Tony sat with his feet on his desk, munching hungrily on his General Tsao's chicken. "This is really good today," he told his teammates around a large bit.

From across the aisle, Ziva scrunched up her face.

"It's good," he insisted. "Which you would realize if you just try it." He held out his fork with a piece of chicken dangling off the end, dripping sauce all over his desk.

"No, thank you," Ziva told him, nose crinkled, as she continued to eat her chicken and vegetables. With chopsticks. Of couse.

"Their General Tsao's is too spicy," McGee complained.

" 's good," Tony repeated.

"I will take your word."


"Not off your fork," she told him.

"Suddenly afraid of my saliva?" he asked with a leer. "Last month undercover you didn't have a problem with it." He caught her eye across their desks.

"Well, that was different…" she purred. She licked her chopstick, a lengthy sexual move that had Tony mesmerized.

McGee rolled his eyes and tore open his fortune cookie wrapper. "Excellent," he grinned.

"What is it?" Tony asked.

McGee read, "Grasp the opportunities coming your way…"

"In bed," he and Tony concluded at the same time.

"Unlikely," Tony declared. "Opportunities in bed? McGee? Not gonna happen."

"Opportunities," McGee grinned.

"With women?" Tony laughed.

"What's yours?" McGee demanded.

"Did the slip of paper actually say, 'success in bed'?" Ziva asked, confused. "How did you know what it was going to say at the end?" She demanded of Tony. "You were not looking at it."

Tony stood up with a smirk to McGee, who was getting a kick out of this as well. Tony turned to his partner and strode into the middle of the bullpen with his own fortune cookie.

"All fortune cookies end with 'in bed'," Tony told her.

Ziva's brow furrowed. "Those little slips of paper say—"

Tony cleared his throat loudly, and broke his cookie open. "Oh, this is excellent," he chuckled. "You have an unusual equipment for success—"

"An unusual equipment?" McGee interrupted, "That doesn't even make sense."

"None of this makes sense," Ziva sighed.

"You didn't hear the rest," Tony spoke louder now, "You have an unusual equipment for success, use it properly…in bed."

McGee shook his head with a chuckle. "That's a good one."

"An unusual equipment for success. Yes, yes, I do."

"I do not know about the 'for success' part," Ziva snickered.

Tony glared at her. "Let's see yours." He crossed over to her desk. Ziva held up her cookie, then snatched it away right as he was about to take it.

"I will read it," she declared, closing her fist around the brittle cookie, pieces crumbling to the ground.

"You're wasting the cookie," McGee noted.

"These cookies are disgusting," she replied.

"I like them."

Ziva read the slip to herself. "Mine does not end with 'in bed'."

"Sure it does," Tony laughed, leaning in close and grabbing the little white slip. Ziva's hand closed around his a split second later.

"Ow!" Ziva pressed her fingernails into his wrist, as he uncurled the little slip of paper. He read aloud, "Others admire your flexibility…in bed."

McGee burst out laughing.

"I sure did," Tony leered.

"Where does it say 'in bed'?" Ziva demanded. "You are making that up."

McGee and Tony cracked up laughing. Ziva dug her nails harder into Tony's arm. "Stop that!"

"Explain this joke that you are playing on me," she insisted.

"Let go."

She released his hand.

"It's not a joke, Ziva," McGee chuckled. "Just a tradition."

"A tradition?"

"An American tradition—"Tony clarified.

"With Chinese food?"

"…right. An American tradition with Chinese fortune cookies. It's not a joke at your expense."

Ziva seemed satisfied with the explanation. "They are amusing with the addition," she smiled. "What did Gibbs get?"

Tony swiped the cookie off of the boss' desk. "He doesn't like these anyways." He read it to himself. "Oh, this is great. Rely on your own good judgement to lead you to success…in bed."

"In bed?" Ziva asked.

"Well, he has had three wives…" McGee said, cynically.

"Success in marriage is different than success in bed," Gibbs declared, as he entered the bullpen. "Grab your gear. We've got a dead cadet at Anapolis."