𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 ━━ 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐳𝐳𝐨

THIRTY EIGHT | rate my ass

"I come bearing goods, peasants." I carry a tray of coffees for my fellow coworkers. Passing by Tony's desk, I notice his eyes are narrowed in thought.

"Yes, you do."

When I look back, McGee, Ziva, and Tony instantly snap back into reality and pretend to be working. . .at Tony's desk.

I furrow my brows. "Are you guys hiding something?"

They shake their heads in reassurement, but I know better than to let it slide. Especially when it involves one Tony DiNozzo.

With my gun in hand, I approach my desk, afraid of some wild snake slithering out of somewhere. But to my surprise, I find nothing of the sort.

My blouse rides up the back of my slacks when I reach over to grab my cellphone.

"Now there is a solid five out of five."

"Did you just rate my ass?" I look back at my own rear end, frowning at the plump area. "And here I thought I was having an off day."

"Off day on what, Eva?" Gibbs barges into the room with his usual drink in hand.

"Nothing, Gibbs." I swallow back a nervous breath.

"Grab your gear." The sound of a gun cocking is music to my ears. "We're going to Quantico."

As I walk towards the elevator, I feel a hand dangerously close to my backside.

"If you touch my ass, Tony, I'll stick my foot up your ass."

"You could be Gibbs' daughter, you know."

We walk through the bushes and trees in the woods, carrying our equipment and Ducky's since Jimmy's having a root canal.

"Eva, mark. Tony, shoot. Ziva, bag and tag. McGee, samples."

After some arguing over what to classify as evidence and what not to, we return to headquarters. Ducky works on the legs, Abby studies the ripped thumb of a rubber glove, and the rest of us try to figure out the schematics of our victim.

"For a caucasian female, a factor of 2.90 is multiplied by the tibia length." Ziva reads from an anatomical textbook.

"Alright." McGee projects a calculator onto the monitor. "Autopsy report says tibia is 38.34 centimeters."

"You missed the point."

"What point?"

"The point of the number."

"No. The point of the number is to calculate Jane Doe's probable height."

I smack a hand over my forehead, sighing in light frustration. "You forgot the dot in the number. You know, the one between the 8 and the 3."

"Oh." He quickly adds the point between the two numbers.

"She's 5'8", and 125 to 126 pounds." Tony shouts from his desk before returning to his phone call.

And he's somehow correct. Literally dead on correct.

However, all of that is ruined when Abby informs us of the matched partial print found inside the piece of the rubber glove.

And it belongs to Tony.

"I must have. . .ripped a glove at the scene, boss." Tony stares at the screen displaying the two fingerprints and his profile.

So she pulls out the ten rubber gloves used at the crime scene, all of them intact and unripped.

"Like I was saying." He stares down at the gloves. "I must have ripped a glove at the crime scene sometime before yesterday."