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25 September 2007 @ 11:08 pm
He sent Jimmy home promptly at five o'clock. There was still work to do, confirming the identity of the man in Anthony's car, but that could wait for the morning. Though well meaning the boy's constant chatter and periodic "can you believe it, Doctor Mallard?" was wearing on him. Strange, but once he left it was almost too quiet. It wasn't often that he felt cut off being so far away from the rest of the team. Tonight he was almost tempted to take the elevator up to the bullpen and see if anyone else was still around. They were probably all gone or getting ready to leave. It had been a long day.

"A glass of scotch," he muttered to himself as he made his way to the cabinet next to his desk. He would make a toast to misfortune avoided and relax with a drink before he started filling out the paperwork on today's autopsy.

The autopsy that had almost been Tony's. He'd never been so glad to see clean and scar free lungs in his life.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to forget standing in the middle of 64th avenue starring at the burned shell of blue Chevy, watching his friends slow reactions out of the corner of his eye.

He poured himself two fingers of liqueur into a glass before holding it up in the air.

"May God grant you many years to live, For sure He must be knowing, The earth has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing." As he had the other night he let his brogue come out in the words. Old habit. The drink was warm as it coated his throat and he took comfort in it.

"Is this a private toast or may anyone join in?"

"Ziva, my dear, you are more than welcome to join me." He poured a second glass and handed it to her. "Perhaps this time you would like to offer a toast?"
24 September 2007 @ 02:08 pm
I'm never drinking with Ziva again.
21 September 2007 @ 10:50 am
“Autopsy, Mallard speaking.”

“The Director asked me to call you, Doctor Mallard. Special Agent Gibbs and his team are leaving for a scene and they need you.”

“Cynthia?” He knew the Director’s secretary well enough to recognize her voice, but he couldn’t recall ever having talked to her on the phone before. Certainly she had never called him out to a crime scene before.

Cut for spoilers- 4.24 (Angel of Death) and the promo for season 5Collapse )
Current Mood: crushedcrushed
20 September 2007 @ 10:41 am
First of all, the bad news: David fled from LA on JetBlue before I could kidnap him. Something about celebrating his 40th anniversary with his wife.

Other than that I had an amazing weekend. On Friday I attended a seminar with four real life NCIS agents (when I type up my notes I'll link them here, in case anyone's interested) After the NCIS agents was a semminar with Creig Harvey who is the Chief Coroner for LA county and an advisor for the show. He is an awesome guy. Told us some great stories, answered questions, and brought in real liver probes to show us. He explained exactally how to use it too.

The highlight of the weekend was Saturday morning when we took a bus to Bellosario studios and toured the set. Abby's lab was first. One of the notes on the calendar behind her desk says "Lunch with Ducky" (another says 'Untie McGee for work Monday') I got to sit in MTAC (which is tiny) This year the screen was running (last year it was dark) and it was hooked up to a camera in the room. I got to see myself and my friends on the MTAC screen!

I climbed the stairs of Gibbs' basement and the ones from the bullpen to MTAC. Oh wait, there was a third set in the haunted boat...

Sat in Gibbs' chair. Looked at all the notes and picutres hung up in the bullben. Behind Tony's desk is a picture of a golfing foursome. Two of the people are Michael W and David M (Tony and Ducky). One of my favorite places, of course, was autopsy. I got to open one of the drawers and see where the bodies go.

I ate lunch in the garage set, sitting just about where Otto the car tried to kill Abby last year.

Saturday night Liza Lapera (Special agent Michelle Lee) came to the hotel and signed autographs.

There are a million other things, but those are the highlights. PLease ask any questions you want.

Sarah (Ducky's mun)
12 September 2007 @ 01:12 pm
Ducky's mun is leaving now for L.A. where she plans to kidnap David McCallum. If she is successful she invites you all to a party. If not she might need bail. Either way she will make another OOC post later this week to tell about her adventures. Until then she hopes you all enjoy the weekend.

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10 September 2007 @ 12:30 pm
The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place." The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon.

*Classified and confidential. Locked from everyone*


Lost in memories, it took him a moment to hear the voice calling him. He shook his head. Sloppy, for an agent to be so unaware of his surroundings. He was no longer in enforcement, but it was still stupid.

“I thought I would find you up here.” April rested her hand on the sleeve of his ill fitting coat; he had lost weight in the past months.

“There were too many people in the apartment.” He hadn’t been able to breath in the crowd, had needed an escape. The fire escape outside his bedroom window lead up to the roof; he hadn’t expected anyone else to think of it.

“They all care about you, as they cared about Napoleon.” It had been no surprise that the funeral of Napoleon Solo, Number One of the North America branch of U.N.C.L.E. had been attended by so many. People had flown in from the far corners of the globe to pay their respects, and many of them had gathered after the service in Illya and Napoleon’s penthouse.

“Napoleon would have appreciated a party held in his honor with such a guest list, but to be honest I just wish they would all leave.” Illya wanted nothing more then to be alone with his memories in the home that he had shared with his partner for so many years.

“Shall I go clear them out?”

“I would appreciate that.”

“I’ll get Mark to help. Give us half an hour, okay?” She used the pressure of a single finger against his chin to make him look at her. She was the first person to touch him, skin to skin, in three days. Her finger inadvertently brushed the same place where Napoleon had kissed him goodbye.

“Thank you.”

“I miss him too,” April said before leaving him alone on the roof. Illya turned back to the view of the city. He waited almost an hour before returning to the apartment.

True to her word April had gotten rid of all the guests. When he entered the living area from the bedroom only Mark and April still remained. The former was washing glasses in the sink while the later was moving efficiently around the room picking up plates and trash.

“You don’t have to do that. I will clean up.”

“No bother, old man. We’re almost done here.” Mark rinsed a dish and set it in the rack to dry.

“There’s a bottle of merlot on the counter. Why don’t you pour three glasses for us? Mark and I will be done in a minute.”

“I’d rather...”

“Don’t even try, Illya,” April interrupted. “I got rid of the masses for you, but we are not leaving you alone tonight.”

“I was alone yesterday, and I’ll be alone tomorrow. What difference does tonight make?” Even as he posed the question he uncorked the wine and lined up three of the crystal wine glasses that had been a Christmas present from Napoleon one year.

“Because Napoleon wouldn’t want you to be alone tonight.” Though he wanted to protest further, Illya couldn’t. He knew that she was right.

After throwing the the last of the garbage away April helped herself to one of the glasses of wine. She nudged Illya in the shoulder, directing his to the couch. Mark turned off the sink, following the pair with a glass in one hand and the open bottle in the other.

“To Napoleon,” Mark proposed when they were all seated.

“To Napoleon,” Illya repeated when the three glasses clinked together.

“You know, you should think about taking a vacation before coming back to work,” April commented as she refilled the wine glasses.

“That won’t be necessary. I shall be at work on Monday.”

“If anyone deserves some time off it’s you, Illya. The office can run for another week or two without you running security,” Mark commented.

“There is no reason to put off the inevitable. Monday is just as good a time as any to handle the details of my resignation.”

“Your what?” April’s mouth gaped and her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious. I will give my notice and stay until a replacement can be found, and then I will leave U.N.C.L.E.” The letter had been typed for months, waiting for this day. He couldn’t stay at the same job, work in the same building, when a part of him hoped to turn the corner of a hallway and meet his partner.

“You’re not just talking about leaving U.N.C.L.E. are you?” Placing the wine glass on the coffee table- without a coaster, which would have incited a lecture if Napoleon was here- April turned to face him. She rested one of her hands on Illya’s forearms. “You’re talking about leaving.”

“I can’t stay here.” His gesture encompassed the room and the view outside the panoramic window.

“Where will you go?” Mark questioned softly. “Back to Russia?”

“No. Russia is a lifetime ago, no more my home then any of the other places I have traveled. I don’t yet know where I will go. Perhaps London or Paris, or maybe California. Napoleon always did like the sun there; we talked of retiring and buying a place in San Francisco or Monterey in a few years. That was before...” Before the cancer that had ravaged his body, destroying all their plans.

“I could see Napoleon living in California. He’d spend his days lazing on a beach and his nights at those posh Hollywood parties you read about in the fan magazines. He always did wear a tux well.”

“Yes, he did.” He had been buried in a tux, his favorite. For old times sake Illya had fastened the cuffs with exploding cufflinks.

“The first time I ever met him Napoleon was wearing a tux. We were protecting a delegate and...” Mark told a story, and it was followed by one of April’s. For hours they exchanged reminiscences as they made their way through three more bottles of wine and part of a bottle of vodka. After she almost choked on a sip of alcohol because she was yawning, April decided it was time to call an end to the storytelling.

“If you boys don’t mind I’m going to hit the sack,” she announced.

“Good idea, mate. Why don’t you take the guest bed and I’ll take the couch.” At the mere suggestion of sleep Mark felt his eyes grow heavy.

“This isn’t necessary, either of you. You said you would stay with me for the night and you have. The sun will rise in an hour.” It had felt right to share stories of his many years with Napoleon with two of the few people he truly considered friends, but now he needed to be alone.

“Now Illya, you’re not really going to send us out in the cold, are you? Who knows who could be waiting for us around the corner, and neither Mark or I are exactly at out fighting best.” As if to prove her point April tried to stand up but stumbled and fell back to the couch.

“Besides we were hoping to talk you into making us those pancakes of yours tomorrow. Great hangover food, and I’ve got a feeling we’ll need that.”

“Fine you may stay, but I make no promises about breakfast.” His own walk was barely affected by the alcohol, despite the fact that he had eaten little that day, and he headed straight for the bedroom door. Before he closed himself off from the others he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. “Goodnight and... thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” April and Mark responded, but it was too late. The bedroom door was closed.


Two weeks later the blue eyed blond driving south from New York City carried a driver license proclaiming him to be Donald Mallard. An expertly forged diploma gave him an MD from Edinburgh University and a passport, similarly forged, made him Scottish by birth and an American citizen by choice. Hacked computer records would back up the papers.

A new job and a new life waited for him in Virginia. His old life was so thoroughly erased that Illya Kuryakin might never had existed.
Current Mood: pensivepensive
07 September 2007 @ 04:04 pm

Abigail invited me over to her house last night for dinner and a relaxing evening.  We try to that every few weeks as long as work is not too strenuous.  Sometimes at the end of the day it is all I can do to drive home and walk up the stairs.  This past week has been light, our schedule as close to normal as it ever gets.  Abby made Indian food, a specialty of hers.  Sometimes on our dinner nights the others join us.  If Tony comes we watch a movie.  When it's the two of us and Jethro the evening usually includes a bottle of wine and hours of conversation about a wealth of subjects.  Sometimes there are four of us and we play poker.  Last night, being the two of us, we spent the time after dinner with a bowl of popcorn and the telly.  It was Abby's turn to choose the show, and she decided to pick up where we had left off with Buffy some weeks ago.  Yes, I watch a show called Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Abby teased me to watch it once, and I made a deal with her that she had to watch one of my favorite shows in exchange.  As it turned out I rather enjoyed it.  Very mythical, with story arcs that Joseph Campbell would be proud of.  And there's always something to make me stop and think.  In this particular episode it was a quote from the end, spoken by my favorite character:

The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and, uh, we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after.

It was spoken, I'm sure you can guess, with complete irony.  Even in the fictional world of Sunnydale things are not so black and white.  In the real world they are even less so.  There are no absolutes, know one to point to and say "they are the quintessence of evil" or "that man is purely good."  Even a bastard like Ari protected his little sister.  Even a hero like... well no, I don't think I'll mentions the foibles of those around me at the moment.  Suffice if to say that not even Leroy Jetho Gibbs is without a few failings.

I meet heroes everyday. Some I work with, and they put their lives on the line everyday for truth and justice.  Too many of them I don't meet until they are on my table.  The villains are harder to see.  They play in the shadows, act in the moments when people are weak.  I can't always call one who does evil a villain.  Mikel Mowers, for all that he almost ruined Abby's life, was a broken man not a villain.  Janice set fire to a corpse and lied about it, but I can't call her evil. 

I wish it was easier.  Maybe that's why I stay down here in autopsy with the dead, giving answers to Jethro and his team instead of seeking the villains directly.  They are more suited to the role of heroes.  Will Rogers said once "
We can't all be heroes because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by."  Jethro, Tony, Ziva, McGee, and the others deserve far more applause than they will ever receive.

I can't wait to weigh your liver.

He'd meant it, two years ago when Gerald had been laying on the floor, bleeding. His feelings hadn't changed, unless they'd deepened. He wasn't sorry Ari was dead, not even knowing that it might cause Jethro problems, knowing that the Director was angry, knowing that Officer David was grieving. He felt it fitting that Ari's body was on his autopsy table, but he took no pleasure in the fact.

Ari's liver weighed 1426 grams.

Kate's had weighed 1257.


He could have been wrong. He wasn't. He'd rerun the tests twice, once to check his own work and once when Abby had asked him to. He rarely could say no to Abby. She was so sure that the young woman had been murdered, and equally sure that the man stalking the Private was to blame.

Jimmy Palmer offered to take the results upstairs. It was sweet, how protective the boy was sometimes. He had refused, and though Jimmy had opened his mouth to protest he had thought better of it. He could feel the boy watching him as he left the room and opened the door to the stairwell. The single flight of stairs was good exercise, but more importantly it was a few minutes of reprieve.

Abby looked up from her desk when he walked through the second set of automatic doors, her smile of greeting falling away when she read his expression.

"I'm sorry, Abigail."

He was right, but that didn't help a young Marine who had taken her own life and it didn't help the woman in front of him, grieving for a lost soul even though they'd never met.


He still dreams about it. Not often, but when he's exhausted from a particularly long work week or worrying about his mother the memories invade his sleep. Sometimes it's the darkness closing in around him, the tape over his mouth keeping him from calling out. Sometimes it's the madness in twin eyes. Most often it's the smell of copper that overwhelms him, the knowledge the his life is being siphoned away.

The nightmare doesn't linger once he awakes. He knows something the demons don't- the ending of his dreams. He knows that his friends arrives in time, that Jethro's strong hands staunched the flow of blood. He remembers the concern, the tender care, the chicken noodle soup that was forced on him every time he turned around.

In the end the nightmare is only a reminder that he is not alone.

I apologise to anyone whose threads I dropped with Ducky. His muse has not been speaking to me lately. Either he's a bit cantancerious that I killed him in my last post, or my brain is so full of Doctor Who that he just can't be heard. I am still around, and hopefully will be more active. I do read all your entries, even if I don't comment.