A/N: This is my favorite song off 'Hands All Over' [Maroon 5], and it will always be 'Jony' to me. That's how it came into my head, and I just go with the muse. This is supposed to make you uncomfortable, and it's supposed to make you dislike the characters. It's the worst qualities of each smushed together. And some, perhaps, hardcore smut. You can be the judge of that.
This is set (as you can figure out) post-Hiatus, pre-Shalom, or maybe even the lingo between 'Shalom' and the one after it. Somewhere in the midst of Gibbs jumping ship on NCIS.
*Artistic Note: I did not use every lyric of the song, and I did not use every repetition of the chorus. It fits how it fits. Sometimes the characters say the lyrics.
You say you need someone.
Well, everybody does.
"Director."
The word was cold, muffled, and sudden—it startled her, and it angered her. She was busy pretending he was some other man.
"Tony," she said icily, her back to him, her hair falling in her face. "Don't call me that in bed."
"Madame," he mocked, shifting.
She knew he was lying on his back, one leg drawn up, with a knee pointing at the ceiling. She knew he was smirking; she also knew he didn't feel the smirk. He was just as blindsided by this turn of events as she was. She knew he felt aggressively proud; and vindictive, like he'd pulled one over on the Boss.
She furrowed her brow and grit her teeth in anger; what game did Anthony DiNozzo think he'd won? He was a pawn. This was her bed, her house, her agency. Her game.
I'm no different than you.
She had meant for this to happen just as much as she hadn't meant for it to happen. She had wanted it. She had thought she'd need to persuade him; but she didn't. He was angry, too. He felt abandoned, too. He hadn't taken any convincing. It had been a political move on both their parts.
She'd called him in to the office. Offered him point on the Frog Operation, the sharpest point of her ambitious five-point plan. He'd dug desperate claws into the chance, looked at her with hollow, resentful eyes, taken a drink with her, taken the mission, and then taken her.
As far as he was concerned—
You point your finger at
Everyone but yourself
-As far as he was concerned, she was a bitch. She was the one who was using him. She was manipulative. Not him. He was her victim.
And he didn't give a damn if she was a bitch. She was powerful and calculating and he liked it. He thought it was sexy. He'd thought it was sexy since the day she showed up, but Gibbs had staked a claim—subtle, and possessively, with a head-slap and a glare, Gibbs had staked his claim
Well, Gibbs had abandoned his claim.
Gibbs had abandoned all of them. He'd run away. And Tony hated him, just a little, for it. He hated him, just a little, for calling him by the wrong name when he'd gotten his memory back.
He hated that he wasn't memorable.
But Jenny had remembered him.
In her, he saw reflected his turmoil over Gibbs' resignation. He saw the anger. The shock. The bewildered uncertainty. The ache. It was different for her. He didn't know how; he didn't know their story, but he knew she hated Gibbs just a little bit, too.
And that's why this felt so damn good.
It's why when she said she needed someone, he knew she didn't just mean for that Bond-esque, far-fetched mission of hers.
And blame the ones that you love,
Who're only tryin' to help.
He sought her out because she isolated herself. She turned cruel and intolerant, and that's how he wanted to feel. He wanted to learn that from her.
He didn't want Ziva's quiet comfort, or McGee's blustery perseverance, or Abby's insistence that they all stay strong and stick together, and Gibbs would come back! He'd change his mind!
Tony wanted the ability Jenny had to block it all out; to become a wall of stone and do what had to be done without showing how badly it hurt on the inside. He wanted to immerse himself in this undercover work with her because she understood where he was coming from, and his anger and his struggle with the abandonment.
As it's winding down to zero,
I am your unlikely hero.
"Madame Director," he decided, just to piss her off.
She pushed herself up after a moment, turning to look at him. She looked at him piercingly, with those soul-terrorizing emerald eyes, and she arched an eyebrow.
She didn't say anything.
"What do you want me to call you?" he asked, rolling his head on her satin-sheathed pillow like a lazy playboy and grinning lopsidedly. He wriggled his eyebrows in mock playfulness. "Baby?"
Jenny smirked coolly, her lips quirking up in a dark, seductive way that rocked his world and dried out his mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her throat raw, when she spoke—her words were hoarse, and she sounded heartbroken, and sarcastic, and mocking:
"Jen," she allowed him, almost wickedly. "Call me Jen."
There's so much me and you
"That's what he calls you."
"I know."
Tony sat up, scowling. He brought his other knee up, supporting himself with his elbows, staring at her as she eyed him like a wounded lioness. She really had it out for him—for Gibbs—and it irked Tony.
He lunged over and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her down onto her back and staring at her.
What right did she have, he wondered, to feel so passionately. What was their story?
Tony pushed it from his mind; he sank forward into her mouth, ignoring the throb in his skull, ignoring the late hour and his lack of sleep. Ignoring how petty and empty and detrimental this was.
"Jen," he said to her.
She tilted her head away, letting him bite at her neck; she let him use her, but he never felt like he was in control.
Take this enemy together
Fight these demons off forever—forever—forever—forever
She was fighting something, someone, and so was he, and they were using this brutal, hollow, physical, mind-blowing sex as a weapon.
I won't stop until it's done.
No curtain call; I will not fall.
This may be the one we've been waiting for.
No curtain call, just take it all.
Her actions were risky, on a personal and professional level. She went deep into espionage, deep into the blacked-out files of NCIS and the CIA. She uncovered enough to bury herself, and kept at it. It was as if she was done playing nice, and done playing it safe. She was determined; in it to win it and in it to forget. She was proving herself to a man who wasn't even around to care. She was relentless.
I have no time for fear
Or people in my ear
She resented everything she felt—she resented herself, and she knew she needed to feel it, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to face it. She had left Jethro. She had chosen to go. She had always romanticized her leaving, like a storybook—but his leaving yanked her down to earth and reality and it made her ashamed and it made her hate herself, because now she knew how it felt.
If it hurt that much when he left—when they weren't even involved, really—then what had he felt in Paris? And when those thoughts crossed her mind—she shut down.
She didn't want to think about it.
Head down and running so fast
Try not to dwell on the past
It was the most unsatisfying satisfaction she had ever gotten. It was unfulfilling and dirty but it was perfectly executed comfort; it made her feel better. It made her feel something—a considerable feat, these days.
She had trusted Jethro. She had relied on him. She didn't have any right to this anger, but she felt forgotten—she felt abandoned, and she hated him for doing that to her.
For making her feel this way.
I'm fighting through this pain
And things I cannot change
It hurt to leave him. Hurt to see him again. Tore her apart to watch him leave. And because she had nothing—really, there was nothing—now, she buried herself in the Frog.
Her misery wanted company, loved company, and it found that in Tony, in his pitiful lamenting of the loss of his idol and mentor. She wanted him on her side. She knew Jethro. She knew he wasn't gone, knew he'd come waltzing back—like he owned the place, like he knew everything.
And when he did, she wanted Tony on her side. She wanted to throw him in Jethro's face.
Tony was her revenge.
She flattered Tony's fragile ego by throwing him a bone: point; his own undercover, black ops mission. She made him feel like James Bond. She knew she was being self-destructive.
She knew she could destroy Tony.
She wanted to.
Tony wanted to be Gibbs. He always had. And she? She was angry at Gibbs.
Running right into the flame.
Rather than running away.
She didn't give a damn.
She was going to kill the man who'd ruined her father. And then, maybe, it wouldn't hurt so much when she thought about how she'd ruined herself in the process.
The others didn't suspect a thing.
She took Tony, Tony took her, and then they took back to their normal personalities—and the others thought normalcy was settling in. Behind closed doors, it was a simpler, more animalistic explanation: they had found a better way of expressing what they caged inside.
They were saving each other from drowning by setting the water on fire and burning instead.
She tangled herself into this mission. She obsessed over it. She watched him do his part, and lay the groundwork; throughout the summer, all of the careful, grueling steps—the frustration, the curses, shouts, and sex.
"We'll take this enemy together," Jenny said to him, eyes on a shrouded picture of the Frog. They stood in MTAC, in mostly darkness—mostly alone. He turned and looked at her, and he didn't know what enemy she meant.
The tangible one, or the one of nightmares. The guilt that haunted her—he thought it was guilt, when he looked into her eyes. He didn't know which enemy he was fighting. The tangible one, or the enemy that told him he was incompetent. That he wasn't good enough.
God damnit, he was good enough.
Gibbs could never see that. Gibbs wouldn't acknowledge it.
But Jenny acknowledged it.
She let him have this. She let him have this mission and lead the team—she was smart. Gibbs never respected her enough. He sure as hell hadn't show much respect for them all when he'd run like a frightened cat.
"What are you doing here?" Tony asked sharply, stopping dead on the steps of the basement.
Her head snapped up from where she was tracing the many chips in the wooden countertop, her softly scratching nails the only sound in the abandoned, haunting basement.
She smirked at him, watching as he scowled, and slowly moved towards her.
"I'm the pining ex-lover," she responded caustically, her words bitter. "My reason is tragic, and beautiful," she mocked. "What's your excuse? You're just the sidekick."
As it's winding down to zero
I am your unlikely hero
Gritting his teeth, Tony lunged forward, shaking his head. His face flushed, with anger and embarrassment. She stood before him, strong, always in control, daring him with her bewitching, gorgeous eyes.
"I'm not his damn sidekick," DiNozzo growled assertively.
"Prove it," she provoked. She parted her lips, bit the bottom one, and narrowed her eyes. "Fuck me," she said aggressively. "Here."
There's so much me and you
He reached out and grabbed her waist, gentle, but with purpose. She slapped his hand and reached forward to grab his hips instead, moving forward to meet him. Her lips hit his hard, her kiss all lips, teeth, whips, and chains.
He groaned and pushed back against her, addicted to this sin, driven by the challenge and how wrong it all was. Her relationship with Gibbs was here. Good, he thought, and Good, she thought. They could try to destroy it. She could try to destroy the hopeless hold that man had on her, and he could try to destroy that stupid, childish need he had for approval from Gibbs.
Tony slammed her back into the corner where the counters met and she pushed at his chest, annoyed. He fumbled to lift her onto the counter, but she shoved him back, pushing herself up with her own strength.
Take this enemy together
Fight these demons off forever—forever—forever—forever
He grasped her knees and forced them apart, hard against the edges of the counter, and open around his waist. Tony didn't care what she was doing, but she did it right, because there was nothing in his way when he thrust inside her with a muttered curse, and he did it again roughly—hoping it hurt her, because he felt like she was still saying he wasn't as good as Gibbs, like she was saying he couldn't do Gibbs' job.
How dare she ask him to do this in his basement, with the boat watching them.
She threw her head back, her eyes closed tightly. He wondered if she was pretending he was Gibbs. So he moved harder, his nails digging into her soft, smooth, pale thighs and his head pounding with the effort it was taking not to come the moment he felt her clench her stomach. She reached out and raked her nails down his arms. She wasn't like any other woman he'd slept with-she was older than him, she was confident, she knew what the hell she wanted and she didn't care what he wanted. He didn't have any self control when it came to her, he was too angry and too turned on.
She moved her lips, laying back. She turned her head back and forth, and reached down to grab his hand, arching. She stretched a leg up his chest, resting her heel on his shoulder, the other wrapped around her waist—and when she screamed, it wasn't his name, but it wasn't Gibbs', either.
It just sounded like heartache.
He was aching, too.
He groaned, closing his eyes tightly, stroking his hand up and down her thigh and he tried to get closer to her, further insider her, places Gibbs had never touched.
He wanted to make her feel him like she hadn't felt Gibbs—right here, in Gibbs' basement.
It was better here. Their worst qualities were sticky all over them here, but the sex was better—it was the sweetest revenge; it was his way of turning his back on his mentor, showing him up.
It was her way of trying to force him out of her conscious and her life.
Sweat drips down from every angle
Love your body as it gathers in a pool by your feet
His hands were slipping on her, unable to grasp her leg tightly. He had to put his palms on the counter by her hips, and he had to bow his head and bend over her, his hair damp, tousled, brushing her sternum.
She pulled his hair.
"Jethro," she moaned hazily, and he couldn't tell if she did it to bug him—or because she wanted Jethro so badly.
You turn up the heat.
He yanked her hand out of his hair, pinned it above her head, and slammed into her, straining the muscles in her thigh as he thrust his chest forward. His shoulders stiffened and he stood still, choking on dizziness and the white-light of climax, and he collapsed on her, his hands grasping her abdomen weakly.
Her body was hot, wet, smelled like her husky perfume and sawdust. He nipped at her stomach, hoping over-sensitivity made her wince, and he rested his chin on her ribs, looking up at her harshly.
"Jen," he drawled sarcastically. "Did he make you come?" Tony asked roughly.
She twisted uncomfortably, turning her head back and forth. Her cheeks turned pale. He pulled back and watched her. She closed her eyes tightly.
"Yes," she moaned softly.
Tossin' and turnin', you cannot sleep
Quietly weep-
She threw her arm over her eyes, hiding from him. Her shoulders convulsed and she started to cry. Tony moved away from her, wincing, his heart still hammering with the afterglow.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, and leaned back for a moment, arms folded, watching her lie there, disheveled, post-coital, on the countertop of Gibbs' basement workspace.
He felt proud. And then he felt awful.
What were they doing? This was killing her. It was killing him. It was empty and hollow. It was discomfort; not comfort. It the most emotionally vacant sex he'd ever had—her too.
"Jenny," he said, turning to her. He took her arms and helped her to sit up, touching her face. She let him, looking away. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, and shook his head.
He clenched his fist and pressed it lightly against his thigh, his throat locking up.
"You're in too deep," he croaked, his arms coming up to hug her, his hands resting against her neck and the back of her head. She wrapped her legs around his waist and it felt wrong. He rested his forehead against her slick shoulder, breathing in and out through parted lips.
She shook her head, biting her lip, her mouth moving against his ear.
"I won't stop until it's done," she said hoarsely; shakily.
He didn't know what she meant—until she stopped loving Gibbs, until she fried the Frog, until she destroyed herself—he didn't know; he didn't have the answer to that, to her, or for her.
He only knew that this was not over.
-Jenny/DiNozzo will always be my guilty pleasure. I refuse to apologize for it.
This is for Mila, Aminda, and Al-because they were so delightfully appalled when they heard it was happening:)
No worries; my heart still beats Jibbs.