a/n: pretty straightforward. a collection that just shortly expounds on how Gibbs met each of his exes.
Diane
To be fair, he was driving too fast – he was always driving too fast, even when he wasn't in a car chase or speeding to a crime scene – and he thought he had a split second to make it – but it turned out the sleek black BMW that crashed into the rear end of his federal car was moving just as fast.
He was just glad he'd seen it coming, and swerved sharply to avoid a head-on collision.
He slammed on his breaks and halted the car sharply, gritting his teeth; this was exactly what he needed, more goddamn paperwork. He tilted his head back against the seat, glaring balefully at the ceiling for a moment – and then he figured he better see if the other driver was –
There was a sharp, aggressive tap on his window.
He looked over, and met a pair of crisp, sharp hazel eyes fringed with thick, long black lashes – he was being stared down.
A quick glance at the other car told him this was its driver; he set his jaw and opened his car door, watching her step pointedly back to let him get out. He didn't even have both feet on the asphalt before she lit into him.
"What kind of oblivious idiot do you have to be to drive like that?" she demanded in an icy, confident voice.
She crossed her arms as he gave her a look and rested his arm on the top of his car door, looking at her intently.
"Are you a creature of lesser intelligence, or just one of those men with such a severe inferiority complex that you think the rules of the road don't apply to you?" she fumed coolly.
She had long, perfectly manicured nails, and one of them tapped with agitation on her elbow as she lit into him; her lips pursed in a tight, formidable pucker, and she had shoulder-length, thick, voluminously curled - red hair.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared at her, counting silently – staring at her long enough for her eyes to flicker with more annoyance, and right when he knew he'd about goaded her into snapping at him again, he snorted.
"Inferiority complex?" he repeated mildly.
She arched an eyebrow at him.
"Men who drive like thugs tend to be doing so out of insecurity concerning the size of their manhood."
Gibbs arched an eyebrow at that, mildly taken aback – it wasn't very often that women he'd never laid eyes on before insulted the size of his – manhood.
He decided then and there that Madam BMW was probably a hell of a good time - and attractive to boot.
He pointed at her, keys in his hand.
"You were drivin' too fast," he growled lightly.
She pointed to herself; finger pressing against a necklace nestled at the top of her blouse.
"I had the right of way!" she snapped confidently. She gestured sharply at the light. "I had an arrow – you yield on a left turn on green, Mr. – "
"Gibbs," he supplied, before she could ask. "Special Agent," he added pointedly.
She grit her teeth.
"I suppose you're going to tell me you're on your way to some vitally important place," she said sarcastically.
He nodded his head at her, and flashed a smirk.
"Yes, Ma'am."
They were causing traffic problems; cars were going around them but their wreck was slowing things down.
He saw the fire flare back into her eyes, and he leaned forward.
"You hurt?" he asked.
She looked taken aback, and then she quickly put the intimidating scowl back on her face.
"What?" she demanded.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, carefully articulating each word.
She stared at him, and then she frowned.
"No," she said shortly. She turned, and gestured at her car, compressing her lips tightly. "This is a brand new car, Special Agent Gibbs," she spat nastily.
He looked at where she was pointing, and did her the favor of grimacing a little; technically, this was his fault – he thought he could hit the gas hard and make it, and get to the crime scene that much faster – Franks was going to bury him alive.
"Why the hell did you try to make that turn?" she demanded.
He looked back at her, holding her gaze for a minute, and then he grinned.
"Didn't expect anyone to be goin' as fast as me," he said.
She stepped closer.
"Wipe that smirk off your face," she hissed. She looked past him, and spotted the perks of his federal car. "Get your insurance company on the phone," she demanded, gesturing over his shoulder to the built-in phone. "You do have insurance?"
He nodded, and stepped away from the car door, looking around at the chaos – someone had called a police officer, and he was approaching; probably just to ensure there was nothing suspicious going on.
Gibbs cleared his throat.
"You're gonna need a ride," he pointed out.
She looked at him sharply; she'd been distracted by the blue and red lights.
"Excuse me?"
He jerked his head at her car.
"Bumper's busted, power steering's probably screwed," he said smartly.
"What are you, a grease monkey on the side?"
He shrugged.
"I know a thing or two," he drawled.
He folded his arms and nodded towards the police.
"You want them involved?" he asked.
"I wouldn't mind seeing handcuffs on you," she snarled at him, her hazel eyes sharpening into chips.
He gave her a wary look, and leaned forward, resting his arms on the car door again.
"You got to let me buy you dinner first," he said.
She stared at him – he had the feeling throwing that out was a huge risk, and he waited a moment to see if she'd rip him a new one, or be charmed –
She licked her lips, and then shook her head, looking over at her car. She looked back, and she was smirking – reluctantly, maybe; but smirking all the same.
"You've got a lot of nerve," she said, her voice a little warmer, huskier.
He shrugged, and nodded, acknowledging that.
"You let the cops take names, your insurance goes up, too," he said. He glanced over at the mashed up BMW again. "Damage like that's only from high-speed collision," he pointed out wryly.
She grit her teeth; he was right about that, even if he had technically caused the accident. She threw a glance at the approaching officer, and then she retreated to her car, and whipped something out of her purse.
She came back over, black-heeled boots clicking musically on the asphalt, and she stepped closer to him, leaning against his car door in front of him. She wrote in elegant, cursive handwriting on the back of a business card.
"You can call my insurance company for a quote," she said, dotting an eye swiftly, and then scrawling something else, "and me," she added, flicking her eyes up at him through her lashes, "for a drink – which you will pay for."
She slipped the card into his hand.
"Gibbs," she remarked sharply, asking an unspoken question.
He flipped over the card and looked at it, smirking – it was an IRS contact card, with a desk number, and some tax division mumbo-jumbo.
"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," he supplied, waiting a few seconds to look at her.
She looked at him with pursed lips and one raised eyebrow, and then she said –
"I…don't think I'm surprised."
He folded the card in his hand, memorizing her name, and gave her a short nod.
"You like bourbon?" he asked casually. He smirked at her. "Diane?"
Before she could answer, he turned to greet the metro cop that was approaching – the guy was young, and looked wary – and pulled out his badge pointedly, flipping it open – he had the situation under control –
-and he'd at least be able to mitigate Franks' fury with a description of the hot little number that had waylaid him – and the BMW, too.
Diane
s/o to my friend Rachel, who sort of gave me this idea with a comment she made in a review. also, a PSA: remember to yield on a left hand green turn. because last semester some idiot didn't, and he really fucked up my friends' car / scared the shit out of me when the glass rained down on my side of the car.
-alexandra
story #249
