McGee watched the floors tick off with increasing patience as the elevator rose. Both his hands were full of the team's lunch orders—two bags full of burgers, fries and sandwich wraps plus a tray of coffee and takeout soda. He'd been close to dropping one of the bags since he stepped into the elevator, and it continued to slip further and further from between his fingers as the elevator rose. He tried to use the rail that was nailed to the wall as leverage to give him a better grip, but it seemed to make it worse. So all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and wait for the ding.

As soon as the chime sounded and the doors opened, McGee dashed onto the floor and around to the closest desk—Ziva's. He dropped the bags onto her desk, then managed to wrap his fingers a little more securely around the drinks tray before he slid it onto her desk without spilling it.

"That was close," he muttered, and shook his hands free of the cramps that had started forming from his take out death grip.

"You never had a part-time job as a waiter, did you?" Tony asked.

McGee looked up at Ziva's scowl and Tony's wince. The senior field agent was perched on one of the bookcases behind Ziva's desk, and his foot was resting on one of her open desk drawers. It was their standard fact-finding position, and McGee wondered what they'd found together in the 30 minutes he'd been gone.

"Sorry," he said. "Lost my grip." He opened the bags and handed Ziva a vegetable wrap and Tony a grilled chicken burger. "Are you sure that's what you wanted?" he asked.

Tony grabbed it out of his hands. "Yes, McDonald's," he said. "Sometimes I don't feel like eating a delicious juicy cow. Strange as it may seem."

McGee frowned. "That's the second strange as it may seem you've given me today," he pointed out.

"Well, here's a third," Tony said as he unwrapped his burger. "Strange as it may seem, I don't keep track of those things."

McGee rolled his eyes and took a burger and serving of fries over to Gibbs' empty desk.

"You are not going to eat that over my shoulder, are you?" Ziva asked Tony.

Tony put the burger down on her desk, went to his desk, grabbed his chair and wheeled it back over behind hers. He gave her a polite smile, and instead of narrowing her eyes at him in return like McGee expected, she gave him a brief smile back before turning back to her computer.

McGee retrieved the bag with his burger and fries, took his soda and went back to his desk. "You find something?" he asked.

"Let me hear it," Gibbs said, striding back into the bullpen.

Tony stood up, but with his mouth full of chicken burger he had to gesture at Ziva to put what they'd found up on the plasma. She hit a few keys to bring up a webpage for the Caribbean Carnivalé, licensing information, financial information and the service record of Will Crawford. Tony chewed frantically as the rest of the team waited for him to finish, and under pressure he swallowed before he was ready. His eyes watered, but he swallowed again, cleared his throat and began his rundown.

"Ensign Will Crawford, aged 29," he said with a thin voice. "Joined the Navy after high school where he was the star quarterback for the Grenvail High Ravens. Clean service record, glowing performance reviews. He'd done several tours overseas including to the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Aden."

He paused and Ziva took her cue to click to the next screen. Alicia Crawford's driver's license popped up.

"He married Alicia Kirk on April 6, 2009," Tony went on. "As we know, she's the daughter of Admiral Royston Kirk. Alicia makes her living as a fashion and style blogger." He paused again as Ziva pulled up Alicia's blog. "Apparently, that's a real job. They've been living on base housing since July 2009, but since Will's death, Alicia has moved back to her parents' house in Georgetown."

Ziva stood and grabbed the clicker to move on to her part of the presentation. "Neither of the Crawfords have anything in their histories that stand out. No outstanding debts, no previous arrests, not even traffic violations. They are streaky clean."

"Squeaky," Tony corrected.

Ziva frowned. "Like a mouse?"

Tony started to explain, but Gibbs didn't have the patience.

"Hey. That's the victims. What else have you got?"

Ziva clicked onto the next screen. "The Caribbean Carnivalé," she announced, as a picture of the enormous cruise liner out on the open sea at sunset filled the screen. "Maiden voyage was in August 2011. It is registered in Liberia, which means they are under Liberian law while at sea."

McGee swallowed a mouthful of soda and spoke up. "That's pretty common for cruise liners," he said. "I did some digging before I went to get lunch. Apparently a lot of liners register their ships in places with more relaxed laws so that they don't have to pay as much attention to employee conditions."

"Speaking of employees," Ziva continued, "There are currently 1,207 employees on board the Caribbean Carnivalé."

Gibbs arched an eyebrow at her. "You kidding?"

"No. They serve an average of 3,500 passengers on each trip."

"And that only makes the Caribbean Carnivalé a mid-sized cruise," Tony shot in. "There are a couple of liners out there that take up to 6,000. Although their quarters are probably nicer than what you get on a Navy frigate."

Ziva watched Tony as he worked through his agent afloat trauma and continued giving her rundown. "The captain is a gentleman by the name of Sven Slotté. A Norwegian with 20 years' experience as a cruise liner captain."

"Always around the Caribbean and Mexico," Tony said. "I guess he's not pining for the fjords."

Ziva clicked through to the next screen. "I have contacted the cruise line for a copy of their incident report surrounding Ensign Crawford's death. They will email it through soon."

Tony took the clicker from her. "But meanwhile, we did a little digging and found out about a couple of assaults, thefts and at least two attempted sexual assaults on the ship since the beginning of the year. From what we can tell, none resulted in a prosecution, even though they were investigated by the FBI and the Coast Guard."

"You call Borin?" Gibbs asked.

"Waiting for her to return my message," Tony said on a nod.

"We thought you would like to call Fornell," Ziva added.

Gibbs nodded and seemed to notice the coffee that McGee had gotten for him for the first time. He picked it up, took a long drink, then gestured at the screen with the cup. "What about this Paulson guy she mentioned?"

Tony pulled up yet another screen with two driver's licenses showing. "John and Sacha Paulson," Tony began. "Married eight years, no kids. John Paulson has an arrest for drunk and disorderly on his file back from 20 years ago and a couple of parking fines. Sacha's as clean as the Crawfords. As Alicia mentioned to Special Agent David here, Sacha is employed as a pharmaceutical sales rep for Fischer & Edmonds. John is a toy maker. Handcrafts rocking horses and stuff out of wood. Kindred spirit, boss?"

Gibbs gave him a steely look that make Tony's smile drop.

"Right. Anyway, they seem to be well enough off. A house in Charleston, two cars, only minor debts for some credit cards and student loans. No red flags."

"But," Ziva interjected, "They have gone on two cruises a year for the last three years. Always departing Miami and touring the east Caribbean."

"These cruises don't come cheap, boss," Tony said. "Not the way the Paulsons do it."

"Their accommodations are always top of the line," Ziva said. "Bedrooms separate from the living room, large balconies."

"Definitely better than a Navy frigate," Tony summed up.

"What kind of money are we talking?" Gibbs asked.

"Upwards of $15,000 per cruise," Ziva said.

Gibbs looked at her like she'd sprouted another head. "Just for the room?"

"Yes."

"How long are they at sea for?"

"About eight days," Tony said.

Gibbs didn't look impressed by the extravagance. "So where's the money coming from?"

"We're working on that," Tony said.

"You request the medical file from the hospital in St Croix?" Gibbs asked.

"On its way," Tony said with a nod.

Gibbs nodded and sat down behind his desk. He unwrapped his burger and took a bite while he thought about the information he'd been provided. Tony returned to his desk to get through whatever he could of his lunch before Gibbs spurred them into action again, and McGee, mostly done with his, spoke up to provide some of the information he'd gathered before he left.

"Boss? Coast Guard was responsible for the original investigation around Ensign Crawford's death. But we had to sign off on it. I put a call in to Special Agent Rory Crocker who works down in the Jacksonville field office so he can talk us through what happened."

"You didn't just pull up the case file?" Gibbs asked.

"Buh-uh, yeah, I did," McGee stammered. "But it didn't say much. And I thought we should probably talk to the lead agent anyway."

Gibbs nodded. "Good." He took another bite of his burger, chewed quickly and then threw out the rest before standing up again. "So. You telling me that we're just waiting for calls back from Borin, Jacksonville and the cruise liner?"

His three agents jumped back into action.

"No, boss!" Tony declared. "We're chasing people. Important people. For important information."

Gibbs picked up his coffee and started walking out of the bullpen. "McGee, dig further into the Paulsons' finances."

"Got it, boss."

"DiNozzo, get Borin to talk to you even if you have to drive out there and stand over her desk."

"On it," he said, although without McGee's enthusiasm. He didn't really feel like chasing Borin down today.

"Ziva, I want the medical file from St Croix here in the next hour. And the incident report from the ship."

Ziva nodded. "I will twist some thumbs."

"Arms," Tony said.

"What is the difference?" Ziva asked, exasperated. "Either way, it hurts."

Tony nodded his head, accepting her point. He turned to watch Gibbs retreating towards the elevator. "Where are you headed, boss?" he called.

"To get some medical advice."

…

Even for Gibbs, the day was too nice to spend indoors. Technically he could make his calls from the bullpen, but it was a rare, mild Saturday in a string of hot and sticky ones. If he couldn't be in his basement where he wanted to be, or on the water where he could easily be convinced to be, then he could at least spend a little time with the fresh air. Especially when that air wasn't being thickened up by his agents.

He loved those kids. He really did. But sometimes he got so sick of their faces that he could yell. And sometimes, he did.

He had a feeling that this case would induce yelling. Although he was committed to investigating it thoroughly, there was just something about it that he knew would give him regrets in the end. He wasn't looking forward to finding out what those regrets would be.

Those were thoughts for another time, though. As he set off on a lazy lap of the grounds around NCIS headquarters, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ducky's number. The elderly M.E. would most likely be on the golf course on a day like this, but Gibbs could do little about interrupting him. Sometimes, duty literally called.

"Jethro!" Ducky answered, sounding as amiable as ever. "Did you know that golfers walk an average of about five and a half miles on an 18-hole course, should they refuse the aid of a buggy?"

"Didn't know that, Duck," Gibbs replied.

"I knew that," Ducky said. "Ever since my fleeting audience with the Grim Reaper last summer, I've worn a pedometer for every round I've played. I've only reached four and two-third miles today, but I am assuming from your call that I will not make the rest of the distance."

"Keep playing, Duck," Gibbs told him. "I'm after your brains, not your hands."

"Ah! Then you will excuse me if I walk while I talk."

"Tell me about food poisoning," Gibbs said.

Ducky made a 'tsk' sound. "Oh dear. I have told you in the past not to eat at that wretched pub you like."

Gibbs smiled to himself. "I ain't been sick since '99," he told Ducky with a hint of pride. "I'm talking about a dead sailor."

"I thought you said my hands weren't needed?"

"They're not. He died four months ago."

"From food poisoning?"

"That's what the hospital in St Croix said. But his wife's having trouble swallowing that."

"Well, it is rare for a person of average health to expire in such a way," Ducky said. "What do you know about his medical history?"

"Not much. We're finding out. Late 20s, above-average health." He paused to recall the details Alicia had given them. "Fell sick a few hours after dinner on a cruise ship. Vomiting, fever, couldn't keep fluids down. Was put on a drip when he reached land, but had some seizures and passed away in the morning."

"Hmm," Ducky grunted. "Were other passengers affected? Food poisoning on cruise ships is not uncommon, and—"

"A couple of other passengers ate bad fish in port," Gibbs cut in. "Our sailor didn't eat the same thing."

"It does sound odd," Ducky admitted. "What did the toxicology find?"

"No autopsy."

"Ah."

"You think that sounds like food poisoning?"

"Well, at a blush it certainly does," Ducky said. "It also sounds like a lot of other things. Food poisoning, however, has a way of making it out of the body with the expulsion of bodily fluids. Your sailor could very well have been violently ill, if the case was severe enough. But if he was being given fluids intravenously he should have recovered in two or three days." He paused. "Seizures are less common in food poisoning cases, but they do occur."

"They're more consistent with other kinds of poisoning, though," Gibbs said.

"Generally." Ducky sighed. "It is hard to comment, Jethro, without seeing this young man's medical records, and whatever records the physician on the cruise liner kept."

"Ziva's getting 'em," Gibbs told him. "Reports from the hospital that treated him in St Croix, too."

"Should I come in?"

"No," Gibbs said with a shake of his head. "It can wait."

"Well, I shall be very interested to read up on our sailor in the morning," Ducky said. "Of course, you can always call me before that."

"Don't think I won't," Gibbs said with a half-smile.

"However, perhaps you could wait a few more hours?" Ducky suggested. "I still have a few holes to go."

Gibbs smiled wider. "Take it easy, Duck," he said, and then hung up.

…

"I went on a cruise once."

It was mid-afternoon and Tony had been left at his desk with little to do since he'd finally gotten hold of Borin two hours ago. Now he was waiting for her to arrive with the case file of not only Will Crawford's death, but of a few other smaller crimes that had been reported on the Caribbean Carnivalé in the last few months. With McGee focused on looking into John and Sacha Paulson's affairs and Ziva making threats to hospital administrators in St Croix, Tony was bored. The only thing for it was to start talking.

"I was seven," he went on, as if his colleagues were listening. "My parents were focused on the casino and the bar, and I spent a week with a bunch of other kids who were bored out of their minds while their parents had a blast. The buffet was good, though. And the teen girls in bikinis," he finished wistfully.

Ziva held her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone and blinked lazily at him. He figured she was on hold. "I have the impression that cruise liners have improved since the '70s."

Tony blinked his thoughts away from the last time he'd seen that lazy expression on her face—just that morning when she'd woken up on his chest—and pulled up the Caribbean Carnivalé webpage again. "Obligatory casino, but this ship also has a water park with slides, four pools, a park with palm trees, a putting green, two theatres, 26 restaurants, basketball court, tennis court and a goddamn rock climbing wall."

"Doesn't sound that bad," McGee muttered from his corner of the room.

"And there are cocktail bars everywhere," Tony added. "I might be getting old, but I'm with McGoldenGirls. Sounds better than my last vacation."

"Your last vacation was three years ago to a funeral," Ziva pointed out.

Tony nodded. "I know." He brought up the page that detailed the amenities in one of the mid-priced staterooms with a balcony. "TV's only 42 inches, but I guess you can't have everything."

"I do not think you are supposed to spend much time in your room, Tony," Ziva said.

"Honeymooners would."

Ziva cocked her eyebrow at him. "Watching TV?"

Tony shrugged. "Yes."

She looked fleetingly disappointed before her attention was drawn by someone on the other end of her phone call. "Yes! I am here." She paused and then clenched her jaw and her fist in tandem. "No, it is Ziva David. Z-I-V-A dot D-A-V-I-D." She paused again. "Yes. Like the boy's name."

Tony looked over at McGee, ready to share a smirk over her irritation, but McGee spoiled his fun. Although he was rolling his eyes at hearing Ziva spell her name for the five thousandth time, it was in sympathy. And he wasn't looking at Tony anyway.

"I need it urgently for an investigation," Ziva went on. "So if you could please send it to me as soon as—" She broke off, and then her tine brightened significantly. "Oh! It just arrived. Thank you very much." She hung up the phone and then made an obscene gesture at it and muttered something in Hebrew Tony knew her mother would have scolded her for.

Tony got up and wandered over to sit behind her again. "What've you got there, Miss Z-I-V-A-D-A-V-I-D?"

"The urge to strangle the next administrator I come across," she gritted out, and stabbed her index finger down hard on her enter key.

He thought about reaching over to kneed her neck again like he had that morning—she'd sure seemed to like that—but settled for a warning, "Easy, tiger."

"This is not how I wanted to spend my day," she grumbled, and then looked up at him abruptly. "Do you know how I started my morning?"

Tony froze. And once Ziva's brain caught up with her words, she froze too. They were both all too aware of exactly how she started her day. But the fact that she was bringing it up now—albeit by accident—as an example of where she'd rather be made Tony's pulse quicken. He didn't quite know what to say, though. It should have been a simple question, but it wasn't. And it was made more difficult by the fact that McGee was sitting there across the bullpen and watching his colleagues watch each other.

"Noooo," McGee drawled from his desk, sensing that something untoward was afoot. "How did you start your morning, Ziiiivaaaa?"

Tony returned to his desk as casually as possible. Ziva wasn't quite as successful in her casual response.

"I slept in," she told McGee.

McGee nodded, but kept watching her with interest. "Hey, you didn't say how your night with Borin was."

"It was fun," Ziva told him, and then shot him a more natural smile. "You should come with us next time."

McGee nodded. "Yeah, I will. Was it a late night?"

At his desk, Tony rolled his eyes over McGee's interrogation technique.

"Not really," Ziva replied. "Borin had to work early this morning."

McGee glanced between Tony and Ziva. He thought for a moment, and then made what had to be a deliberately provocative comment. "Tony said that you and Borin shouldn't be allowed together without a chaperone."

Ziva's eyes shot over to Tony, and as she looked at him accusingly, Tony held his hands up in defense. "I did not say that!" he argued. "I said that it's good if a third person is there to make sure you two don't…" He trailed off when he couldn't think of a less inflammatory way of saying that they were trouble.

McGee said it for him. "End up maiming someone."

Tony chuckled nervously under Ziva's gaze. "It sounds worse than I intended it to."

To his relief, Ziva just smirked and returned to her work. Which was good, because Tony would have hated to end a day that started so very nicely with his blood spilled. He blew out slowly and then shot a death glare at McGee. Tim just grinned.

"You know, probie," he began, "if you want my job so bad there are better ways to get it than leading Ziva to kill me."

"She won't need to if I find out you're not doing any work," Gibbs said as he strode back into the bullpen at full speed.

Tony, Ziva and McGee all sat up a little straighter at Gibbs' appearance. And even though he was feeling a little tired of Gibbs' routine, Tony played along.

"We're working, boss," he said. "All six cylinders."

Gibbs dropped his coffee up in the trash. "Then tell me what you've got."

Tony, McGee and Ziva looked at each other, and then each held out their fists. After 1, 2, 3, McGee's paper beat Tony and Ziva's rocks. He got out of his seat, grabbed the clicker and brought up a real estate listing on the plasma screen.

"This is the house in Charleston, that John and Sacha Paulson live in," McGee said, gesturing at the photos of the preserved two-storey colonial.

Tony and Ziva both got to their feet and walked over to gawk at the grand and beautiful house and grounds.

McGee nodded at their reactions. "Yeah, it's in the South of Broad district overlooking the Battery. Built in 1890 with five bedrooms, three baths, eleven-foot ceilings, wine cellar, open fireplaces, six chandeliers and a formal dining room that seats 16. It was bought at auction for $2.4 million three years ago. That was at the height of the housing slump, by the way."

"Swanky," Tony murmured. "My cousin bought a house like that back in '97. It's got to be worth millions."

"The Paulsons own two cars," McGee went on as Tony reached out longingly towards the TV screen, and then snatched his hand back quickly before Gibbs could smack it. "A 2012 Mercedes-Benz E 350 and a 2012 Lexus convertible. They've been on eight cruises in the last three years, and have also visited London, Abu Dhabi and Sydney."

"And he's a toy maker," Tony said with disbelief.

"And she is a drug sales rep?" Ziva added.

Gibbs asked the question they were all thinking. "Where's the money coming from?"

McGee pulled up a photo of a raven-haired man with graying temples and an artificially smooth forehead. "Meet Jim Paulson, John's big brother and financier. The house is owned by Jim, and he signed the checks on the cars before they were registered in his little brother's name."

"Did John give him a kidney or something?" Tony had to ask.

Gibbs cut off any response to that McGee might've had. "Where's his money coming from?"

"I haven't been able to track that down," McGee admitted. "But I'm thinking proceeds of crime. Jim has two bank accounts in his name with a combined balance of just over $26,000. But he lives larger than his brother."

"Employed?"

McGee nodded. "As a physical therapist in Manhattan. He makes a decent living, but not one that would set him up in an apartment overlooking Central Park."

"Something is hinky here," Ziva declared.

"Hinky or not, it doesn't make John Paulson a killer," Gibbs said. He turned to Tony. "You talk to Borin yet?"

"She's pulling files for us," Tony said with a nod.

Gibbs looked around the bullpen and held his hands out in question. "So, where is she?"

Tony glanced at Ziva—hadn't he already answered that?—and answered again. "Pulling files, boss. She'll be here later."

Gibbs swung around to look at Ziva. "Medical report?"

Ziva took the clicker out of McGee's hand and brought up the file from the Caribbean Carnivalé. "The ship's file contains little information. What is there simply corroborates Alicia Crawford's version of events. The ship's physician, Dr Mona Mercurio, was called to the Crawfords' room at 0143 where she found Ensign Crawford vomiting and with a fever. He was transported down to the infirmary where they tried to give him fluids, but he could not keep them down. There is no record of Ensign Crawford being given any drugs by Dr Mercurio." She clicked onto the next page. "They called ahead to the hospital in St Croix at 0530 to ask them to have an ambulance waiting when the ship arrived in port at 0700. That is the end of the ship's file."

She brought up the next file from St Mary's Hospital in St Croix. "On shore, Ensign Crawford was treated for acute food poisoning. He was put on an IV and given Demerol. Shortly after arriving he had a seizure and went into cardiac arrest. CPR was performed but was unsuccessful and he passed away. His time of death is listed as 0842."

"Alicia said they took blood from him," Gibbs said.

"It was not tested," Ziva replied. "However the administrator I spoke to said the hospital would still have it."

"Send those to Ducky," Gibbs told her.

"I already forwarded them."

Gibbs stared at all the information on the screen in front of him, trying to find evidence of a crime. Tony was too, but with the information they had so far, there was nothing to say there had been one.

"Special Agent Rory Crocker called in," he told Gibbs. "He boarded the Caribbean Carnivalé with an agent from the Coast Guard when it returned to Port in Ft Lauderdale. He interviewed Dr Mercurio as well as the head of security, the ship's concierge and staff who worked in the kitchen serving the food Ensign Crawford ate that night. They didn't find anything that made them think that he got sick from food served on the ship, but thought it was likely he ate bad food on shore in San Juan."

Gibbs sighed heavily, and it was clear that he was losing his patience for treating this case as anything other than a serving of bad luck. "Anything else?"

"Just one thing," McGee said. "John and Sacha Paulson? They're booked on another cruise through the east Caribbean, departing at the end of this week. Same itinerary as the cruise they took with the Crawfords."

"Proceeds of crime," Gibbs muttered. "Still doesn't have anything to do with Will Crawford."

"Unless he found out what that crime was," Ziva said. "Alicia said he saw something and was going to report them."

"Want us to get local LEOs to pick them up for questioning?" McGee asked.

Gibbs stared at the plasma screen for a little while longer, but eventually shook his head. "No. We'll wait to hear what Borin has."

So, I'm receiving the message loud and clear that most readers are not terribly interested in chapters that don't involve copious amounts of Tony/Ziva relationship fun. That's okay! We're all after different things from what we read. I can't tell you this story will change. It *is* a case fic. But there is a lot of Tony/Ziva relationship fun to come-promise!