Title: Wayward Sailing Back to Shore
Author: Shannon
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 3.03 Mind Games.
Summary: She doesn't get scared; she just gets pissed. Post-ep for Mind Games.
A/N: Written for pixieonacid for the 2006 NCIS Ficathon. Big thanks to Rinne for beta-ing and Rainsintorte for checking my American.

This fic was written in 2006, and a couple of scenes have since been jossed by Grace Period. Thus it is now ever-so-slightly AU.

Wayward Sailing Back to Shore

Later, Tony asks her; a smirk on his face, worry in his eyes.

"Were you scared?"

She shakes her head and laughs – but it's brief, harsh. "I don't get scared, Tony," she replies. "I get pissed."

Ain't that the truth.

Her mother had always shaken her head when her father complained about there being no boys for him to teach.

"What do you need a boy for?" Mama'd say. "You've got Paula."

She'd stand up in response, straight and proud; all of six, seven, eight. She would grin brightly at her father, nose poking out from underneath her baseball cap, and he'd smile back and pat her on the head.

"I have Paula," he'd repeat and then they'd go down to the park and play baseball with the other dads and their sons. In her baggy shirt and shorts, she was just one of the boys – one of the kids. It was never an issue that she was a girl; they just hated that she could hit better than any of them. She always always hit a big one.

And her dad was always thrilled and would brag about her to anyone who'd listen. But sometime later – a couple of weeks, or a few months – he'd say it again over dinner.

Eventually, she gave up. She started dressing a bit more like a girl, acting more like the person she felt she was, rather than just being Dad's sidekick. She'd still go down to the park to play ball once in a while, but they were teenagers now and it just wasn't the same. She wasn't the same. So she gave that up too.

Paula Cassidy had stopped trying to impress her father a long time ago.

So she finds it kinda funny that in her job - facing men who remind her of him everyday – it still feels like she's trying to prove herself to him.

Pity he's dead now.

She takes a month's vacation. It was partly her choice, partly Director Shepard's unsubtle hint that it's either that or she's desk-bound for the entire month. But really, between the doctor's appointments and the psych evaluation and the way her colleagues keep staring at her, she's about ready for a break. Fortunately, she has the time accrued.

On an emergency trip to the grocery store – it's her third Tuesday off and she's run out of ice cream – she bumps into Abby. She reaches for chocolate, Abby goes for coffee, and she can't help laughing.

"Coffee, Abby? You really need more caffeine in your diet?"

Abby grins. "Of course! Besides, this isn't just any caffeine." She holds up the container and brandishes it at her. "This is Edy's coffee-flavoured ice cream caffeine!"

Paula just shakes her head, before the smile slips off her face. She gazes at Abby. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why do the guys at work keep staring at me?"

Abby hesitates for a second, but it's so brief, so fluid, that she knows she wasn't supposed to notice; that it wasn't supposed to be there.

"Because you're hot."

She resists rolling her eyes. "Abby."

Abby sighs. "Paula, you took out that guy with your hands tied behind your back. It's cool, it's hot, it's also really scary. You scare them." She shrugs. "I think it's hot more than anything."

She pauses for a minute, then nods. "Thank you for telling me, Abby."

Abby smiles. "No problem."

She bids her goodbye before turning away and heading down the aisle. Putting the ice cream in her basket, she can only sigh. That's just what she needs floating around.

Her first assignment with NCIS, she slept with the JAG lawyer prosecuting the case. She was a probie and green as green as green could be, but she was smart and she had sense and, to this day, she still couldn't understand why she'd done something so stupid.

He'd been a) married, and – even disregarding that – b) a complete and utter sleaze. He'd smiled when they met, but looked straight through her when she said anything to do with the case.

His idiocy hadn't mattered in the end and they'd won the case; funnily enough, backed by her evidence. She'd gone one way, and he'd gone another, screaming about assault charges that, oddly, never came to fruition. Last she heard his wife had thrown him out on his ass, filing for a divorce.

Her boss had clapped her on the shoulder, a smirk on his face. "Nice work, Cassidy," he'd laughed as he strode away.

She still doesn't like lawyers. And she's never fucked men she works with again. Mostly.

Five days after she's back out in the field, she shoots a lieutenant holding a little girl and boy hostage. He doesn't die, stands trial, and is sent to prison.

And then she's stuck on desk-duty.

She's on Henderson's team now – one of his agents is out with a broken leg – and he sends her to Ducky for an autopsy report on their latest case: a petty-officer killed on the way to his girlfriend's.

Ducky takes one look at her before shaking his head. "Please sit down, Agent Cassidy."

"I'm only here for the autopsy report, Ducky."

He points to a bench. "Paula, please sit."

She sighs, then does as he says. He pulls open a drawer and extracts a blood pressure arm cuff from it. He smiles at her, before wrapping it around her arm and taking a reading. He tuts a little and smiles softly at her as he removes the cuff.

"Have you been under an amount of stress lately, my dear?"

"No offence, Ducky, but that's a bit of a stupid statement."

He nods. "But the first step to curing an ailment is admitting you have one."

She's fairly sure he just mixed up AA with pneumonia (or something) – deliberately or accidentally, it still sounds odd to her ear – but she ignores that and opens her mouth to speak. She's surprised at what comes out.

"Yes, I've been under an amount of stress lately."

After Gitmo and after Tony (the bastard), she was continually moved around. From Pensacola to Newport to even Singapore briefly, then back to Pensacola, before returning to DC and becoming Special Agent Afloat. Which went really well.

The man in charge of Pensacola was an asshole and a half, and had a habit of getting his agents badly injured on the job – hence, why she had been there twice.

Things were a little odd with him. He was sloppier than she was used to, didn't seem to give a damn sometimes. Until there was a ship at port and he suddenly became Frank Burns, disciplinarian wannabe. (Funny how apt that really was.)

So when they found he was on the take, helping smuggle drugs on board the ships, she wasn't exactly stunned. Just glad she'd figured this one out, before it did too much damage.

And if she gave a little jaunty wave as he was driven away, who really was to know.

Again, one day, she finds she's working with Gibbs' team. Understandably so, really: there's a serial killer on the loose, knocking off female Navy employees, so they need all the teams available, including Henderson's.

It's just frustrating when she realises that she only seems to get into the really big strife when it's Gibbs and Tony and the others involved.

Like right now, locked in another barn, people planning on killing her. It's such a happy day.

Though, at least she isn't alone this time.

"Have you been kidnapped before, Agent Cassidy?" Ziva asks, attempting to undo her bonds.

"Once."

"And how did that work out?"

She shrugs and stretches. "He tried to kill me. It backfired."

"Very good."

"Not really."

"Ah…" Ziva falls silent. There are a few scuffling noises, then suddenly she is free. "Shall we escape now, before they return then?"

Paula eyes her bonds, nods and smiles. "I think I like that idea."

After the first kidnapping, the length of time it took Bob to take a look at her shoulder, glance at her face then race out the door kept her entertained for several hours. She knew she came across as intimidating sometimes, but that was ridiculous.

It hurt a little too, though she really wasn't that surprised. They hadn't been dating - more screwing around – and, while a good lay and attractive, on the inside he was quite the little weasel. And a pig. She typically tried to stop him from talking.

A few shots of cheap tequila later and she wasn't feeling quite so generous. He could have at least left her scotch behind, the ass.

There are debriefings and check-ups and more debriefings and reports. By the time she gets home, all she wants to do is relax. So she grabs a glass, a bottle of wine and fills her tub till it's overflowing with bubbles.

She stretches out, slides in and closes her eyes. It's the perfect temperature and the warmth wraps her up in peace.

She thinks she must've fallen asleep because there's suddenly a knock at the door, and the water has gone cold. She steps out of the tub, dries herself, before wrapping her fluffy thick purple robe around her body. She answers the door.

It's Tony. And somehow, she isn't surprised.

"Why are you here?" she asks, softly.

He just gazes at her. He's not smiling, not quipping, and this is feeling very odd. "Can I come in?"

She opens the door wider, and spreads her arms in invitation. He slips in and she shuts the door behind him.

She clears her throat. "Do you want some coffee?"

He smiles and yet it's still not right. "Sure."

She doesn't move to make it.

He shrugs. "Okay, I'll get it." He strides past her, to the kitchen, and she turns and follows.

She leans against the counter and watches as he pulls down the mugs, gets out the coffee and spoons, and turns the kettle on. After it's boiled, he silently makes them – hers with a teaspoon of sugar and another of cream – and then hands hers to her, watching carefully.

She takes a sip then puts it on the counter. "Why are you here, Tony?"

He grins. "Can't a guy stop by and see how his ex-girlfriend is doing after she got kidnapped?"

"I'm not your ex-girlfriend."

"Ha! That's what you think."

She tilts her head and stares at him. He shifts.

"Would you believe me if I said Shepard sent me?"

"No."

"Gibbs?"

"No."

"Abby?"

"No."

"Ziva, McGee, Ducky?"

She shakes her head. "Nope."

He sighs and glares at her. "Nothing works for you, does it?" He glances up at the ceiling. "Would you believe me if I said I came to see if I could get into your pants despite the fact that you're not currently wearing any?"

Despite herself, a small grin slips free. "No."

He huffs, grabs his coffee, and slinks to the ground. "Women!" he cries. "Nothing pleases them!"

She picks up her coffee and slides down next to him. "Nope."

He sighs and looks at her. "So how are you? Really."

She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling into it. "I'm okay."

"Feeling better?"

She shakes her head and grins at him. No, she hadn't just answered that. "Yes, actually."

He nods. "Good." A wicked little grin appears on his face. "Now for the important question: are you going to sleep with me?"

She can only laugh.