. So I thought I'd come here, where the company is so much better." He added his most brilliant smile for full effect.

Tony thought he heard the faint echo of a snort coming from somewhere, but ignored it. He was in his element, he knew exactly how to get what he wanted.

Trish blushed, but didn't seem to have any suspicions. Good things he made a point of regularly flirting with any and all females in the building.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony walked away with McGee's personnel file, as well as his recorded web search history and all officials records on him, dating all the way back to elementary school.

Eight hours later, he was about ready gouge his eyes out. He was bored beyond belief. He had now read absolutely everything that anyone had ever written about McGee and he was still no closer to finding out what he was hiding. The only thing slightly out of the ordinary was the fact that the McFrugal had recently been spending more money than before, even shopping at an Armani store. Maybe his good taste was finally rubbing off on his Probie. He certainly could teach him a thing or two about appreciating the good things in life.

He sighed. Maybe Ziva was right. Maybe McGee really didn't have anything to hide… NO! He couldn't let himself think like that. Everybody had a secret. McGee was no exception. Even if he was starting to look like the most boring man in the universe.

Still, the paperwork wouldn't get him any farther. Time for the next letter of the alphabet. He glanced at his list of plans and noticed that the number of ones not yet tried was seriously dwindling. Hm, he should probably make that a rule, too. DiNozzo Rule Number Twenty-One: If you haven't reached M, you're not prepared enough.

Sunday.

The sound of his cell phone ringing startled Tony out of his daze. He had gotten lost staring at the label of a laundry detergent. Why had he never noticed before how magnificently colorful it was? Oh, right, because he had never before in his life been so abysmally bored. Plans F ("Get Him Drunk") and G ("Get a Midnight Confession") had failed, mainly because McGee had adamantly refused to go clubbing with Tony. So now he was on Plan H, "Tail Him." So far all he had learned was that McGee liked organic food and took an inordinate amount of time to choose between different types of apples.

"DiNozzo."

"Tony, why are you following me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Probie."

"Tony-"

"Hang on, I've got an incoming call… never mind, that was just Ziva, snorting."

"Tony. I can see you standing in cleaning supplies aisle."

"And did it ever occur to you, McSuspicious, that I might just be shopping for cleaning supplies?"

"You've been following me since I left my apartment this morning."

"Oh, have I?" (Admittedly, that might not have been the wittiest retort he had ever come up with. His brain was still lost in a haze of rainbow-colored butterflies. He really needed to get some of that detergent.)

"Yes, you have."

"Okay, so maybe I was following you. But only because wouldn't come with me last night."

"I wouldn't go out with you, so now you're stalking me?"

"No! Well, yes, but- oh, never mind. I'll you at work tomorrow, Probie."

Plan I was very straightforward: "Search His Apartment." Tony had done just that while McGoody-Twoshoes was most likely still trying to pick the best union-labeled, locally grown, free range organic avocadoes or something. And he had found nothing. Well, nothing besides heaps of shredded paper which seemed to indicate that the Probie's literary aspirations had come to an end. Oh well, time for Plan… Damn! He'd run out of Plans.

Monday.

So here he was now, in the office bright and early, before anyone else, desperately trying to come up with a new Plan. He kept drawing a blank. He had simply tried everything he could think of. There was nothing in the Probie's apartment, nothing in his records and nothing his friends could tell him.

If McGee had a MOAS, he'd certainly left no evidence of it.

It was really starting to look like he was going to have to spend a week at Ziva's beck and call. What would she make him do? There really was very little they had ruled out, he realized, and shuddered at the thought. Why couldn't Gibbs have more rules?

Well, at least he had gotten a nice week out of the bet. There was still no case for the MCRT, which meant paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Well, it would have, if Tony hadn't been far too busy coming up with Plans to pay any attention to it. That meant that McGee and Ziva had had to take care of it, and while he slightly feared Ziva's payback, at least he had avoided death by boredom. He could probably even escape the worst of Ziva's wrath by spending extra time at work. After all, as per their agreement, the "slave" duties could not be work-related.

Still, he could avoid it all completely if only he could get into the Probie's head! He pulled out his piece of planning paper, which was by now completely covered in scribbles. He had crossed out "Hire a Psychic to Read McGee's Mind," but was that really such a bad idea? If McGee had a secret – and he just had to have one! – the only place to find it seemed to be his brain. So unless McGee up and confessed, mind reading would be the only way to get at it.

Half an hour later, Tony hung up the phone, disgusted. Who knew that mind readers charged such exorbitant prices?

He was definitely screwed.

At least Gibbs wasn't around to notice Tony's distraction. MacMillan's team had requested his help interrogating a suspect and the Boss had practically jumped at the chance.

(The baristas at Gibbs' preferred coffee place were offering prayers of thankfulness. Any more days of pure paperwork and they might have developed serious health issues from trying to keep up with their best customer's ever increasing demands.)

Tony, being rather experienced in the art of what he called "taking ten" (and what others tended to call"slacking off"), had decided to hang out in Observation. It was the perfect place. It let him keep an eye on Gibbs without letting Gibbs keep an eye on him, meaning he could kick back without having to worry about ending up on the receiving end of a headslap. If only MacMillan's team hadn't been hanging around the room, too. It was kind hard to relax when people kept shooting you such dark looks.

In Interrogation, Gibbs seemed to be heavily bluffing. If they had really had that much evidence on the guy already, they wouldn't have called in Gibbs to break him. But the guy was falling for it and started confessing even things which, from the look on MacMillan's face, he hadn't even been suspected of. Tony watched in fascination and almost missed his cue to dash off as Gibbs wrapped up the interrogation and made for the door. He was still slightly out of breath when Gibbs returned to the squad room, but there was a Plan forming in the back of his mind.

Best to try it at night. Everyone's defenses were down at night. He'd be cutting it close, but that was exactly his way, living on the edge.