Author's Note:

Please don't expect much action in this story. It is meant to introduce my little sidekick character, Dr. Tamara Moore. I plan to write a whole series of little stories about the NCIS Team spanning at least the time from season 1 to season 5 (Jeanny Shepard's death) so this story is more likely to be a prologue.

Little Shadow Girl: Thank you for the preview. I'm sometimes still struggling with the syntax and especially the correct use of phrasal verbs (run after, care for etc.). I hope I'll do better in the future.

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Open Words

Rome –near Ponte Sant'Angelo – 8th of July 2001 (Caitlin's POV)

Silently I spooned my ice-cream. The large amount of Amarena cherries, a hint of alcohol and a glob of cream on top combined to a wonderful sensation and I wondered how Tamara could have been able to assume my taste so well. It was a wonderful feeling to relax with none of my colleagues around. Not that they were an awful bunch. Quite contrary most of them were nice to work with. But always the point of my gender lurked in the background. It didn't help that at least one of the points that I had been chosen to be part of this team had been my appearance. I knew how I looked and I understood that the people I usually protected preferred to have broad-shoulder guys and beautiful girls around as bodyguards. But I would have preferred to be chosen for my intellect and reflexes, not the perspective of my ass.

Quota woman: that it was how I felt sometimes. William Baer more than once pointed out that he hadn't chosen me otherwise, that I was still too young for a position in his team. A small sigh escaped me as I thought about the coming months. If all went well I would be given a position in the team responsible for the Air Force One. A big step in my career it would be. But standing in the open was likewise an invitation for critic and scorn.

To distract me from my dark thoughts I smiled at Tamara who had been looking at me for a while in silence. "Are you studying in Rome, Tamara, arts perhaps?"

She put her hat on the chair to her left and shook her head, her fire-red mane flying wildly. "No, I just finished my studies and it hadn't been arts. My father never would have paid for it." Tamara squared her shoulders and dropped her voice an octave as she rumbled on: "Child, arts are good for hobby and distraction on weekends. But studies should be about something meaningful, something usable for work. And before you ask, lass: sketching isn't a real job."

She smiled shortly, her face a bit uneasy. "So I had to go for something useful, useful in his opinion." Without explaining what her studies had been about she continued after a while. "My uncle paid this trip as a present for my degree. It was a golden opportunity because my mentor invited me to join him and a few others to visit Rome for a … symposium, kind of."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful. You must have been a very special student to do so." Shortly I wondered what I had missed, where I had wronged, because her face darkened. Before I could ask she explained.

"So to say, yes." She poked in her ice-cup for a few moments before she went on. "There had been rumors in the university … rumors about him and me. They called me his prize mare." My breath faltered, my eyes widened, but Tamara shrugged. Only her voice betrayed her inner turmoil. "Others denied that, but their 'compliment' was hardly meant as such, calling me 'workhorse'. It was meant more as a reference to my stature than to my zeal."

"Err … what do you mean?" She surely couldn't think …

Tamara blushed. "You know: large, broad-shouldered, strong legs and at all not very feminine."

I gasped. "Dorks they are. And you're a moron if you think of yourself otherwise than beautiful." She smiled weakly and flinched a tad as I padded her hand but didn't pull away. "Prize mare … work horse … if I ever would compare you to a horse it would be a bronco or an Arabian thoroughbred. You're all air and fire; there is nothing earthbound about you."

Now she relaxed more, her smile broadened. "You're too kind, Caitlin. You're a good girl." Hesitating for a moment she continued. "I could be wrong but you're exactly that, aren't you: one of the good girls?" Realizing my confusion she explained: "No, I'm not speaking about your morals or your Christly uprising … you're a catholic as I, aren't you?" I simply nodded.

"I spoke about your profession. Protect and serve is your motto, isn't it?" I paled thoroughly, only starting to breathe again as she squeezed my hand. "It is something about how you move and especially how you look around, always looking for trouble, always searching for danger and watching how the people around you move and behave."

How could this be? Had our encounter been something other than pure chance? Wild ideas crossed my mind, ideas about her being send by 'the enemy' or – more likely – as a test by William Baer. Tamara stared intensely at me, slowly shaking her beautiful head. "No, I'm not kind of test and certainly not your enemy." My paleness intensified as I wondered if I had spoken loudly. "I'm only good at … interpreting facial expressions and stance."

Locking her eyes with mine she stayed silent for a long time before obviously an idea crossed her mind. She stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me after her, ignoring my complaints and resistance. "I prove it to you."

My mind raced as I followed her, unable to break her grip. She never left the area near the Tiber but I had no idea of her destination. After a while the sight of a tall, slender and rectangular turret came into view and shortly after we stopped in front of a small church. "This is the church Santa Maria in Cosmedin," she curtly explained before entering the church. In the portico someone had erected a stone slab, a kind of wheel two yards in diameter with a simple face on it. Eyes, nostrils and mouth were deep holes and a hint of mane framed the face. It seemed to be very old, perhaps even stemming from old Rome.

Her expression now way more solemn she gently caressed the edge of the stone slab. Her voice was caring and awestruck as Tamara explained: "This is the Bocca della Verita, the Mouth of Truth. It had been found three hundred years ago and placed in this church. According to the legends the Bocca is able to tell truth from lie. If you put your hand in the mouth and tell a lie, the mouth will bite your hand of."

For a moment a felt the urge to smile or make a joke but a single glance in her eyes told me that at least to her this was nothing playful, nothing to be disrespectful about. So I stayed silent as Tamara took some deep breaths and placed her left hand, that hand she used for sketching, into the mouth. She started to speak, hesitantly at first but getting firmer by the word.

"I, Tamara Moore, in the face of god, swear to be completely honest now. My meeting with Caitlin had been by chance alone … even if by a very lucky chance," she smiled softly before she proceeded. "I'm no test or danger to her but only staying because she is such an extraordinary, intelligent and beautiful woman and I would like to spend some hours with her."

She awaited my reaction, her stance unsecure and her eyes asking. As I grabbed her hand and gently pulled it away from the mouth, holding on it as I responded, I sensed a small quiver before she relaxed. "I believe you, Tamara, and I'm sorry that I had doubts for a moment. My work is not very easy and it influences my thoughts. That you were able to read me so easily was … troubling." She smiled at me and nodded as I asked: "Would you like to go somewhere else? I'm eager to do something more cheerful."

As promised the next hours had been more relaxed. Tamara dragged me around, showing me bridges, places, small shops and inns all over Rome, many of them very Italian and 'un-touristic'. She even tried – after we reached her favorite Italian – to explain the differences between northern and southern Italian cuisine and how most restaurants made an awful mix of them and tempered with the flavor to get something that tourists expected to be 'real Italian'.

For a moment I wondered why she ordered such a grand table for us but after a long, fast talked conversation with the waiter the place began to be filled with all kind of plates and dishes. Fish and seafood of all varieties, flesh from chicken, goat and mutton, a dozen different types of vegetables and four tureens with pasta were served together with several bottles of wine, port and sherry. With wide eyes I stared at this, wondering how to begin. But as I reached out for something I noticed her chiding look.

"What about the grace, Caitlin? Certainly you won't forget that?"

I shouldn't have been surprised about this. But I certainly was touched. More often than not I had got funny looks speaking about my belief and so her reaction was a more than welcome change. Folding my hands I started: "We thank you for this wonderful moment, for the company we share and this delicious meal. Thank you for all your gifts and help us so that we always may appreciate them now and forever."

Tamara smiled and pressed my hand: "That as very sweet, Caitlin." With a mischievous grin she added: "And bear in mind: Not bites but nibbles, else even he may not be willing to spar you an attack of indigestion."

It was two hours later and already darkness descending as we left the restaurant, my stomach filled to the fullest, my brain a bit fuddled from the wine. Slowly we walked towards the Tiber with only a short stop at a florist where she bought a single orange tulip for me. It meant something special, that I was sure about. But my brain didn't allow me to grasp what it could be and she evaded the question, instead dragging me to a small boat. Leaning against a lamppost I listened to her beautiful voice as she negotiated with the rower about a voyage upstream to a landing stage near the embassy. My heart executed a little jump: I would get my candle-cruise … in a way at least.

Sitting down in the boat she offered me the place beside her. I didn't flinch very much as she laid her arm around my shoulders and hugged me, placing a blanket around our backs as our dresses, especially mine, was not suited for the chill of evening. Slowly the boat followed the river, buildings on both sides spending a hint of light on the dark river. But way too fast for my liking the landing stage came into sight.

As decided some hours ago we exchanged no mail addresses, no handy numbers and made no appointments for the future. We simply embraced us for a last time and she kissed me on the cheek before I left, clenching the tulip in my hand and not daring to look back where she stood at the boat, following me with her caring eyes.