a/n: i just...i'm not sorry, but i can't explain myself either.
The Director NCIS was drunk.
It wasn't just a common, run of the mill sort of drunk, either—it was the completely obliterated, judgment impaired, loose-tongued kind of drunk that was usually left to simpering college co-eds and really sexy bachelors. It was definitely not the kind of unadulterated wasted appropriate for the boss of a federal agency, but since she hadn't been this hammered since she was a college co-ed, she convinced herself the tenth shot of tequila was totally necessary.
She had become vaguely aware that Ziva was eyeing her with rapt interest after the fifth shot, and had ceased giving a damn about Ziva's fascinated, curious expression after the eighth shot.
She was gnawing on the edge of the glass of shot ten when she remembered the train of thought she'd been rambling through after shot nine and slammed the glass down on the bar, licking her lips.
"I mean, who does he think he is? King of NCIS? I'm the fucking director, I'm in charge," she said fiercely, pointing to herself violently. Jenny tossed her head and ran her hand through the long, loose locks, pouting her lips.
Ziva cocked an eyebrow.
The absolutely perfect thing about Ziva David was her utter willingness to supervise Jenny's drinking without comment, judgment, or participation. She had beautifully responded to her redheaded former partner's mysterious 'take-me-to-a-seedy-bar-so-I-can-get-shitfaced' request with magnificent grace, and had proceeded to be a blithe sounding board for Jenny's inebriated ruminations.
Jenny held her hand out, furrowing her brows angrily.
"He can't just prance around the agency like he's the almighty Christ, ignoring memos and breaking rules and making me look bad—I can't stand him, he's so full of himself, he's so," Jenny tapped her nail on the bar. "Shot," she said to the bartender, and then rolled her eyes, turning to look at Ziva. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs, ha," she scoffed. "He's like, he's like—Special Agent Bastard of Bastard City with a smug bastard face and stupid bastard hair."
Ziva did a remarkable job of not laughing.
"Thank you," Jenny slurred to the bartender, and held up her wrist to touch her tongue to it.
She sprinkled salt on the wet spot and toyed with the lime on her shot glass, shaking her head angrily.
"He made this week a living hell, and he thinks it's funny? 'Get me that reporter's number', does he think that's humor? Does he think he's like, a fucking comedian?"
Jenny rolled her eyes and made a disgusted noise.
"And he just struts all over the place and barges around like a," she waved her fingers, "there's a word I need, um, bastard, he's like a bastard tornado, I'm just going to call him Jethroy Lero bastard—wait, no—"
"I think you have established that Gibbs is a bastard," Ziva remarked mildly.
Jenny scoffed again and held up the shot, eyeing it.
"Is this my fourth?" she asked, squinting and tilting her head.
"Eleventh," Ziva corrected.
Jenny laughed.
"I drank tequila with Petty Officer Bastard in Paris, he doesn't like it, but I love it, so, so I licked it off his—"
Ziva cleared her throat demurely.
"Gibbs was not a petty officer," she said neutrally.
"I'm demoting him because he's a," Jenny seemed to think hard, "dick." She cocked her head curiously, brows raising. "I think I was going to say dick a few minutes ago."
"Yes, I am sure you were," Ziva said dryly. "I interrupted you, however, because I work with him."
"Working with him," snorted Jenny derisively. She licked the salt off her wrist, tossed back the shot, and sucked the lime, batting her lashes quickly. "I hate working with him, he makes my job hell—he doesn't respect me, and I think it's because he's seen me naked—I look damn good naked, he should respect all this."
She gestured to herself and picked up the shot glass, clasping her teeth delicately around the rim again. She breathed in and closed her eyes, leaning forward and leaning her cheek on her palm. She licked the rim of the shot glass and looked at Ziva in a thoughtful—hammered—way.
"This is making me feel a lot better, Tiva, I think being drunk is good, I think I'm going to go to work drunk from now on—I'd be better equipped to deal with Lord of the Bastards down in the bullpen," Jenny drawled.
Ziva cocked an eyebrow.
She was unsure if she should start with Jenny's mispronunciation of her name, or the horribly bad idea of going to NCIS drunk.
"You know that silver-haired prick broke my heart and has the nerve to flounce around like he's some romantic hero rejected by the evil Penny Leopard—Jenny, my name is Jenny," Jenny paused, as if she were unsure. She nodded and then scoffed again, rolling her eyes. "I'm not putting up with his insufferable ass anymore—if he calls me Jen one more time I will—"
She stopped talking.
"You will what?" prompted Ziva after a moment, tilting her head curiously.
Jenny narrowed her eyes surprisingly threateningly.
"I will wear stockings to work every day," she announced dramatically.
Ziva stared at her.
"This will undermine Gibbs, how?" she asked, baffled.
Jenny waved her shot glass around smugly.
"He can't think straight about stockings, not with his brain, he'll think with his," she wriggled her finger around ominously, "'cause he's got a weird stocking fetish, he likes to pull 'em off with his teeth."
Ziva grimaced vaguely. She reached out and took the shot glass from Jenny.
"I think it is best you stop," she remarked casually, unwilling to hear anymore little details about her boss.
Since discovering that Gibbs was the infamous love affair Jenny had had in Paris, Ziva had become less inclined to steal moments of gossip about that torrid subject. She already knew way too much in that department.
Jenny groaned, frowned, and lay her head down on the bar, while Ziva tapped for the check.
"I don't want to go to work tomorrow," she whined angrily. "What if he slept with that tart little reporter and liked it—no, and he's still in that measuring contest with the FBI, come on, okay," Jenny held up her hands vaguely, trying to make a scale. "Gibbs, FBI, I know whose is bigger."
Ziva furrowed her brows. She was about to point out that agencies didn't have the sort of appendage Jenny was talking about when Jenny sighed and combed her hand through her hair, pursing her lips.
"It's infuriating how he gets under my skin," she mumbled tensely. "He's such a little shit half the time and then the other half he's like, I don't know, the goddamn Prince of Charming—Prince Harmony—whatever," she trailed off.
Ziva reached over and patronizingly patted Jenny's head.
Jenny sighed and blew hair out of her face.
"I can't stand him," she growled.
Ziva smirked.
"There's such a dichotomy in how I feel about Jethroy—ro—Gibbs," Jenny mused loftily.
"I think only you would be capable of using the word dichotomy after eleven shots of Cuervo," Ziva complimented smoothly.
Jenny smirked, parted her lips smugly, and ran her hand through her hair again, tangling her fingers in the red locks, her head still resting down on the bar.
"I spend half my time wanting to murder his dumb bastard ass and the other half of the time-"
"The other half?" Ziva asked absently, paying the tab with Jenny's card.
Jenny sighed hopelessly, her eyes closing drunkenly; she shrugged heavily, licked her bottom lip slowly, and went on in a resigned moan:
"I just want to sit on his face."
~i actually /woke up/ with that final one-liner in my head, so who knows what you can read into that.
-Alexandra
story #136