My father has always demonstrated his lack of restraint when it come to a beautiful woman. His type – anyone really, no preference to hair color (unlike Gibbs), or age, pretty much just any woman who would obligingly take the expensive glass of wine offered, or the woman who would laugh at his attempt at humor and compliments, or a woman who may or may not pretend to be interested in what he had to say.
My father's image is important to him – so whether he has the disposable income or not, he continues on renting a Rolls-Royce, summer-ing the south of France, living in The Hampton's, traveling to exotic locations. I get it, that's the kind of life he wants to lead.
But the thing is I know. I know, he struggles to keep it up. Last year, I paid for his hotel room while he was visiting. I paid for his flight heading to Monte Carlo. He needs to realize this is going to catch up with him. I don't know how much longer I can help him. I mean, what message does that send? Don't worry, Dad. I'll keep working to pay for your extravagant life. Nope, I can't do it.
My father called to tell me he was in town and would be remiss if we didn't see each other for dinner. I willingly accepted this statement and told Senior to call me about where to meet.
Two days went by. No phone call. I made excuses for him, again. Maybe he forgot, maybe he got tied up with work, maybe he found a woman to be with and is holed up in some hotel.
I called him several times. He never picked up. Should I have worried? No, wasn't the first time happened; sure as hell wouldn't be the last. This is our relationship.
Maybe I stretched my Senior Field Agent credentials when I told Ziva she had the distinct pleasure of inputting cold cases into the computer. Oh, technology! How I love thee.
Boss Man announces we have a dead Naval Officer as we grab our gear to head out. Luckily, a case takes precedence so she'll have those white boxes to sift through when we are done. Inputting cases is so slow and arduous. I'm not great with computers but imagining not having to deal with the cold cases makes me a bit weepy with joy.
We get to the crime scene, another normal day until I hear him. "Junior, Thank God you're here."
The local LEO confirms he was the guy in the car. Fuck. Interestingly enough, this is not the first time he's been in trouble like this. I immediately start walking over to my father but Gibbs' is there to stop me. I know he's doing his job, really. When McGee walks my handcuffed father by me all I can do is sigh, shake my head and think, What the fuck? He couldn't have done it, right?
By the way, I'd like to thank my father for having to sit out this case and getting to enter the cold-cases into the database. Oh, Dad.
No one turns down cake. Unless. . . well I don't want to think about those poor people who can't have it or refuse to. I mean come on, whether it's chocolate, vanilla (golden vanilla is better than the white), the funfetti with the bits of color in it. Carrot cake though, with the raisins – who wants raisins in cake, save those for bread or bagels.
The frosting is what makes the cake. The bakeries know how to make a mean frosting. Grocery store cake frosting always have that weird taste. (Maybe that's the only time I would refuse cake. No, I'd just scrape that crap off.)
I got an email from Hollander in HR saying it was her birthday and she had cake. Bingo – got an idea. Dorneget was guarding the Interrogation door where my father while we, they, figured out what was going on. I thought I'd be nice and bring the agent a piece. He took it as I knew he would. Then, I casually mention my need to speak with my father. He denies it with a mouthful of cake. Nice try, Dorneget.
This means I have to bring out the big guns from the arsenal. I didn't want to but he left me with no choice.
"Gibbs said to watch out. Especially, you."
"I guess I'd have to tell him about your little antics at the Halloween party last month with Susan Grady from Polygraph down in the copy room. Huh?" Good, I'm making him uncomfortable. "She was dressed a nun. You were dressed as Leroy Jethro Gibbs with the little silver wig." I just continue to watch his demeanor shift and I've got him right where I want him.
He quietly utters, "No one knew about that."
"I know. DeNiro. DiNozzo. I'm watching." And that's how it's done.
My father always thinks the next deal is the big one. I've been listening to this speech for years now. Nothing changes. Yet, I'm the calm one when shit like this goes down. He can't remember a godamn thing. Sometimes I feel like the only adult here. He has been running around the world. Running from his problems, his life and his son. He's never going to stop, though. This is who he is. I know this.
"Do you think Gibbs would do it?" I can picture Ziva thinking about it before she says anything.
"Do what?"
"Shoot my father for saying something stupid."
"No."
"Did you say that because you believe it or did you say that to make me feel better?"
"To make you feel better . . . did it?"
"Maybe a little."
"Are you still inputting those cold case files?"
I turn my head. "Can you see me?"
I hear a laugh from the other side of the phone. "No, but I know how you operate. Did you forget that? I didn't think you'd actually do it."
"I can't do all your work for you, Zee-vah."
"Well, I just made your favorite meal so you can stop pretend working and come eat."
"You don't need to tell me twice." I hang up and grab my coat.
"I didn't." And she hangs up.
Hotel my father was supposedly staying at said that he checked out. Great – there he goes again. No notice, no good-bye, no nothing. I went to Gibbs' house because, well he knows the frustration I feel when dealing with my father. He's known about it for ten years. Gibbs just lets me talk. I finally say out loud that I love my father. Something I've felt inside but have never vocalized before.
So, it's a shock when I hear my father behind me. I turn around and there he is. Technically, he didn't leave. He didn't disappear. He stands there in an apron. This can't be good. Gibbs must have put him to work. You show up unexpected at his house, you have to cook. It's an unspoken rule. It's better than the canned beans he usually eats.
My father decided to cook a turkey dinner, you know with Thanksgiving in a couple days, that means we get DiNozzo family time. I'll just bring him to Ducky's with the rest of the crew because well, there are some things a man just can't run away from.