Breeze

Buchanan got out of the elevator at the morgue floor, and took a deep breath before entering the sealed doors of Ducky's domain. When she entered, she saw that instead of the customary three stainless steel autopsy tables, they had five, all of them with body bags on them.

Besides Ducky and Jimmy, another man in medical scrubs is looking at the body currently open on the furthest table in the morgue.

"Ducky?"

"Oh, hello Agent Buchanan, it's a pleasure to see you well," he leaves Jimmy and the other M.E., and approaches her by the door.

"How are you my dear?"

She smiles thinly, "I'm better off than them," pointing to the dead students on the tables.

"Indeed," he turns to Jimmy, "I'll be back in ten minutes," and leads Buchanan out of autopsy by her arm. Once the door slide closed, the M.E. turns to study the agent, and he's not happy to see the unhappiness on her face.

"How is the M.E. the FBI sent to help you?"

"Efficient, not very talkative," he shrugs, "I believe I surprised him when I started talking to the bodies." Joy smiles thinly at Ducky.

"How is Matthew?"

"He's had better days," she rolls her shoulders, trying to dispel some of the weight on her shoulders, "what about Sarah?"

"Sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I had to medicate her to calm her down, but, there are no visible physical injuries that I could verify in my exam."

"Thank God." Joy sighs relieved.

"My dear," Joy lifts troubled eyes to Ducky, "why is our Timothy being so…" he tries to find the appropriate word, but for the first time in several years his gift for words fails him.

"Bull-headed? Stubborn? Obstinate? I could add obnoxious and uncompromising, pigheaded, mulish and headstrong to my list of adjectives to describe him." She says, exasperated, and Ducky smiles faintly.

"I see you thought a lot about it."

She rolls her eyes at Ducky, "I haven't thought about anything else but." She starts pacing the corridor, "I understand his concern, and I know his reasons, but he" she turns to Ducky frustrated, "he won't even listen to the facts, he's just immediately assumed the worst and is not willing to change his opinion regardless of what anyone might say to or show him."

Ducky takes a step and puts a calming hand on her shoulder, "then it is up to us to make him see the truth, without the veil of mistrust and anger he seems to be seeing the world through right now."

Joy lowers her head, staring at her shoes for a moment.

"I just…" she starts, but stops, and bites her lower lip trying to keep her agony in check.

"What my dear?"

"I'm just afraid that it might be too late," she lifts watering eyes to Ducky, "that the damage is already done, and that there might be nothing left to be done to fix it."

"Oh dear," Ducky opens his arms, and the petite agent hugs the M.E., heartbroken.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

Buchanan comes back to the bullpen, and the other agents are giving a summary on their dead petty officer to Gibbs.

"He's Petty Officer Lawrence Veseley, 29, assigned to Norfolk's administration office," DiNozzo starts reciting the facts he knows, "married, two kids, no previous black marks on his file, he worked on the control of storage of equipment for the Marine Offices in Norfolk. Whenever someone needed something, from a toilet paper roll up to a B-52, he was the man to talk to."

"He was well liked by his peers, and had a historical of taking his buddies to the bar for rounds of tequilas sporadically," says Ziva, as she shows a pic of a smiling Veseley in the bar with his buddies, "a well liked guy."

"McGee," barks Gibbs, and McGee puts his findings on the plasma.

"Apparently, paying his buddies' tequilas wasn't the only thing he was doing," says McGee, and Veseley's bank statements come up, "I've traced several deposits of over fifteen thousand dollars to his account, in cash, and shortly after the money entered his account it has been withdrawn."

"How long has it been going on?"

"I've traced eight deposits and withdrawals in the last three years."

"No idea where that might come from?"

"No," says McGee.

"Keep digging," Gibbs say, "who was his commanding officer?"

"He reported directly to Lieutenant Ibrahim Lawrence, here in the Navy Yard, in the accountant department."

"Tony, Ziva, visit Lieutenant Lawrence and get a clearer picture of his subordinate," he says without taking his eyes of the plasma, "Buchanan, you with me," he says, and grabs his gun and badge and starts leaving.

"What about me, Boss?" says McGee, almost whining. Gibbs stops, and looks first at Buchanan, then at him, "keep digging the origin and the destination of the deposits. As soon as you find anything, give us a call." He sees the wounded look in the junior agent, and despite the fact he doesn't explain his actions normally, "Sarah is downstairs, Tim, if she wakes up," McGee's eyes become huge orbs, as he remembers the situation they are currently in is not normal, "she will want to have you within arm's reach."

McGee nods, as he's not being left behind on purpose. He glances briefly at Joy, who grabbed her backpack and was just waiting for Gibbs to move. She looks at him for a moment, studying his face, "we'll keep you posted," she says softly, as Gibbs moves to the elevator.

"Buchanan," he barks, and she shrugs and follows him. The elevator doors close after them.

Gibbs drove with Buchanan to the dead petty officer's house in Norfolk, to meet the family. While Gibbs was used to the non-stop chattering from DiNozzo, or the friendly and sometimes outright vindictive banter between DiNozzo, Ziva and McGee, Buchanan shared with him his ability to stay completely quiet for long periods of time, not sharing what was going on behind her brown eyes.

He would sometimes glance at her, but her face was an impenetrable mask. He hears her sigh deeply, and when he looks at her he sees her furtively wiping a tear from her face.

He turns his eyes to the road, "That's the reason why we have rule 12."

Joy smiles faintly, "I'm not a great follower of your rules."

"I know, but you should be." He glances at her, "everyone should have rules to live by."

"Rules work only in very specific situations, when everybody involved at least gives a damn about what they say. But sometimes," Joy shakes her head, "people change, situations change, and you lose control of your life, and your rules can't explain what is happening, because life doesn't fit in a box. You can't expect life to follow your expectations about it."

She looks at Gibbs, who is still driving, "And, sometimes, you are wrong."

Gibbs smirks, "Rule 53."

"Uhm?"

"Rule 53 says: sometimes, you are wrong."

Joy stares at Gibbs for some seconds, and he feels her stare burning on him, "that's a good rule," she relents.

And still they drive.