SquidgeWorld Archive

I came into the seminar late, having to clear up a minor problem concerning one of the kevlar vests a member of my team had used during one of our latest cases, and found myself against the wall at the very back of the moderately sized, dimly lit conference room. I've always hated these interdepartmental info sessions the higher-ups thought we all needed periodically and had often used the time to 'rest my eyes' as the designated speaker droned on and on about one thing or another but knew I was expected to attend, just as the rest of my team was expected.

Speaking of which...

I let my eyes roam over the assembled personnel and have to contain my smirk. There is something here a sociologist would have a field day examining and explaining but I can do it without the degree from some college or university. The room is fairly full of agents and techs and other support staff from our whole building but every, single team is sitting in their own, little, 'personal' section of the room, empty seats dividing and separating them like barriers or buffer zones, keeping the members from each team from mixing and mingling with the 'outsiders'.

It's not like we're fighting different battles or different enemies and have a need for this segregated arrangement. Hell, no. We all work for the same Uncle Sam and get paid to defend the same country. But, somehow, the personnel just seem to drift toward and mingle with those they work with most often, those they have fought to protect and defend, and those they see more than all the others during any given day, probably even more than their own family members. Hell, it's only natural, I suppose. When you rely and trust someone to watch your back, while some insane person is firing away at you with a rifle or handgun, you are connected to your teammates with some invisible, indestructable cord.

I lean back, cross my arms, and study the backs of the assembled heads. Near the front and down to the right, is Ferguson's team, all five of them. They've just 'adopted' some computer whiz and I can see her smack in the middle, surrounded by the others, her light hair and light skin in direct contrast to the dark man sitting just to her left. I watch as Ferguson leans in and whispers something to her. She nods but they both seem entranced in what the speaker is saying...as is the rest of the team...and I fleetingly wonder if I should just
sit down and listen, too.

Maybe in a minute.

Toward the middle I can pick out Patterson and her team. Just to her left is Baker's and, as I start looking closer, can now pick out Rodgers', Sanchez's, and Fain's. They've all got their techs and a couple of other support people scattered into the mix but they still are in the midst of their own little groups.

My eyes continue to move and, finally, I see my team. Sitting to the very back of the room and as far away from the doorway I've just recently entered, I can see all six of them are in attendance. Ziva, McGee, and Palmer are sitting in one row, with Ducky and Abby right behind, DiNozzo sitting squarely between my medical examiner and my forensics expert. Uh oh, this can't be good. This is a very bad position for DiNozzo to be in if the others are interested in the speaker's subject matter. Guess I'd better go play referee.

I take a step in their direction, hugging the back wall and trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible, and stop immediately when I see DiNozzo casually lean forward and say something to the three people sitting in front of him. They don't turn around but, even from this distance, I can see McGee's shoulders quaking slightly and Ziva shaking her head. Palmer...well, Palmer looks like he just swallowed a turd and doesn't know how to politely cough it out. DiNozzo leans back and flashes a quick grin at his two seat-mates, smug satisfaction just oozing out of his expression.

Okay, I've just got to know what's going on. Time for a bit of stealthy surveillance.

I cross the remaining distance quiet as a cat and am swiftly at the wall directly behind them and, as far as I can tell, they are all oblivious to my presence. Good. There's about a three foot span between me and the back of DiNozzo's seat but I can see just past his body and notice how his right knee is bouncing with barely constrained energy. He's restless and confined and, anyway you look at it, that's a very bad combination.

He tilts his head slightly toward the right and whispers to Abby but his voice is pitched just loud enough the whole team, including me, can hear his comment...and what I hear brings back the little scene I witnessed in the bullpen a few months gone. Only this time, the whole team is actively participating.

"Oh, come," he hisses, that mobile mouth stretching into a wicked grin, "you *know* she 'makes the kitty purr'. There's no way she'd ever get *anyone* to sleep with her."

"We all 'yank the ya-ya' at one time or the other, Tony," Abby whispers back, eyes still forward but focused totally on her teammate, "there's nothing strange about that."

"'Yank the ya-ya'?" Ziva asks without turning around. "What is that?"

McGee...of all people...responds. "Um, you know, Ziva, 'checking the status of the I/O port'."

"Excuse me?" She doesn't sound the least bit offended but there is a bit of real confusion rising.

"'Reading Braille', Ziva," Tony expounds and he's off. " 'Playing the clitar', 'making the tide come in', 'doing the sweet slide'."

"'Running in single-user mode'," McGee adds as he leans her way a little. " 'Synchronizing your PalmPilot'."

Ducky is now leaning forward and I guess he's about to reprimand them for not only treading into sexual harassment waters but for ignoring the speaker as well. Attaboy, Ducky, this is no topic for them to be discussing, especially right now.

Boy, am I surprised.

"Mother once referred to it as 'playing solitaire' and, although I was a mere boy at the time, I knew immediately it had nothing to do with cards."

There's dead silence and I can see DiNozzo looking covertly at Ducky out of the corner of his eye, a strange, astounded look settling on his face. Abby is trying to hold in giggles, as is Palmer, but Ziva is finally nodding her head in understanding. *Now* she gets it.

"Oh, like what we discussed before, when we were going over Petty Officer Cates' statement?"

"Yes!" DiNozzo exclaims softly, reaching out and patting her gently on the shoulder. Well, congratulations. "That's what we're talking about. What do you call it, Ziva?"

She gives a slight shrug. "I call it masturbating, Tony. That's what it is and I certainly don't need any silly expression for describing the act."

I have to shake my head. The girl just needs to unwind and loosen up a bit more and she'll fit in perfectly with the rest of my team. Right now, she's clenched so tight, that pole she has shoved up her ass is never coming out.

"Ah, yes," amazingly Ducky quietly joins back in, "but what's the fun in that? If you are going to work and live in America, my dear Ziva, you must be prepared and learn these euphemisms. It may keep you from inadvertently saying something someone may misconstrue as sexual in nature."

"That's not in my job description," she replies tartly, negativity just oozing.

"No," DiNozzo mumbles with a touch of heat, "but maybe next time you wouldn't have to ask for help in trying to understand a witness' statement, Zeee-Vaa!"

They settle for a few moments, seemingly focused on the woman behind the podium at the front of the room, and I suspect they're finished. I'm just about to step forward, to make my presence known, when Palmer pipes up, his voice meek but steady.

"When I was in high school, a lot of guys would ask the girls who were taking art classes if they ever 'finger-painted' and then would laugh at their responses. I actually thought they really were talking about painting and couldn't understand why most of the girls would get so upset."

"Oh, Jimmy," Abby's heart is in her tone, all soft, sweet sympathy. "How did you find out what they really meant?"

Palmer is shaking his head and I hear a huff of a laugh. "My first girlfriend told me. She took art one year and I just asked her. That was the first time I ever heard anything about female masturbation." He gives a little one-shouldered shrug. "She taught me a lot of things."

That's a loaded statement if I ever heard one and I expect DiNozzo to jump all over it. But he surprises me and stays quiet...for a few moments anyway.

"So, what do you think?" He asks to the whole group, steering them back to the topic. "Does Ms. My-Hair-Is-Pulled-Back-So-Tight-I'll-Never-Have-Wrinkles get it on with or without a partner? What's the vote?"

"Well," Abby immediately speaks up, lips pursing together as she eyes the woman at the front, "I think she probably does more 'walking in the Bermuda Triangle' than anything."

I agree," McGee is next. "She looks like she 'double clicks the mouse' a lot."

DiNozzo is nodding and pokes Palmer in the back of the head. I hear a muted 'ow' and see him bring a hand up to cover the spot. If he's that sensitive about a little nudge to the noggin', he would never survive a head-slap from me. Still, I have to give him credit...he's getting ready to respond. I wonder if he even has another euphemism in him.

"I...I guess," he's stuttering and I feel momentarily embarrassed for him but, to his credit, he plunges on, "she 'winds her watch', too."

"Attaboy!" DiNozzo is acting like a proud father. He leans slightly toward Ziva. "And your vote, Officer David?"

"I refuse to participate in this...this idiotic, infantile discussion any further. And what does it matter? Masturbation is a normal and healthy activity, regardless if you have a partner or not. I will not lower my self to your level by expressing an opinion."

Okay. I guess the pole just got jammed up a little further and may have to have to be surgically removed. She bends slightly forward in her seat and reaches for the can of diet cola she has at her feet, taking a huge sip and holding the cool liquid in her mouth.

"Well, there's no doubt in my mind. She's 'buttering the muffin' for sure."

Ducky's calm, confident statement has Ziva spewing out the mouthful and, for once, the empty seats in front of my team makes perfect sense. She's coughing and choking and DiNozzo is pounding on her back and all of them are using her strangling sounds to cover their own laughter. The rest of the audience in the room turns their way, trying to ascertain the problem of the disturbance. Ziva shakes away from McGee and DiNozzo's lame efforts and rises, moving out the short row and heading for the exit.

They watch her go and, as they turn as one to track her departure, all eyes suddenly fall on me. By my expression, they *know* I've been there awhile, they *know* I've heard the topic of their conversation, and they *know* I'm not a happy camper. But, looking at their expectant faces, I just can't help myself. I shake my head and look right at DiNozzo, seeing the blush of embarrassment bloom on his cheeks and watch him slide a bit down in the cushioned seat, and slowly lean toward him.

"Well," I whisper as the other heads in the room begin to turn away from our general position and back toward the subject of discussion behind the lectern up front, "if my vote is worth anything, I think she does a little 'powersanding' every now and then, too. Now, if you bozos don't start paying attention, none of you will be 'taking matters into your own hand' for a very long time. Understand?"

There's a chorus of soft 'yes, Boss' and mumbled apologies and they all turn back to face the front, leaving me in a staring contest with Ducky. I see him arch an eyebrow and smile wickedly at me. The old dog. I shake my head and grin back and wait until he, too, faces forward. This is my team, more or less, and regardless of how frustrated and exasperated I may feel at times, they never stop making me smile.

And, in my book, that's just as good as 'polishing my piece' any day.

end