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This icon has nothing to do with this ficlet, I just really like it.  :)  

From the Journal of T. McGee
Author: Me
Disclaimer: I don't own Navy NCIS, if I did Tim McGee would be my boyfriend and Tony would belong to someone else I know...
Characters/Pairings: Gen.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: McGee's Journal
Word Count: 514

As always, no beta has looked at this!

The Journal of T. McGee
            Yes, this is my journal, it is not a blog. I refuse to have a blog, that’s all I need; Abby finding my LiveJournal or MySpace page. *snort* Not that I haven’t found her MySpace. What!? It’s not like she hides it or anything, hello, ForensicVampyre? Abbs is as subtle as, oh, I don’t know; Tony in a china shop. 
            Another reason this can’t be on-line. My use of my co-worker’s names; Ziva would kick my ass into next week. Of course, I’d…….some things are sacred. 
            So, journal. 
            Ya want interesting, I got interesting. As in Miss. David in the local coffee shop. You know, French Press the one I write in sometimes? 
            Okay, okay, the one I surf the net in sometimes. I’m sorry, but the old, ‘writing in a coffee shop’ is just too J.K. Rowling for me. I can’t do it. No offense to Ms. Rowling. 
            So, anyway, Ziva in the French Press. I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me, I was in a small booth in the back; I mean, yeah I was facing the door, but my laptop was obscuring my face.
            Who am I kidding? She probably saw me and is plotting my death as I type. 
            Anyway, she ordered something, an espresso I think and a pastry of some sort. I never really pictured her for the pastry type. Baked bark with some sautéed twigs maybe—hey! C’mon, give me a break, I am not blind, have you seen her body!? Under those cargo pants and ¾ sleeved shirts lies one hot bod.
            Christ I can’t believe I just typed that.
            Anyway, she took her drink and pastry to a chair by the (gas) fireplace and pulled a small book out of her bag. At that point I went back to my computer; I knew I was stuck there until she left, unless I wanted her to see me as I walked out. 
            An hour later, when I looked up, she was gone. 
            Yeah, okay, so it wasn’t that interesting. Still, I’ve been going to the French Press since long before Ziva moved into the neighborhood and it was the first time I’ve ever seen her there.
            I wonder what she was reading? Jane Austin? Grisham? Poe? *shrug* Hell if I know. I can’t recall ever seeing her read at work, well, except for my book; but that was more to taunt me. 
            Thanks for that Tony.
            She doesn’t strike me as the Austin type, or even Grisham. Huh. I just don’t know, I’ll have to think on this one.
            Oh. Christmas is coming up. Well, in three months. I wonder if I could casually ask Madam Director what kind of books Ziva likes? They’ve been friends for a while; I bet I could find out. 
            NOTE TO SELF: When asking MD what kind of books Ziva likes, remember to say it’s for a Hanukkah present, NOT a Christmas present!  
            Anyway, it’s getting late, and I really do need to try and finish this chapter of Rock Hollow at some point. *sigh*



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