A/N Thank you, Miss Jayne!

January, 2014

I Like the Way Your Mind Malfunctions

Christmas 2013 was one of "those" memories. We had 33 people to dinner, everyone was having a delightful time—and then the pets joined forces to steal the turkey and the roast and we ended up calling in for the biggest pizza order I've submitted in my life. Fortunately, everyone attending had a great sense of humor (and the thieving cats and dogs left the side dishes and desserts alone).

Ducky is stubborn. He was determined to do a "proper" Christmas dinner, even if it wasn't on Christmas. He sent out "let's try this again…" invites for Twelfth Night, the following January 5. We had a couple of plusses and minuses, and ended up with 26 coming for dinner. This time we tried locking up the furry miscreants; when that didn't work out so well, Abby stood guard with a "god gun"—a spray bottle of ice cold water. Dinner survived to be eaten, and we all enjoyed a great evening.

But, man, did we have leftovers. We put out feelers to the extended families and pulled everyone in for another big dinner on Wednesday. (Mother decided it was another party and insisted on dressing up. The rest of us, for the most part, were in jeans and t-shirts or something equally casual.) It felt like a chorus of "Alice's Restaurant": "We went back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat…" But it looked like we might be getting down far enough that we would have a pot of beef stew or a turkey pot pie for Thursday and call it done.

We were lolling around the table, working on seconds of dessert, drawing things out until everyone would make their way home through the snow that had been drifting on and off all morning. General chitchat, nobody wanted to break up the "party"—which I take as a compliment.

"I just hate car shopping," Lily grumbled from Ducky's end of the table, her voice only slightly louder than the general hum.

There were plenty of sympathetic nods around the table, but Ducky looked surprised. "You're parting company with the Volvo?"

She shrugged. "It's a good car, but it was Dad's. It's getting up there in mileage, it's a 1990… Problem is finding a stick shift! It's either a little car like Ziva's Cooper—" Hearing her name, Ziva looked up and started paying attention. "—or it's way out of my price range. I just want a family friendly sedan."

"But a stick shift," Ducky added.

Lily nodded. "I prefer them. Easier to drive, cheaper to maintain. But when I ask, all I get is, 'Oh, ma'am, nobody drives manual shift anymore,'" she said in a good imitation of a "mansplaining" voice.

Ziva looked from Ducky to Lily and back again, shocked. "Not drive standard? Doesn't everyone?"

From around the table came a chorus of "No!"—some, like Ducky, louder than others. (I had heard the tale of his former assistant, Gerald, grinding the gears of Ducky's beloved Morgan. Ducky will be dead ten years before he forgets that one.)

"Most of us at this table drive stick," Ev elaborated. "But that's not the norm in the US."

I shrugged. "That's like someone looking at my house and saying, 'Ye gods, you have over fifty bookcases?' and me saying, 'Of course, doesn't everyone?'"

Everyone laughed, and Tony waggled a hand. "I do!"

Most of us gaped at him. "You do not have fifty bookcases full of books!" Tim chided.

"I never said books. They're full of DVDs and videotapes and laser disks—mostly."

Ev openly goggled. "How many movies do you have?"

"Um—six, seven thousand, I guess?"

"Doesn't everyone?" I said with light sarcasm.

"Well, that was the total the last time I checked my list."

"How long ago did you check?" Suzy asked shrewdly. She'd had his number from their first meeting.

"Seven? Eight years?"

"Double it," was her suggestion.

"What's your contribution? What's normal in your neck of the woods that other people give you a double take?" he shot back.

She propped her chin on the heel of he hand. "Hmm." After a couple of minutes: "I make my own liqueurs and wines. Old family recipes, handed down for a couple of generations." She smiled brightly. "Doesn't everyone?"

Gibbs certainly looked interested. I know he's a bourbon man, but Suzy has already intrigued him by her kickass coffee and military background. If she were a redhead, I'd be worried.

"Ooh! Sounds fun!" Abby bounced up and down in her seat.

Suzy gave her a nod. "Your turn."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Too many to count. We'll be here all night."

Abby gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Fine. You choose something."

He could have gone with so many obvious choices. Instead: "Jump drives. You have no fewer than fifty."

"Jesus saves—by backing up data regularly," Abby said smugly

I snickered; one of my oldest t-shirts reads Jesus Saves by Clipping Coupons and Shopping Wisely.

"But, seriously—doesn't everyone?"

"One." "Three." "One."

"Six." Charlie shrugged. "One for each class."

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner," Tony chanted. "Boss?"

Gibbs gave him a deadpan stare for a long moment, then shrugged. "Hand tools are superior to power tools," he said decisively.

Ahhhh—that wasn't quite the game we were playing, but nobody was going to argue with him.

Suzy give him an interested look. "I still have all of my late husband's tools. Maybe you should come take a look, see if there's anything that interests you."

He nodded. "Thanks." He gave her an easy grin. "I'll bring the coffee."

Hmm. Maybe she used to be a redhead… "Tim?" I prompted. "Your turn."

"Well…thinking of jump drives and hand tools…'I know how to type—doesn't everyone?'"

Most of the hands around the table flew up—even Mother, who was, apparently, following the conversation. (Or was just joining in the majority.) Tim held up a cautionary finger. "—on a manual typewriter?"

Most of the younger generation dropped out. To my surprise, Gibbs' halfhearted hand up went up higher. In answer to the quizzical looks, he gave a lopsided smile. "Typing was a required class in high school. All we had were manual machines. I like 'em a lot more than computers, that's for sure."

"Ducky?" Abby piped up. "You next!"

"Every hobby he has is going to get 'doesn't everyone?' and the rest of the table going 'nope.'" I teased.

"In that case, I shall give you an entry for Mother," he countered. "She has four shelves in the pantry stacked with every conceivable flavor of tea. At least a hundred boxes." I nodded. No exaggeration. "And when you suggest paring them down, she actually says, 'Doesn't everyone like to have a selection of tea?'" I nodded again; we've had that discussion many times.

The table erupted in good-natured laughter. "Here's the kicker," I added. "She only drinks Orange Pekoe!"

That seemed to signal the end of the evening. We all pushed back our chairs, and Gibbs gave a quirked eyebrow across the table; Tony and Tim quickly cleared the dishes, and I assured them they could wait until later—stacking on the counter was fine (and appreciated). People collected coats and scarves and boots, exclaiming thanks for the invitation and praise for the cooking. "I love leftovers," Abby chirped. She opened the door and her voice cut off. "Oh. Wow."

'Oh, wow' was right. No howling wind to alert us while we ate, but the on again off again snowfall had turned on and stayed on—hard. The driveway was covered, all the cars were buried—and snow was still falling.

"Weather channel," Gibbs said briefly. We closed the door and moved en masse to the living room. Ducky turned on the television and searched for the channel. It took ten minutes of listening in silence to other states woes, but finally we heard the current weather and forecast for our area: Snow. Sleet. Rain from the west, heading east, due to arrive within three hours. Pileups. Impassable roads. Shutdown. Gridlock. Power outages in several areas.

"Looks like you'll be staying the night," Ducky said cheerfully to the assemblage.

"Not like we haven't done it before," Abby grinned. She tugged Ziva's hand. "Let's go get all the quilts and blankets from the storage room." Halfway up the stairs, she laughed over her shoulder. "At least the power is still on!"

"Hey!" Gibbs said sharply. "Don't even—"

The lights went off.

"…joke," he almost growled.

In the dark, I heard a tiny, "Sorry…" from Abby. We had eaten early enough that there was still some light in the house, so she and Ziva continued on their mission. Gibbs took control of the situation, ordering the boys to bring wood in from the garage and get a fire going. Huddling body mass would help keep us warm; Mother was given the loveseat, Ducky took the couch and I got the spot on the carpet right below him. I don't bend as well as I used to and I don't like camping, but he's got a knee that does not respond well to rolling around on the ground. Suzy is very limber and coordinated, almost as much as belly-dance-class-attending Lily and Ev, and she was happy to doss down near Mother.

We got a lovely fire going and, with the doors closed, it was nice and cozy. We traded ghost stories and urban legends, laughing as darkness enveloped the house.

I turned over and discovered hips, butt and belly were getting tired of this game. "This is not as easy as it was when I was in college," I grumbled with a laugh.

"Tell me about it," Ev said. I could hear her grin in the dark.

"I'm older than you are."

"'It's not the years, it's the mileage,'" Tony quoted from his spot near the baby grand piano.

"I wish I could spin back my odometer a few years," I said. "I need to get to the gym more than once a month. And I could really stand to lose a good twenty pounds." (The multiple slices of pumpkin mousse pie didn't help, I'm sure.) "Ducky? You agree?" The fire crackled softly. "Ducky?"

After a long silence, I heard a soft chuckle from Gibbs. "Be patient. He's watching his life flash before his eyes."