Work Text:
"Luck of the Irish"
by Ladyperidot
ladyperidot@yahoo.com
This was his holiday. Well, not proprietarily his. But his people – his ancestors. That was why he'd picked the place – Dooley's Irish Pub – and the two people that were accompanying him. His two colleagues whose surnames both ended with a vowel. But wait. . . his surname also ended with a vowel. Okay, forget that line of thought.
Tim McGee drove to Abby's apartment. There he collected Abby and Tony and off they went to Dooley's for dancing jigs and celebrating. After a twenty-minute drive, the three piled out of Tim's car and into Dooley's. They were served their green beer amid laughter and the lively music, a blend of fiddle, flute, bodhran, and the small pipes. Tim reached for Abby's hand and dragged her to the dance floor, pulling her into a reel.
Tony found his foot tapping in time to the beat of the music as he leaned back against the bar. He sipped the green brew, then nearly choked as he looked across the pub. There at the corner booth sat . . . No! Wait! He rubbed his eyes and hoped he had managed to keep his mouth closed. Didn't want to be doing the fish impression here. Keeping his eyes glued to the corner, he was jostled as Abby and McGee returned from their fling around the dance floor.
"Hey, Tony, thought you'd be done with the green. . . " McGee's voice trailed off as Tony ignored him. "Tony?" He followed his friend's gaze as Abs garnered compliments on her dancing skills and additional offers for following jigs, shots of Jamesons, and pints of Guiness.
"Hey, guys," Abby spoke to both of her companions. "You're gonna have to help me here. I can't poss –ib. . ." Her eyes followed the line the other vision was glued on as her voice drifted to nothing.
Three NCIS personnel, two field agents and one goth lab tech, were mesmerized by the sight at the corner table. Abby's voice whispered, "Ducky? Bossman?"
"What is Duck dressed as?" DiNozzo's voice asked softly.
"A Druid priest, I think," McGee responded.
"And what's on the table?"
"Ah, that would be a pot of gold. But I'm pretty sure it's not real gold, Abs," McGee clarified.
"And on Bossman's head? Besides that gorgeous silver hair, I mean?" Abby asked again.
McGee stretched to look at the older man. "That," he emphasized, "looks like a wreath." He stretched on his toes to verify what he was seeing. "I think it's made of shamrocks."
"What the hell is going on?" Tony asked what the other two were thinking.
At that moment Dr. Mallard caught sight of the three young people and, raising his arm, motioned them over. The threesome, still dazed by the unexpected appearance of the two senior members of their team, shuffled over to the table. The "Druid" stood and moved chairs to accommodate the newcomers.
"Cead Mille Failte!" he greeted, indicating that they should sit and join the two older men.
"What did you just say, Duck?" Abby questioned after taking a seat.
"An Irish Gaelic greeting, my dear. It means "a hundred thousand welcomes."
That satisfied Abby who gratefully accepted a short tumbled containing two fingers of Irish Whiskey, neat.
"Um. Boss, why are you wearing that – thing?" McGee hesitantly asked as he accepted his amber libation.
"Why McGee! The Elf Lord, hehehe! Maybe tonight you should be a Leprechaun! You should know a garland of shamrocks when you see one!" Gibbs reprimanded with a loopy smile as he nearly sloshed his whiskey over the edge of the glass.
"I knew they were shamrocks, Boss. Just, um, wasn't sure why you were, um, you know, wearing them."
"He's just keeping up with the Murphys and the O'Tooles," Tony quipped.
Gibbs' expression darkened suddenly. "Not the O'Tooles!" he roared.
"Oh daer," Ducky offered, from his flowing light gray robes. "You se, back in the Old Country, the O'Toole and Gibbs families have a, let us call it, "disagreement" of quite some standing. I believe the conflict goes back a good three hundred years."
"Old Country?" Tony questioned. Turning to Gibbs, he continued, "Boss, I didn't realize you were Irish. That's a great heritage! Almost as good as an Italian one!" He was laughing as he spoke, but seeing the blue laser-sharp eyes beginning their glare, he revised his statement. "But then, what do I know about the Irish? Probably as long a history as the Romans, huh, Boss?"
The glare softened and DiNozzo wasn't sure if it was because he's said the right thing or because the blue eyes were so clouded by the consumption of Jamesons and Bushmills that his supervisor couldn't maintain his customary "pay-attention-or-I'll-hurt-you" look.
Abby was intrigued. "What was this "disagreement" about? Or do I not want to know?"
When Special Agent Gibbs did not respond, Ducky began the tale. "They Gibbs family of County Kildare had a wonderful recipe for their family's beverage of choice."
"Which was?" three eager young voices interrupted.
"Why, `poteen, of course!" When this drew blank looks from his audience, Ducky elaborated. "Irish moonshine, if you will, young people, Irish moonshine!"
Ducky the Druid continued his story with details of the O'Tooles overrunning the still belonging to the Gibbs family of Kildare hidden in a glen. The still was smashed, the Gibbs family recipe for `poteen' was stolen, and the ensuing brawls, cattle thievery and continued ill-feeling between the Family Gibbs and the Family O'Toole of County Kildare. As he added to his tapestry of story, liberally refilling glasses as they emptied, he was in his glory.
Finally McGee got a word in and asked, "Why are you dressed as a Druid, Duck?"
Since the Druid was in charge of libations, and they had listened to the saga of Gibbs vs. O'Toole, the most senior of their party began another story. He told them of the Irish culture, Druids, and how St. Patrick had changed pagan religions to the One True Faith by expelling serpents and using the three-leafed shamrock to explain the Holy Trinity.
"Well, I see it has gotten quite late." Duck began as he collected several empty bottles of fine Irish Whiskey. He took a long look at Leroy Jethro Gibbs, sort of slumped in the corner of their booth, and decided tonight might be an excellent time to work a little Celtic magic.
"I do believe our son of the sod is not quite capable of driving me home. Which means, of course, that he won't be able to drive himself home either. Anthony, could I impose upon you to take Jethro to his abode? And perhaps, Timothy, you and lovely Abigail could provide a similar service for me?"
"Well, yeah, Ducky, I guess I could take Gibbs home," Tony offered.
"What about you getting back to your place?" Tim began, only to have his foot stomped on by one of Abby's platform shoes at the same time that she reached for his hand and put a death-lock on it.
In her sweetest voice, she offered this remedy. "You know, Tony, if the Bossman is in as bad shape as he looks," she paused as one of those laser blue eyes looked at her, then gave a wink. "You might have to stay at his place tonight. I mean, he's got a guest room, and all."
Ducky's eyes widened as he gave her a surreptitious grin. "Why, yes, Anthony. Abigail is right. That might be a wise idea."
Tony shrugged. "Well, okay. I don't have a problem with that." He looked at his boss. "But if he kills me later, its all you fault," he said, pointing at the other three.
"Right." "Of course." "Well, certainly, but I really don't think you'll have cause to worry." were the responses he got, all spoken at the same time.
"I do hope all of you will join us, or me, at the St. Patrick's Day parade tomorrow. Be at my home at 11:00 tomorrow morning and we can walk to the parade route together. Everyone is Irish for a day for this Gaelic celebration. Then we'll adjourn back to the house for an Irish dinner."
"Corned beef and cabbage, I suppose?" Tim asked, his distaste apparent on his face.
"Oh, no, no, no! We shall have soda bread, of course and mead, a distilled spirit made from honey. Our main course shall be salmon with roasted potatoes and carrots. I'm not sure about dessert – perhaps a hearty carrot cake. Oh, and of course, a toast of the Gibbs family `poteen'."
Tim and Abby escorted Dr. Mallard to their vehicle as Tony helped Gibbs to his own car. Pulling in to Gibbs's driveway, Tony reached across his apparently inebriated supervisor, to help undo the seat belt. He was suddenly wrapped in a pair of strong arms.
Turning to face Gibbs, the older man's mouth claimed his, lips, teeth and tongue invading and claiming until Tony had to gasp for breath. "Boss?" he gulped as he looked into two blazing eyes that were suddenly not cloudy at all, but rather dilated and boring into him. "I thought you were, um, you know . . ."
"Yeah, I know what you thought, DiNozzo. But you were wrong. Ducky pronounced you Irish for a day, so – want to try that famous luck of the Irish?"
end