Disclaimer: Eh. I may not own NCIS, but at least I got to do something cool with a saw the other day.
Spoilers: Minor scenes in Friends and Lovers and Family. And major things for all of season 4 and the beginning of season 5, but only if you care about the 'why' in the angry.
Summary: This picks up right after the bathroom scene in Family. Ziva needs some angry time and a random target. Not a serious fic, as I have no desire to deal with all that emotional stuff, but not exactly crack either. Or humor. Well, maybe a little. I dunno. Just something that came to me. Yeah, now you've really been encouraged to read on. Must stop with the stream of consciousness summary. No, stop. Now! Bad sheep!
Steve Grossman sat down at his desk in the personnel department at NCIS and picked up the other half of the lunch he'd been eating right before the three cups of coffee he'd drunk that morning had hit him. He crunched a few chips before taking a large bite of his sandwich and relaxing into his chair. The bathroom had proved interesting for exactly the second time in the seven years he'd worked in the building when the crazy foreign chick from the major case team had barged in again.
He chewed thoughtfully. He was going to have to look through some files in the office and find out who she was, have a name to go with the face in one of his many office fantasies. On the other hand, the name wasn't really what he was thinking about. Or the face, for that matter. Maybe her mouth; any woman who hung out in the men's room had to have a dirty mouth.
He took a long sip from his can of Coke and closed his eyes, letting his imagination do the work. The set-ups with the Asian girl from legal in the copy room were getting kind of boring, so a new scenario starring the crazy foreign chick in the men's room could be just what the doctor ordered. After the first incident in the bathroom, he'd made believe that she was the mail-order bride of the dorky guy and they used the bathroom as their love nest, and would be willing to open the relationship to other men who promised her American riches or…logic really wasn't all that important, so why get caught up in the 'why'? Of course, she hadn't been following the dorky guy this time; she'd been after the player. Maybe…maybe she was…easy? No, better – a hooker. You could just slip an envelope with a hundred bucks in it under her blotter and she'd meet you in the bathroom for some x-rated fun.
Steve tore a bite off his sandwich as he considered the situation. She'd wait for the room to clear, pretending she was just there to talk with whoever she'd followed in. Then she'd lock the door and approach, quietly saying in a seductive voice…
"You!" He looked up, shocked to see the woman he'd just been picturing standing in his doorway. And she did not look happy. "What is your name?"
"Um, Steve. Steven Grossman." He regretted giving her his real name. Why couldn't he have thought up an alias? "I…uh…can I do something for you?"
She crossed the room in a few rapid strides, coming to a halt across his desk and looking down in disgust. "You're eating? I can't believe you're actually eating!"
He glanced down guiltily at the stomach that only knew how to expand since he'd hit thirty. "Well, it's lean turkey with mustard instead of mayo, so I don't think you can really…"
"Did you run out and touch food the last time, too? Perhaps stick your fingers in some open wounds?"
"Last time?" he asked in a panicked voice. He didn't discuss his fantasies with anyone, but he was suddenly struck with the terror that she knew exactly what he'd been thinking.
"You listen to me, Steven Grossman. If I ever see you leave the men's room without washing your hands again, I will hunt you down, chop them off, and drop them in a vat of bleach! Do you understand me?"
He couldn't help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of such a threat. "Did Mulvaney in dispatch put you up to this? That son of a…"
"Do not test me." She pulled a knife from some unseen location near her waist. "I can assure you that I am being completely honest."
Steve took a few shallow breaths before remembering where he was. This was a federal agency; people couldn't just go around threatening whoever they felt like. He plucked up his courage. "You aren't even supposed to be in there. Just because you and the little picture on the door are both wearing pants…" He leaned back in his seat and adjusted his sarcastic tone as she narrowed her eyes. "Just try the one with the skirt on the door next time, okay?"
Before he could react, she had yanked him out of his chair by his collar and pulled him halfway across his desk. The fluorescent lights glinted off the blade of the knife he could feel pressed against his throat. "Next time, you will. Wash. Your. Hands." He shrank backwards as she released him. "Do you understand?"
"Y-y-yes," he stammered, shrieking in a most unmasculine way when she brought her arm down, burying her knife in the composite wood surface of his desk. He gave it a tug as the door slammed behind her, but found that he wasn't able to move it. He edged up to the doorway, peering into the hall. When he was completely sure she'd gone, he hurried down the hallway to wash his hands, just in case she came back for her knife.
At the bathroom door, he bumped into the player. He risked a smile and said, "Your, uh, friend there. Quite a piece of work. She just came and tried to kill me for not washing my hands."
The player didn't smile back. "Don't take it personally. It's not you."
"Right." Steve felt a little awkward, like he hadn't been entirely off base with his fantasies and had just suffered the fallout of a lovers' spat. "So…you, then?"
"No," he answered quickly. "She's just…like that. You really should wash your hands, though. Germs."
"Uh huh." Steve watched the man walk away slowly and reentered the bathroom. He checked under the stall doors before locking himself in, just to be safe. The knife had disappeared, leaving a deep, thin gouge when he returned to finish his lunch with clean, red hands.