Proseac and I have been web-friends for several years; when she told me she and her choir were coming to Scotland, the opportunity was simply not to be missed. We spent a couple of lovely NCIS weeks together; I introduced her to English wine, English beer, the Lake District, VanishingP2000, ytteb, Oxford, St Paul's Cathedral and my grandkids. She introduced me to REAL maple syrup, quirky Canuck humour, and the Scottish good health toast, which she learned at a distillery...

Pronounced, as near as I can render, 'slaunch-a-var', here's the bounced-back-and-forth-across-the-Atlantic first part of the men of NCIS story we began then.

(Proseac here...Scouse is a good deal more prolific than I am in the fanfic department, and has a much huger fan-base, so I entered into this partnership with more than a little bit of trepidation. It isn't easy to merge two quite different writing styles and make them into a cohesive whole...especially not with the additional lubrication provided by several bottles of Damson wine. I hope that you enjoy this piece as something fresh and new, and not necessarily reminiscent of either of us individually. I'm sure my co-author would say the same.)

Slàinthe Mhath - A ProMuz1k Collaboration

"So finally Ladies and Gentlemen, honoured guests, may I ask you to charge your glasses and raise them in a toast to the Bride and Groom... to Heather and Alastair... Slainthe Mhath!"

"Slainthe Mhath!" Ducky echoed heartily, and downed his champagne with gusto. But as he did the scene blurred in front of him, and more urgent and painful images superimposed themselves.

Part of him had wanted nothing more than to get away, to see his old friend again after so many years and help him celebrate this wonderful family occasion. He and Hamish Gregg had been friends since childhood. He was godfather to Hamish's son Keith, whose wedding he had also attended some years earlier. Now here he was, on a brilliant Scottish Summer day, drinking a toast to Keith's own son Alastair at his wedding. He should have been brimming over with God-Grandpa-ish happiness, and indeed, a large part of him was.

And yet, memories of the miserable events of the past few weeks kept invading his consciousness... Tony, morosely nursing his broken arm and brooding... Tim, bewildered that Ziva had not returned with them and feeling left out when neither Gibbs nor Tony would explain the reason... "Not won't, McGee, can't. He hasn't told me either..." He'd heard the desperation in the SFA's voice, but there had been nothing he could do. Gibbs, even less talkative than usual, which in this instance only made everyone outside the team that much more curious... which Gibbs regarded as 'none of their goddam' business'... which just increased the curiosity... which, as Ducky had known it would, simply made things so much worse, which...

The ME sighed to himself. Maybe he shouldn't have left; but he'd been looking forward to this day for so long. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him to think that his presence would have made any difference; but his heart told him that Gibbs needed him, and here he was, 3,000 miles away.

NCISNCISNCIS

"Good luck, Ziva..." She'd made him choose, and much as there had never been any doubt who he'd choose, Gibbs was still angry. At her for making him; at Tony for being too important to lose; at Vance for forcing him into that position; at himself for not being able to come up with a quick fix. At fate for being so bloody minded – at DiNozzo again for wanting to know what had happened, and keeping up a subtle pressure to tell him. At poor, confused McGee for not hiding his chronically baffled, uneasy expression, at himself again for stubbornly refusing to open his mouth and do something about it.

He knew that his silence was only adding to the tension in the air – the atmosphere was stifling. Tony hadn't spoken a word all morning, and occasionally rubbed futilely at his forearm, aching under its cast. Tim's eyes would flick from side to side periodically, wishing Abby would come bounding into the bullpen to lighten the mood a bit. Gibbs glanced upwards towards the mezzanine, then just as quickly returned his gaze to his computer screen; but not before Tony had made note of it. The SFA didn't need to turn his head, or even move, to know the Director was up there, in observation mode; instinct told him he wouldn't have to wait long to find out what Vance was thinking.

His instinct was right.

Gibbs saw trouble coming and attempted to head it off at the pass. "Something I can help you with, Director?"

Vance was unruffled as he continued down the stairs. "Yes, Gibbs, as a matter of fact there is," he drawled. "I told you and your team to take some time off." Two heads lifted simultaneously, and glowered accusingly at the boss. "Hmmm... I see they haven't yet been informed."

"Leon – "

"It wasn't a suggestion, Gibbs."

Tony immediately reached for his backpack; he lifted it with the wrong hand however, and put it down again just as quickly, with a stifled hiss. Abby would've said it was an omen, he mused. He was still on desk duty; every bit of him was alive with aches, and he hadn't had a good night's sleep in days. None of that was important, though. He shouldn't leave; he couldn't abandon the team. They needed each other right now, even if he was the only one who realized it. They needed to talk, even if he was the only one ready to open the can of worms. Well, no, he was pretty certain McGee was too, but Very Special Agent DiNozzo was the only one with a can opener.

Tim slowly let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His wish for something to happen to lighten the atmosphere had been granted. So why was he still sitting here? Gibbs is unhappy, Tony's unhappy. Everyone's exhausted. I want to help, but I have no idea how. Maybe I should go and talk to Abby?

"Well, you heard the Director. Get going."

Tony knew there was no point in arguing – it was two against one. He retrieved his gun & badge from the desk drawer and picked up his backpack, with the correct hand this time, then headed for the elevator.

"See ya, boss." A low grunt was the only response.

Moments later, Tim stood, but made no immediate move to pack up. "I'm, uh, just – I'll go down and let Abby know, Boss."

Another grunt, that might have been an affirmative, was the only reply he got from Gibbs. That was good enough; relieved, he made a dash for the elevator himself.

Vance eyed the supervisory agent reprovingly. "Gibbs, Your team's exhausted. You're exhausted. I told you not to come in this morning. You didn't tell them. Now I'd say that means you wanted to talk to them. So why the hell haven't you done it?"

"You're right, Leon. I need to fix it."

Vance ruthlessly suppressed his shock at the admission and Gibbs' willingness to make it, and nodded. "Sooner rather than later, Jethro." He made his way slowly back up the stairs.

Gibbs grabbed his gun and his pack, and headed for the elevator, deep in thought. Why was he ducking out of what he needed to do? They were all hurting, each in his own way; they needed each other's help to begin to heal, he needed to bring them together, but as a man who had always carried his own pain alone, he was at a loss as to how to do it. He really wished Ducky wasn't on vacation; he could do with his old friend's wisdom and advice right now. He threw himself into the driver's seat of his Challenger, and right on cue, his phone rang.

He squinted unsuccessfully at the caller ID, then answered anyway.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Ah, Jethro..."

"Duck? Thought you were on vac – holiday." (Ducky was in the UK after all.)

"Indeed I was on holiday, until two hours ago. You will recall that my godson Keith is the Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary here in the Highlands of my homeland. To be succinct, I was very much enjoying being a guest at his son Alastair's wedding to Heather, a lovely young lady, a true Bluebell of Scotland –"

"Ya said succinct, Duck?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, then, to use your vernacular, so to speak, mangled body. US Naval cadet. Loch Ness. Need I say more?"

"Ya calling me about murder by Nessie, Duck?"

"So you know about our famous monster?" Ducky sounded surprised.

"I got DiNozzo on my team, whadda ya think? And Ducky... don't say anything about this to Abby."

"I'm sure dear Abigail will find out soon enough. Suffice it to say that the wires have been hot between our two countries; SecNav has already been informed, and is no doubt in touch with Director Vance as we speak."

"We got jurisdiction, then?"

"We have. However, the nearest local office is in London; the nearest European field team in Naples. You could be here almost as quickly as they – and the death abroad of a future member of the US Navy, especially one so tragically young, needs to be seen to be taken seriously."

"Ya want us there?"

"I have already been asked to conduct the autopsy on the unfortunate young man, which I shall be doing as you travel; I believe I am required to prove to the local community that he was not slaughtered by Nessie, and for that, simply, Jethro, I need the good offices of your team. You'll come?"

"Vance just took us off rotation, Duck."

A dry chuckle echoed from three thousand miles away. "I believe that's about to change. A spell in the Highlands is just what the doctor ordered."

"Be there ASAP, Duck." He disconnected, and his phone shrilled again instantly... Vance.

NCISNCISNCIS

The Lockheed Starlifter climbed effortlessly into the sky, jet engines at full throttle. No way, Gibbs thought, that they could talk against that noise; he'd save it for later and sleep now. Putting things off? You bet. He'd have been surprised if he could have read his team's thoughts...

Tony leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and grimaced. His arm still ached miserably, and the bruising on his shoulder from being knocked to the pavement by his now-absent partner made it impossible for him to find a comfortable position. His thoughts drifted back to the call he'd received moments after leaving the Navy Yard.

"DiNozzo. That bag ya always keep packed – take it to Andrews Airforce Base, now."

"What happened to going home for a sleep, boss?"

"You can sleep on the plane."

"Where are we going?"

"Scotland. Dead Navy Cadet in Loch Ness."

"Loch Ness? No kidding, boss? Ted Danson, Joely Richardson, 1996...you'd like it. Great scenery, cute monster, great – " He was talking to the ring tone.

Now here they were, together in a tin box in the sky, still with no chance to talk about what was really on their minds. It was a pity; if they could do, they'd be in a better state of mind when they landed. Tony sighed to himself. The only alternative was sleep, if he only could.

Tim also closed his eyes...and winced. Why couldn't Gibbs have waited just five minutes more? He'd been just about to leave Abby's lab when he got the call.

"McGee. You still in the building?"

"Yeah, boss, I'm down here with Abby. What's up?"

"Go home and pack. We're going to Scotland."

"Scotland?" Oops. Stupid mouth.

"Scotland? Ducky's in Scotland...oh my God, Timmy, it's not Ducky, is it? Please tell me Ducky's ok! He's so far from home...no, wait, that IS his home... Don't tell me he's decided to stay there? He CAN'T...well, ok, he CAN...and I'd be happy for him, really I would, but...he belongs to US. He's family...Gibbs..." she reached to grab the phone out of McGee's hand.

McGee spun away from her, sticking one finger in his free ear. "Sorry boss, I'm listening. On my way – I'll be ready in 20." Abby finally succeeded in snatching the phone from his hands.

"Gibbs, Gibbs, GIBBS!...Gibbs?" She was talking to the ring tone.

Tim made a mental list of the orders Abby had given him. He was to take a Geiger counter. "...after all, Nessie might be radioactive, if she's some strange mutant, Timmy." He was to take a camera with infrared capability, several varieties of zoom lens, and every filter he could think of. He was to make contact with a local boatman who had SONAR. "Where am I supposed to find one of those, Abby?" And he was to take a recorder to interview all the locals. How he was going to fit all this in (on the sly) while doing Gibbs' bidding, he had no clue. Perhaps he ought to abandon altogether the idea of hiring a light aircraft and filming the Loch from above – Abby's final decree.

He loved Abby to bits, but he could've done without all this extra pressure. He was the junior member of the team, but he was quite ready to push his nose in first chance he got; the two more senior men were walking round like hypertensive zombies... (Hey, he liked that. Thom E. Gemcity loved it...) If they wouldn't say something, then he would; their pain was his, and anyway, he missed Ziva too. They were a combined emotional mess right now, and he somehow doubted that searching for Nessie was the right therapy.

The Starlifter droned on its way.

NCISNCISNCIS

Within a couple of hours of touching down, the team found themselves on the banks of Loch Ness, on a stretch of green lawn with picnic tables, where an opportunist local had set up his refreshments van and was happily catering to police officers, witnesses and curious onlookers alike.

Ducky was enjoying his role as "Lead Field Agent", fleeting as it might be.

"Jethro, allow me to introduce my godson, Keith Gregg, Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary," he effused.

Gregg was every bit as much a Scottish gentleman as his godfather. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Special Agent Gibbs," he said in his soft highland burr, "and your team of course. I've heard a lot about you. I've been in conference with your Secretary of the Navy, and I'm quite content to formally hand over jurisdiction to NCIS at this point. I've instructed the local officers – I'll send Sergeant Willoughby over – to assist you if you need them. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm returning to my son's wedding... if there's any of it left to return to – if the guests havenae eaten me out of house and home. I'm surrounded by gannets. You'll keep me posted, won't you, Donald?" He headed back towards his official car, then paused, and turned back to his godfather. "You'll return to the party if you can? And bring your colleagues of course. It'll last a day or two yet," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"I wouldnae miss it," Ducky responded, in the same cheerful brogue.

"Scottish hospitality is legendary," he explained, in response to the bemused looks of the team.

Tony perked up. "Party, huh?"

Gibbs growled, and the SFA winced at the half-expected head-slap. "Sorry, boss. Work to do. On it."

"Waddya got, Ducky?"

The medical examiner herded them towards the refreshments van, and Tony didn't miss the discreet glance that passed between Ducky and the proprietor. Only once they'd settled around a picnic table with drinks and snacks, did the doctor lay down the slim file he'd had wedged under his arm all this time, and spread the contents out. He and Tony watched Gibbs taking a wary sip of his coffee, with Tim watching them in puzzlement. The Boss's only reaction was a faintly pleased grunt, but when Tony and Ducky grinned hugely first at each other, then at the cheerful man watching from behind the counter of his van, the younger man understood. Ah... a well-coffee'd Gibbs was a happy Gibbs, which was better for all of them. Ducky modestly accepted the grateful smiles of his two colleagues, who each silently admitted they were not really surprised. Ducky was quite affable and pleasant enough to have been able to persuade a perfect stranger to enter into an industrial strength coffee conspiracy with him.

He nodded over to where a tall, slightly tubby uniformed sergeant was approaching, his flat cap wedged under his arm, trying to dispose of the last of his burger, and wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. Gibbs glowered.

"Have a heart, Jethro, I don't believe the local officers have had a moment's rest since this sad case was discovered. Ah, Sergeant. Come and join us; please, sit down."

Sergeant Willoughby wasn't fazed by Gibbs' glare, or the fact that he was in the presence of what Dr. Mallard had described as US federal royalty. He'd been a police officer for twenty years and was easy in his skin, even if it had spread a bit of late. He shook hands all round, and hooked a leg over the picnic bench. Aware that the case was being handed over twice – once from his force to the Americans, and once from Doctor Mallard, whom he liked, to this 'royalty', (whom he was going to be very interested to see if they were half as good as Ducky made out,) he said affably, "Now, how can I help you?"

"Start at the beginning," Gibbs said, holding back on his built-in irritability. "We got the call, jumped on a plane, and used the time to sleep. Assume we know nothing."

"Indeed," the Sergeant said seriously, sounding so like Ducky that both Tony and Tim suppressed smiles. "Well, ye ken now, at the moment there's a joint British/American Naval exercise going on off the Scottish coast. It seems that at the same time, since our country is famed for its unco braw scenery, it would be a fine thing to have a recruitment drive for your Navy at the same time. Send some weans over, write aboot it, take pictures. I'd heard about it, because we'd been informed of the planned arrival of three sailing ships crewed by young Americans, but we'd had no need to concern ourselves until a young man was reported missing."

He glanced around, at several so far unidentified civilians who were sitting at other tables or standing talking. "I should explain – we took witness statements then sent them home; it wasnae doin' to make them bide here all night, ye ken, but I asked them to return this morning to speak to you. Most of them have, and we have the addresses of the sluggards." He indicated a sheet among the ones in Ducky's folder. "I can send someone to rouse them soon enough. The poor lad was reported missing when he didnae appear for breakfast, or his watch; he was discovered several hours later, by a man walking his dog and his bairn, floating close to shore."

Tim absorbed the lilting dialect with silent delight; he opened up an extra file on his lap-top and jotted things down for Thom's use later, then minimised the window before anyone happened to look, as the Sergeant paused, drew a breath, and became serious. "Now, the boy, ye may know, wasnae even seventeen yet, somewhere in your country there are heart-broken parents, and I'll no make light of that. Despite what ye'll hear frae one or two, nobody wi' sense is going to tell ye Nessie killed him."

AN: Well, the damson wine was very nice...