Chapter Text
Sunday, October 10, 2006 – 2:42pm - 827 Montgomery St. NW, Forest Hills, Washington, DC –
Clutching her plate of freshly baked cookies, Helena Shapiro studies the unassuming white rancher at the end of a short driveway. With its perfectly manicured lawn and dark green shudders, the mid-century dwelling is a carbon copy of all the other houses that line the quiet residential street. She checks the number on the mailbox for the umpteenth time to make sure that she hasn’t already approached this particular one.
Ignoring the butterflies that fill her stomach, she starts up the driveway. She only manages halfway before she retreats back to the sidewalk, pacing the length of the yard in an attempt to calm her nerves.
A new Washingtonian thanks to a recent job transfer, Helena still hasn’t grown accustomed to the East Coast way of life. While a homemade cake and a friendly smile earned her life-long friends in Portland, her new neighbors are far less congenial, opting to slam their door in her face instead. When she realizes her cookies have grown cold, she stares blankly at the plate in her hands. The chocolate chips have melted against the plastic wrap into a disgusting brown mass.
While she keeps pacing, Helena decides that she won’t return home without making at least one friend today. With new-found determination burning through her, she marches straight across the yard and up the stairs to the porch. She raises her hand to knock, stopping short when she notices the front door slightly ajar. Pressing her lips together, Helena eases it further open.
“Hey! Anybody home?” she calls, peering into the darkened interior.
She climbs over the threshold, resolving not to leave without meeting someone in this house. Sliding into the hallway, she admires the perfectly coordinated furnishings. A long Persian carpet leads the way into the house, extending straight into the kitchen. While the afternoon sun filters through the door behind her, a group of glass bowls on a table converts it into a brilliant kaleidoscope.
“Hey! I’m Helena from a few streets over! I have cookies!” she yells brightly, unable to hide the desperation that tinges her voice.
A part of her knows that if she weren’t so incredibly lonely, she would’ve simply shut the front door and moved onto the next house. But her recent solitude has driven her to do things that she never imagined for herself…such as breaking and entering into a stranger’s home.
Though seeing as she’s already inside and destined for jail, she figures she might as well foist her baked goods on the homeowner.
As she heads deeper into the home, she stumbles over something and the plate of cookies shatters on the hardwood floor. Helena curses quietly, bending down to pick up the shards. When she notices a man’s legs protruding from the living room, she holds her breath.
“Sir? Are you okay?” she calls, creeping slowly towards the stocking feet.
A dark haired man, not much older than she, lies prone on the ground. His open, unseeing eyes stare at the ceiling, and his face is contorted in unfathomable pain. Unable to tear her eyes off the body, Helena’s chest tightens at the bullet wound in his abdomen and the blood that stretches to the Persian rug.
She blinks in disbelief, continuing forward. It isn’t until she gets closer that she spots the young woman lying in the far corner. With her hair fanned out beneath her like a halo, the female corpse’s closed eyes and peaceful face are a stark contrast to the man in the entranceway.
The red and grey-splattered mess beside the woman’s head makes Helena scream.
--
3:49pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
While the elevator climbs unhurriedly to the third floor, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo checks his watch and grimaces. Of all the places he should be on a picture-perfect Sunday afternoon, work isn’t even on the list. He knows that he should be thankful for the relatively uneventful on-call weekend he enjoyed; the pager often has a habit of changing his plans. But despite the nearly two uninterrupted days, he still finds the mid-breakfast interruption unforgivable.
He shifts the weight of his backpack on his shoulders, distracting himself from his stomach’s grumbles by trying to recall the name of this weekend’s conquest.
Already behind her desk, Mossad liaison Ziva David waits attentively. She nods at his arrival. From the flush in her cheeks, exercise attire and ball cap pulled over her ponytail, Tony figures their page must’ve interrupted one of those long weekend runs she liked to brag about all summer.
“Same suit as Friday, Tony. I take it you are having a good weekend, yes?”
“Nah, I have two grey suits from Armani,” he lies, making her smile knowingly.
“Do they both have a jelly spot from the doughnut you ate on Friday?”
Flabbergasted, Tony checks his jacket…even though there’s nothing he can do at this point. He pulls the club soda out of his desk’s top drawer on reflex, freezing when he notices his lapel is clean. Ziva is already in front of his desk, arms crossed and grinning wickedly. He admires her choice in spandex running pants.
“So it is the same suit. You have not been home all weekend?”
“I’ve been home.”
“Was it yours?”
He grins at her suggestion. Of course, it wasn’t his. A gin after a long case and an even longer week turned into a passionate, memorable weekend with a new playmate. Chloe or Kylie, or whoever she was, played hostess at her studio in Georgetown. Her killer curves and loose curls combined with just enough wine to let Gibbs head-smack him sober kept Tony very, very busy. When he got paged, she had just made waffles...it was the first chance they had all day for food.
“So how was your run, Zee-vah?” Tony nods towards her attire, obviously changing the subject.
“Shorter than usual. I had planned for fifteen miles. I only managed to complete two before I was called. But I did run here so I shall finish another eight when I head home.”
“Yeah, hard to believe we almost made it.”
“It would have been the first weekend we did not get called, yes?”
“First one ever. Think dispatch remembered to page McGee this time?”
Right on cue, Special Agent Timothy McGee rushes into the bullpen, nothing but a khaki blur. Without acknowledging his teammates, he tosses his backpack on his desk, and then drops to his knees so he can rummage through his bottom drawer. Surprised by the atypical impoliteness, Tony and Ziva lean to check on him.
“What’s with you, McSquirely?” Tony asks, watching his subordinate retrieve a dress shirt.
Exchanging a concerned glance with Ziva, Tony approaches Tim’s desk. When he hops to his feet, Tony realizes why the younger man tries to grab a change of clothes and sneak out unseen. Dressed in a pair of khaki cargos and button down shirt with Boy Scout troop patches, Tim averts Tony’s gaze and tries to slide past. Unable to believe his luck, the senior agent holds out his arms and herds him back behind his desk.
“Never thought we’d live to see a Webelos Great Scout in the flesh.” He laughs, blocking Tim’s newest escape attempt, and pulls out his cell phone to record the evidence.
“I’m an Eagle Scout,” Tim corrects, holding up his hand when Tony flashes a picture.
“It seems we have an Eagle Scout in its natural habitat. As you can see, the male displays its patches in hopes to woo a female of the species,” Tony continues, training his voice into a monotone like a nature documentary.
“Come on, Tony,” Tim begs, “just let me change. I didn’t have time to go home.”
Trying for a better shot of Tim’s flushed face, Tony ducks further behind the desk. Ziva eventually joins the pair, clutching her letter opener in her hand. With a nervous exhale, Tony begrudgingly agrees with her suggestion that he’s had his fun and pockets his phone.
“Just tell me one thing, McScout, what possessed you to come to work dressed like that?” he asks, retreating to his desk.
“Well, my neighbor is a den mother for her son’s troop. When she found out that I was an Eagle Scout, she begged me to help with the Weblos strudel table,” Tim explains, the crimson slowly dissipating from his cheeks.
“I think it is sweet, McGee,” Ziva smiles, twisting her body to show Tony the letter opener hidden behind her back.
“Yeah, yeah, real sweet. But you’re kidding, it’s strudel time already?” Tony gapes, unable to believe that the Webelos’ annual pastry sale managed to creep up on him…again.
“So that would explain those children in the market who continually request that I purchase baked goods,” Ziva adds thoughtfully.
“Yeah, Webelos troops are everywhere this time of year,” Tim says. “Did you buy any?”
“I do not give money to children that I do not know. How do I know how they shall spend it?”
“Well, the profits go back to the troops and help them raise money for activities during the year.”
“Yeah, it’s great they get to go camping and all. I’m sure your neighbor’s just like Shelley Long in Troop Beverly Hills. But what’s really important is the strudel. You got any in that bag of yours, Mc….Tim?” Tony leans forward on his desk.
Brazenly raising his eyebrow, Tim reaches into his backpack to pull out a small red box.
“Don’t tell me that’s raspberry!”
“Troop’s last one. They’re hard to come by this year. There’s been a sourcing issue with the fruit,” Tim says, eying it as he grins back at Tony.
“Alright, Probie, what do you want? Money? A ride in the Mustang? Me to find you a date?” Tony shakes his head at Tim’s shirt. “There’s no hope for you there. Tell you what, I’ll let you drive to the crime scene, how’s that sound?” When Tim doesn’t react, Tony sighs loudly. “And I swear I won’t say anything about how you drive worse than my grandma.”
Tim seemingly weighs his options before he shrugs and tosses the box to Tony’s outstretched hands. Just as the cool cardboard grazes his fingers, a hand snatches out of the air. Sliding his newly found snack into his pocket, Special Agent in Charge Leroy Jethro Gibbs heads to his desk.
“Dead lieutenant in Forest Hills,” he announces, pulling his weapon from his top drawer.
Tim looks down at his attire. “Boss, I, uh - ”
“Change in the truck, Birdman.”
Gibbs rushes towards the elevator. Distressed by the unfilled promise of raspberry pastry, Tony’s stomach growls loudly. When something hits his chest, he glances down to find a protein bar on his desktop. He nods his thanks to Ziva and rips open the wrapper, chewing the mealy mass with as much gusto as he can muster. Not quite a strudel or even waffles, it’ll have to satiate him until he can steal his pastry back from Gibbs.
“So,” Tim asks quietly, “do you think Gibbs knows that strudel costs four bucks?”
Unable to stop himself, Tony laughs the entire way to the garage.