a/n: a recent review to my fic 'Take Care of You' reminded me I had suggested this series, and this one was sort of hiding out in the brain - so it was easy to whip up. One-shots feel good once in a while, and so do (don't hate me for saying it) some breaks for the Jibbs same-old, same-old.
Set in an indiscriminate time after season 7.
It had been a low-key evening, and the beauty of that lay in how unremarkable it was. She did, after all, retreat to this house on a quiet, suburban street for a moment free of the glitz and glam she was expected to exude everywhere she went. It had always seemed strange to her that, rather than deter business, the thick black bracelet on her ankle – courtesy of the Feds – seemed to attract it instead.
She was well within her prescribed parameters of travel, though, and all the better – she wasn't quite sure how it would be looked upon, her unlikely friendship with a recalcitrant federal agent.
Less recalcitrant these days, though.
She had shown up unannounced for dinner – but brought along something to cook, naturally – and listened to him recount a heartwarming story about his god daughter, Amira – then she'd stolen a bit of the tea he kept in a dusty cabinet, turned down an offer of whiskey, and wandered through the book case to see what she could borrow this time.
It was later than she'd meant when she decided to leave, and he threw aside some tools to walk her out. He swept his hand at her purse to hand it to her, but only grabbed one strap and unceremoniously spilled the contents to the basement floor.
Holly laughed, shaking her head, and crouched down to help him throw the items back into the sleek black bag as he grunted a sheepish apology and tried not to snoop. He handed her keys, and dropped a pack of bubble gum back into a pocket, while she searched for the change that had escaped, a few elastic bands, and a small portable sewing kit.
She reached out for the next item without a second thought – then paused, amused, as she realized he had stopped shoveling items back into her purse and was cupping a handful hesitantly – and eyeing a bright yellow square of plastic packaging with a look of – ah, he looked perturbed.
Smirking, she arched her brows and reached to take it, plucking the prophylactic from his hand with French manicured nails and slipping it carefully into her bag. She held her palm out for the rest of the crew, and as he shook himself a little and handed them over, she quipped –
"Old habits die hard."
–in her soft, sultry, and unapologetic low voice.
He turned towards her a little more, one hand braced on his knee, one braced on the concrete basement floor, and tilted his head a little, indicating surprise – wordlessly, as he was prone to do.
She laughed.
"Don't tell me," she began lazily, "You've never seen a condom before?"
He narrowed his eyes and a muscle in his jaw twitched; he seemed to be deciding if he was going to abolish that notion or just silently glare at her. While he wrestled with a mature response, she straightened and pulled the bag of her shoulder, shooting him a wry grin.
He stood up, rubbing his palms on his jeans to dust them off. He gave her a look.
"You seemed to be taken aback by the little thing," she teased lightly.
"Seen one," he grunted. He nodded his head at her back. "Label threw me off."
She shifted and dug around, pulling out the brightly coloured one he'd been focused on and holding it up for better light. Her eyes scanned the packaging and she smirked, slipping it back into her bag.
"You aren't one to believe one size fits all, are you?" she probed skeptically.
He gave her another look, and folded his arms.
"You aren't a prude, Jethro," she said wryly, tilting her head and moving her lashes subtly. "You surely don't mean to imply you do these sorts of things bareback."
He took her shoulders and gently turned her towards the stairs, glaring at her. He clenched his teeth and led her up them, one hand resting comfortably on her lower back. She turned to him as they emerged from the laundry room and said –
"I think I have time for one more beer."
He smirked as she helped herself, and took a seat on his old couch – the one he knew she knew he used as a bed – and he stood a moment before checking the dying fire, and taking a seat next to her.
She sat forward, sliding a beer toward him, and she took the several condoms out of her purse without thinking twice, lining them up on the table and drawing her neat nails along them in a line. Gibbs watched her with sharp eyes, taking in the variation: vastly different packaging, writing on the labels – all the things that had taken him off guard in the first place.
"You've used one, haven't you?" she asked, taking a swig. "Or are you such a serial monogamist that safety meant deciding when your bird scrapped the pill?"
He gave her a slightly admonishing, annoyed look and she grinned around the neck of her beer bottle.
"I've used 'em," he muttered.
"He admits it!" Holly gasped.
Gibbs rolled his eyes, and gestured at the assortment with his beer.
"Only remember there bein' one kind in my day."
"In your day?" she trilled, clicking her tongue. "Have you hung up your spurs?" she probed. "How long has it been?"
He checked his watch pointedly and she grinned, her cheeks flushing slightly. She pushed a hand through her thick, curly hair and cleared her throat. She picked up one of the little packages.
"Not all of us are as boring as you, Jethro," she began, shaking her fingers a little. She tossed him the condom at an angle, so it hit him right in the chest. "That one is lambskin."
Gibbs picked it up and looked at it skeptically.
"Lambskin?" he repeated gruffly.
"Some men, or women, are allergic to latex," Holly said, shrugging. She picked up another, and held it up clinically. "This one is ribbed," she started, and moved her finger in a circle around it, "on the outside – for her pleasure."
She grinned, and pursed her lips.
"In my line of work, there's no trusting the client in that particular department."
"Former line of work," Gibbs retorted, giving her a wary look – federal deals were federal deals, after all.
She nodded smoothly.
"I hadn't personally taken clients in years, as it were," she said – he knew that, though; he knew a lot about her, since they had begun this strange association of theirs.
She picked up two more, and held the one in her right hand aloft.
"Ribbed on the inside, for those poor, poor men who whine that it just doesn't feel as good unless they're potentially giving you a venereal disease or an unwanted baby."
Her disdain for men's aversion to the items was clear in that comment, and Gibbs smirked, sitting forward and placing the hypoallergenic one back on his coffee table – it was getting more action tonight than it had in years.
"Studded condoms," she said, waving her other hand. She wrinkled her nose primly. "Same basic principle as ribs; cause more irritation to women," she made a face, and set them aside – she picked up three final ones and spread them out.
"Female condom," she said, gesturing to one. She shrugged, as if she didn't have an explanation for it, and indicated another. "Flavored – for the, ah, accommodating client," she said, laughing a little. "It makes fellatio slightly more bearable, and the coating leaves a residue for those who consider cunnilingus part of the deal."
"What?" Gibbs asked, giving her a pained look.
"You know exactly what both of those words mean, Jethro," she retorted coolly. "I will not ring your bell by explaining them in layman's terms."
He grinned at her. She cocked a brow, and held up the last one.
"This one glows in the dark," she said bluntly.
Gibbs tilted his head, and looked at it. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, taking a long swig of beer. He sat forward amore and turned is head, eyeing the pile, then eyeing her.
"Why do you have so many?" he asked, almost exasperated.
She lifted her shoulders, and tilted her head, nonchalant.
"As I said, old habits," she told him. She lifted one hand. "I'm a safety girl."
He lowered his eyes a little, still absorbed in the lesson – and the idea of a woman carrying so much protection with her for even a quiet night in with a friend – and she cleared her throat.
"It's career training one-oh-one for my girls," she said simply, keeping her voice soft. "It's a condition of transaction for their clients."
Gibbs looked up, narrowing his eyes, thinking about that. It occurred to him, as a man and as someone who'd heard his fair share of raunchy Marines' stories, that might not always be something clients liked.
"How'd that go over?" he grunted.
"Well, in most cases," she answered honestly. "Discretion is easier when there is no DNA to speak of." She smiled wryly, a little bitterly. "In some cases, however," she paused. "You would be surprised at how violently opposed some men are to a little ole rubber."
Gibbs dipped his head, his jaw tightening.
"And then?" he prompted quietly, his voice rough. "What about your safety? Physically?"
She looked at him a moment, cautiously – testing to see if she could trust him beyond his identity as a federal agent. She reached into her bag, fumbled with a zipped pocket, and reached her hand in further, and then for a split second, she showed him a very small pistol – and tucked it away.
"Holly," he started, wary; sharp.
She opened her wallet, and showed him a concealed carry permit tucked behind her license.
He didn't say anything. Those sorts of permits weren't legal in the District, but they were in places in Virginia, and that was probably where she was registered. He knew it violated the terms of her probation, but he'd swear he'd never seen it if asked; Holly was not the type of woman to hurt anyone unless threatened.
She gave him a look to show she appreciated his silence, and then she deftly put everything back into her purse. She was about to close it when something caught her eye, and she dug around one last time – pulling out a plane, clear packaging with miniscule black writing on it.
"This is what you're used to," she said, throwing it to him.
He caught it and read the label. She leaned forward and smirked at him, tilting back her beer again.
"You would be the traditional type," she teased.
He flattened his palm and looked at the condom, thinking about everything she must have considered every night as she did what she did – before she stopped. He looked up, and shrugged.
"I never minded 'em," he said callously.
She held her beer out in a toast, and leaned closer, arching a brow at him.
"I can put them on with my teeth," she confessed.
He arched his eyebrows, and wondered what kind of man wouldn't agree to wear one when she put it like that.
"I'm a safety girl!" - Vivienne Ward to Edward Lewis, Pretty Woman, 1990.
*This is part of the 'Pretty Woman Series' which deals with the ship "Jethsnow" [Holly Snow / Leroy Jethro Gibbs]
-Alexandra
story #214