A/N: So the other day, I was sneaking out of my friend's dorm in DC, trying not to wake her up, and I thought of this. It's a little AU that really comes out of me wanting to write some light, non-angst-ridden Jibbs. Which I pretty much never do...ever, unless it's some nonsensical crack!fic. However, hopefully I've achieved it here.
Also, you know, a little fun-poking at our desire to ships get together on shows, when really, I think it's more fun to watch them tiptoe around it.
Set in a universe in which Jenny is Director and Gibbs is Gibbs, but he did not train her; he first met her when she became Director. And so, they have a chance.
Here goes nothing!
The Director of NCIS tiptoed around the bed, holding her breath as if her life depended on it and, out of the corner of her eye, watched the man sleeping in it like a wary hawk. She was careful to make no sound as she stealthily searched for the rest of her missing clothing; she had one sleek black pump accounted for—dangling from two of her fingers—and two thigh-high nylons; all she needed to find was her other shoe, her purse, and, well…her panties.
She frowned and pushed her hair out of her face, trying to remember when they had been removed while still casting an eye around for her other shoe and making sure to watch that he was still fast asleep, sprawled out on his stomach. She glanced over at the bed again—
She dropped her shoe with a thump and gasped, startled.
-Jesus; he was looking right at her.
She bit her lip guiltily and smiled, straightening up slightly and pushing her hair back again, half hiding her face behind her arm.
"I didn't make a sound," she protested indignantly, shaking her red hair out over her shoulders and resting her wrist against her temple. She looked at him around her arm, her lips pursed next to her elbow.
He simply cocked an eyebrow at her smugly and lifted his hand, pointing at himself lazily.
"Marine," he reminded her.
Right. Marine. Sniper. Yes. It would be impossible to steal out of his house without disturbing him; he was trained to hear a pin drop in Kuwait from anywhere in the world. Figured.
"You sneakin' out?" he asked gruffly, smirking at her.
He pushed his hand through his hair, rubbing, and cracked his neck, flexing his shoulders. She let her eyes drift over his muscles as they moved and pricked her lower lip with her teeth, almost able to taste his skin again. She pursed her lips and blushed, laughing in defeat.
"Ah," she began, inclining her head as she sat down lightly. She picked up her shoe and held it penitently in her lap. Caught in the act, she had no choice but to meet his eyes, lift a shoulder apologetically, and crinkle her nose a bit. "Yes."
"Don't know why," he drawled bluntly, rolling over and sitting up. He faced her, his crew-cropped hair sticking up comically—like she'd never seen it do so at work—and shrugged. "You're gonna see me at work Monday mornin'."
"Mmm," she agreed, pursing her lips and nodding sagely. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "I intended to have my Director's face on by then," she admitted, and compressed her lips attractively, as if she was vaguely embarrassed.
He said nothing, and when she lowered her eyes to see his response, he was smirking at her again and she tried to give him a stern look, lowering her lashes. He shifted and leaned forward, moving his hand under the tangled sheets. She cut her eyes sharply to watch his movements, and he yanked a garment up and let it dangle from his index finger.
"Lookin' for these?" he asked mildly.
Her panties.
She parted her lips and lifted her chin loftily, eyeing the black lace. She held up the solitary black pump in her lap.
"And my other shoe."
"In the basement."
"Ah," she breathed, and then inclined her head at the panties. "How did those get under there?" she asked rhetorically.
He looked at her undergarments and cocked a brow, playing along.
"Beats me," he said, and tossed them to her.
To her delight, she caught them effortlessly, and held them in her lap with the shoe—and fell into silence, silence that was comfortable, if new and touched with the understandable awkwardness of an unexpected, er—one-night stand?
"Gibbs," she began, uncertain of what she was about to say.
"What's your hurry, Jen?" he cut her off abruptly.
She licked her bottom lip thoughtfully, smiling slightly at his use of the diminutive. She blushed again and leaned on the bed, cocking an eyebrow at him.
"Jethro," she said, taking his hint and tilting her head. "What else did you really expect?" she asked with a wry look.
"Sleepin' in on a Saturday isn't too much to ask," he retorted.
"Do I get thanks for the sex pancakes?" she asked archly.
"Think cooking you breakfast goes above and beyond my call of duty."
"Says the agent who slept with his Boss last night."
"Not just slept."
She narrowed her eyes at him and gave him a warning smile, crinkling up her nose loftily.
"This is precisely why I meant to slip out before breakfast."
"That's just bad manners, Madame Director."
She laughed outright, tilting her head back and then giving him a bright-eyed look of startled indignity.
"I forbad you calling me that, Agent Gibbs."
"Better start callin' me Jethro then, Jen."
"That's highly unprofessional."
"We're not on the job."
She pursed her lips and glared at him mildly, utterly taken in by the banter and his roguish charm. She didn't know what she was doing here—really. It was an unparalleled privilege to be both the first female and the youngest director of an armed federal agency; she suspected her superiors would scowl at the mere idea of her jumping into bed with a senior agent—she chose not to think about what their reaction would be to her actually doing it.
Agent Gibbs had simultaneously been a pain in her ass and a scintillating flirtation since her first day in the corner office at the end of the catwalk; he was a damn good agent, intrinsically valuable to the agency, and at the same time a stubborn, maddening son of a bitch—but he'd been in war and he'd seen battle, and in the past week she'd had to make so many frustrating, impossible decisions that his experience had been good to have around.
He'd played his hand last night and told her she deserved rather than asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee—on him—and somewhere on the way to his reliable quaint coffee joint, he'd mentioned a boat he was building in his damn basement—which she just had to see—and then between asking him where the power tools were and tasting the whiskey that was apparently his staple, she'd lost a Steve Madden in the basement and ended up tacked to his mattress.
And since she'd had but a shot of the bourbon and sworn it off, while he smirked and insisted it would grow on her, there wasn't even alcohol to blame.
She'd fucked him and she'd done it sober, he, her subordinate, and he'd called a bluff she didn't even know she was daring him to.
Jenny Shepard reached up and combed her fingers through her tangled hair, spreading it over her shoulders. She looked around his blunt bedroom, eyes roaming over the bare floors, the nonexistent furnishings, remembering what she'd seen of his place before they ended up in here.
"I like your house," she remarked.
It was comfortable; it was down to earth and unassuming and calm—compared to her elegantly decorated, slightly impersonal historical townhouse.
"Yeah?" he asked. "Stay the weekend."
She gave him a look, and clicked her tongue.
"I don't have a change of clothes," she remarked facetiously.
He shrugged, smirked.
"Don't need 'em."
"You have any idea the can of worms you're trying to open?" Jenny asked logically, shaking her head at his relentless—and convincing—persistence.
He was too good looking and much too good in bed to fight for her—this was supposed to be a one-night thing; crack the sexual tension whip, go back to work. This wasn't stay the weekend and eat breakfast and accidentally end up in some sort of relationship with an employee.
"Can of worms," Gibbs repeated gruffly, studying her. "You fish, Jen?"
"Do I—fish? I," she stammered, and laughed, lifting her eyes. "No, I don't fish."
He nodded curtly.
"Figured as much."
"And what should I take that to mean?"
"Means you wouldn't know worms are damn good bait for a catch," he drawled confidently, and arched a brow at her. "You get a good catch, you don't throw it back."
She turned towards him, letting the pump and the panties in her lap tumble to the bed as she put her hands in front of her and leaned forward, advancing towards him with a serious look in her green eyes. Her make-up was smudged, but it had a daunting effect; her piercing glare was arresting and intoxicating.
"It sounds as if you just called me a fish, Jethro."
"That what it sounds like?"
She tilted her head and flicked her eyes down his chest to his drawn up knees and back to his mouth.
"What kind?"
He smirked.
"Largemouth bass."
She gave him a low hiss, her tongue between her lips.
"You've got a lot of nerve, Gibbs."
He leaned forward, grabbing the sheets in his hands and yanking with the brunt of his strength, so the covers jolted forward and she was pulled against his propped up knees, her wrinkled white oxford bunching up around her midriff, pulled out of her pencil skirt. He touched her lip with his thumb, meeting her eyes brazenly.
"I've got you hook, line, and sinker, Director."
She straightened to her knees, resting her palms on his, and pushed them apart slowly, crawling over him. He held her hips, leaning back, using the strength of his abdomen to hold himself up and tilt his head to meet her lips. If she meant it to be a goodbye kiss, she failed, because when his tongue swept over her lips she felt like collapsing on top of him, professional behavior be hanged.
Jenny parted her lips to break the kiss, tilting her head back. Her hair framed her face in mussed tangles and she shook her head, her eyes flashing.
"It isn't going to happen, Gibbs," she warned him off coolly. "This isn't a damn TV show."
"How's that matter?" he asked, his voice husky in the back of his throat, reminiscent of how he'd sounded last night underneath her, behind her, on top of her—
She breathed out slowly, as if cooling off, and laughed derisively.
"Relationships between agents…they work on TV shows, in movies," she said silkily. "And even then, only until sweeps week. You and I, Jethro," she smirked, crawling over him so she was on her hands and knees over his hips and chest.
He leaned back and looked up at her expectantly.
"You and I, Jen?"
"We're the deleted scene," she purred, and bent to kiss his neck. "This doesn't happen in the version that airs?"
His hands slid into the waist of her skirt and he pulled it down her legs, making sure his knuckles dragged against the backs of her thighs while he fought with the material until it was off—and then he chucked it aside and his hands were at the buttons on her oxford.
"Nah," he disagreed, shaking his head bluntly. "Nah, think they call what we're doing," he took a moment to admire her chest when he had her shirt unbuttoned, and traced his fingertips against the edge of her bra. "The Director's cut."
She bit her lip seductively, her nose, her lips, her forehead—all inches from his.
"Semantics," she scoffed in her butterscotch alto.
His eyebrows went up and she smirked. She put her hands on his biceps and gripped, savoring the taut muscles and the warm skin—she needed to get up and leave; one night—one deleted scene, one X-rated, straight to DVD Director's cut. That's all this could be—but his blue, blue eyes, and his laugh—well, other women played where they worked, didn't they?
"People will talk," she said.
"Oh, they're already talkin'," he snorted.
She tossed her hair, and all of her the red locks cascaded over one shoulder. He pushed her shirt off her shoulders some, so she was bare in the white oxford and her sexy-but-simple black lace bra, and his hand was resting on the back of her thigh, tempting her to plaster her body to his—and get rid of this sheet between her naked hips and his.
"Stay the weekend," he growled again. "Then decide."
She tilted her head.
"Convince me," she retorted defiantly. "Convince me sleeping with you is worth the damage it could to do my job—and our working relationship."
"I don't listen to you anyway, Director Shepard."
"Try again," she said dryly.
"You like my house."
"Ah, so if we break up, it's mine?"
He smirked wickedly and touched her neck, holding her gaze intently.
"You like me," he pointed out boldly.
That was more convincing. Her climb to her position had been fast and furious—she had never stopped to think what she might be missing when it came to a romantic relationship; sex, she knew—intimacy was a waste of her time. But Leroy Jethro Gibbs, she could find it with him—maybe.
He could be a good catch. If he stopped looking at her with that unbearably arrogant smirk on his mouth.
"Askin' you to stay, Jen," he said. "Not takin' no for an answer."
"Ask me a hard question," she fired back, pressing her lips to his.
She lowered her body to his, pressing skin to skin, drinking him in while his hands worked through her hair—and fumbled with her bra strap, more familiar with it this morning than he had been last night. He unsnapped it, and she sat back, letting him pull the garment off and look at her straddling his hips.
She blushed at the lust in his gaze, but it wasn't so much a blush of prudishness as it was a blush of desire—and reckless abandon because really, she didn't know what she was doing here; she couldn't seriously be contemplating taking up with him. The sole upside she could think of—aside from coming home to his mouth on her body every night—was the fact that this way, no one would accuse her of sleeping her way to the top; she'd just be known for slumming it once she got there.
She smirked at him and leaned forward, pressing her body to his tightly, squeezing her thighs around his waist and moving her hips just slightly, so the friction of the thin sheet between them was almost unbearable—he groaned, and she kissed his bottom lip and moaned lightly, smiling and letting the sensation wash over them and fade—and she lifted her head, and met his eyes.
"On the job, its Director Shepard," she asserted firmly. "Or ma'am."
If they were going to do this, he was going to respect the boundaries of the professional and the personal—the work and the pleasure.
"Okay," he agreed smugly. "What about off the job?"
"Off the job," she repeated sultrily mockingly thinking it over, and this time, touched his lip with her thumb, reciprocating his intimate gesture, and pursing her lips primly. She lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug and tossed her head so her hair brushed his biceps.
"Off the job, you can call me anything you want."
-My apologies to those of you who may have thought this was an update of the Sixth when you got the notification.
-Alexandra
story#101