a/n: Happy Birthday, Shannon!
[also thanks to that strangling scene in NBC's 'Dracula' for inspiration]
She sighed heavily and winced, leaning back in her uncomfortable chair and letting her hands fall limply against her keyboard. She moved her head slightly and grit her teeth at the throbbing pains that emanated through her head—her neck was aching so aggressively, she was having trouble concentrating on her incident report.
She desperately wanted to take copious amounts of ibuprofen and curl up in bed, but there was work to be finished—and paramedics had advised she operate as if she'd just had her tonsils out, and avoid swallowing anything other than soft foods.
The bullpen darkened suddenly as Stan Burley hopped up eagerly, gathering his things and turning his lamp off. He looked around, gave a sort of giddy wave, and clicked his tongue at the redhead in the desk next to his.
"Ice that neck, Shepard," he said gallantly, and shot her a wicked grin. "No talkin', and no heavy swallowin'," he advised, snickering to himself as he lugged his backpack out of the bullpen towards the elevator.
She opened her mouth to snap back at him, but froze—if she got anything out at all, it would hurt and it would be raspy and unintimidating; she settled for glaring at him, and stewing in silence. She tapped her fingernails on her keyboard lightly and sighed, wincing again.
It had been—one hell of a workday, one in which she'd discovered being strangled was not an easy event to recover from. She had been unbelievably annoyed to discover that, unlike in the movies, being choked caused piercing neck and throat pain, a pounding headache, and loss of voice—laryngitis, if it were on steroids and human-inflicted.
"Shepard."
She lifted her chin slowly, biting the inside of her lip to keep from scowling in pain, and looked across the bullpen, answering the growl that had shaped her name.
Aloof and unreadable as ever, Gibbs was staring at her critically, apparently observing her lack of will to write up her report. He eyed her for a moment, and then crooked his finger, beckoning her over. She made a face—because she couldn't groan, and stood up, responding like any Probie was required to. She waltzed over to his desk slowly and stopped next to it, leaning into it with her hip and placing one hand on her waist.
His eyes fell to her throat—where angry, inflamed bruises marked both columns of her neck, and his gaze darkened slightly, thinking of what might have happened if he hadn't shot the bastard holding her down before he could snap her trachea.
Jenny cocked her eyebrows expectantly, and Gibbs looked up—only after his eyes had flickered briefly downwards to her legs, back to her thighs, chest—and then her lips and eyes.
"You in pain?" he asked gruffly.
She gave him a look, and gestured to the wounds—obviously, she silently answered. He leaned back and pulled a bottle of Advil out of his desk—she wasn't surprised, since Gibbs used ibuprofen like it was water—and then produced a flask out of nowhere. He stood up, and motioned with his hands.
"C'mere," he growled.
She gave him a wary look, and did not budge. He looked annoyed.
"You want me to give you a throat massage or not?" he demanded in a low voice.
She stared at him, and her brows flew up. She brought a hand to her neck, holding it gently, and taking a deep breath before she forced strained words out—
"Is that a euphemism?" she asked hoarsely, her voice quiet.
He looked dumbfounded for a moment.
"What?" he asked bluntly. "Is it a—what?" he demanded sharply.
She smiled—and that only hurt her a little bit. She waited a moment, and then took a deep breath again, gesturing to him, and then to her throat.
"If you're looking for a deep throat," she forced out primly, "I can't help much right now."
He glared at her, and she watched the light bulbs go off as he realized she was joking—and as he reasoned out what euphemism must refer to. He shook his head abruptly and pointed to his desk.
"Sit," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," she managed, and perched on the edge.
She moved back a little, and he stepped forward. She lowered her hand, and he tilted her head up, the pads of his fingers brushing gingerly over the bruises and scrapes on her neck. She winced a little, but his touch was gentle and exploratory rather than painful, and he spent a moment trying to find undamaged skin to position his fingers on. He applied a slight pressure and looked at her intently.
"This okay?" he asked.
She moved her head in a slight nod, and he began a methodical sort of light kneading motion against the unmarred parts of her neck, working out the muscles that had tensed up defensively when their perp had been trying to squeeze the life out of her on the Anacostia sidewalks.
She was wary for a moment, expecting the massage to hurt—but it didn't, and she relaxed, letting out a tense breath. She lowered her shoulders slightly in a slouch and tilted her head back some, giving him better access. He leaned closer attentively, and his thighs pressed into her knees.
She swallowed tentatively—and the pain had dampened a little. His hands paused as her throat moved, and then he moved his fingers over her neck almost—intimately—before he picked up the massage again.
He knew it was the first time she'd been taken down hard on the job, and she seemed shaken—and at a loss for how to deal with the after affects of an attempted strangling.
"First time's a bitch," he grunted, moving his thumbs in little circles. "Strangling," he clarified, when she raised an eyebrow.
She smiled lightly and let her eyes fall closed, humming quietly in thought. She highly doubted he'd put his hands on Decker or Burley if and when this had happened to them—but she was content not to question it. She took a few slow breaths, and he pulled his hands away.
To her surprise, he had the audacity to rest his hands on her thighs for a moment before he straightened up. He grabbed the Advil bottle, popped four into her palm, and then handed her the flask, giving her a nod.
Hesitantly, she uncapped the flask and put the pain meds in her mouth—she knocked back the whiskey—damn, she wasn't expecting whiskey—and swallowed apprehensively—and to her surprise, the pain was very minimal. She widened her eyes, parting her lips, and looked at the flask—and then his hands.
"Wow," she said hoarsely, her eyebrows going up.
He gave her a sort of smug, cocky look, and arched an eyebrow. She reached up and gingerly ran her hands over her neck, marveling at how much better it felt just after the gentle treatment of his hands—she met his eyes and pursed her lips, tilting her head.
"You ever been choked, Jethro?" she asked coyly, a little more strength to her ability to speak now.
He narrowed is eyes.
"That one of those—whatchamacallits? Euphemisms?" he asked warily.
She smirked, and inclined her head—but she didn't answer. She lifted the flask to her lips again gratefully, and then lowered it just as it touched her lips, and she got a heady whiff of the whiskey waiting inside.
She rubbed her throat again lightly, and flicked her eyes over him.
"There is more than one way to give a throat massage," she whispered mischievously.
He snorted, and reached out to touch her neck again, his fingers lingering on the bruises that had been left. He moved his head closer, his eyes on the flask between them—and then her lips, and she took another drink—wincing, because the pain was back.
He moved his fingers again, staving off the pain a little more, drawing out the massage.
"Mmm," she murmured thoughtfully, shifting her legs and pressing her knee into his thigh suggestively.
She caught his eye and laughed softly.
"This Europe assignment," she murmured. "That's going to be fun."
ahaha, Gibbs
get a dictionary, u big goon.
-Alexandra
story #171