A/N: This is a collection of works based on various types of liquor, with an overall spark of inspiration attributed to the song 'Blame it on the Alcohol' by Jamie Foxx-for in the face of my lack of eclectic music taste and adherence to {basically} country genre, I do find myself amused by that song. I've predetermined which types of alcohol are being used.

The general theme of the fic collection is that each one-shot is a study of what effect certain alcoholic beverages have on our favorite redheaded Director.

There will be no regularity in the updating of this fic; I will see to it when the muse allows.

Now, to get on with it:

Tequila: Makes Her Clothes Fall Off

Leroy Jethro Gibbs brooded silently at his desk, glaring sullenly at the whimsical nonsense that was taking place all around him. He wasn't entirely sure why it was necessary to have an NCIS Christmas Party at the office, but evidently he was the only one finding fault with the celebration—which had been garishly decorated and impeccably organized by intrepid lab tech Abby Sciuto.

As Party-Planner-Chief, the excitable Goth was prancing around the party with jingle bells around her neck and reindeer antlers planted perkily on her pigtailed head. She saw to it that everyone, whether on the clock or off the clock, was happy.

Gibbs sat at his desk and fumed silently.

He generally chose to work through Christmas due to the emptiness and peaceful silence that descended upon the agency when most everyone took a few days to relax and enjoy their families and the holiday. This year, his antisocial, Scrooge routine had been blown to smithereens by this little soiree—which he was sure was the idea of a certain irksome redhead who was attempting to make NCIS a more tight-knit agency.

At least that is what her annoyingly prissy, agency-wide e-mail had hinted at last week.

The thought induced Gibbs to scowl again and he glared down at the open files in front of him, returning to recording an account of the shoot-out his team had been involved in yesterday. A swift, calculating glance around the bullpen told him that DiNozzo was gloomily completing his own incident report while casting furtive, jealous glances at those who were off the clock and drinking. Ziva, too, was busy at her desk—unfazed by the Christian festivities, and hardly concerned that she was a little left out.

McGee was snacking on a plate of sugar cookies and sipping on the alcohol-free punch Abby had made for the on-duty agents.

Scattered all over the floor were other agents who had drawn the short straw and were working the Christmas weekend shift, but most of them were enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and lazily working through the sparse work that the agency had this time of year.

Gibbs heard the sound of the Director's laughter and lifted his head, cocking his ear toward the musical, familiar sound. She stood near Abby's festive, Gothic Christmas tree, carrying on an animated conversation with Cynthia and one of the newer probationary recruits. He fixed his glare on her, blaming her love of socializing for the festivities.

She held a glass of punch in her hand, presumably because, as Director, she was technically always on duty and had only allowed herself one glass of Eggnog. The redhead laughed again, and Gibbs furrowed his brow, abandoning his glare for a moment; she was laughing rather loudly.

As suave as she was in social situations, Jenny was typically demure and rather reserved; she claimed it garnered more respect and power than aggressive, bitchy confidence. He narrowed his eyes as he studied her. She pushed her hair back and it tumbled down her back, away from her face; Jenny smiled and took another drink from her glass, her attention drawn away from Cynthia and the agent when Ducky tapped her shoulder.

He couldn't explain it, but Gibbs felt a sneaking suspicion that something was up. He looked across his desk at McGee, who was still obliviously snacking, and then glared for a long time at McGee's cup of punch.

He leaned back, lifting his chin, about to gruffly snap for Tim's attention, when DiNozzo materialized in front of his desk, holding up a thick file. He smirked eagerly, practically trembling with excitement.

"Done, Boss," he said smugly. "Mind if I grab a drink?"

Gibbs looked at the report that DiNozzo had dropped heavily onto his desk and then checked the time. DiNozzo had another hour before he was officially off the clock, but Gibbs figured they could spare him if by some chance a call came in. He sat silently and ominously for a moment, though, just to screw with Tony's emotions, before he finally gave a curt nod.

DiNozzo squeaked, grinned, and strutted off, heading directly for the table full of goodies.

Gibbs glanced at Ziva again and then back at McGee. This time, McGee was looking at him uncertainly, nervousness in his eyes.

"Why are you staring at me?" McGee ventured bravely.

Gibbs didn't answer right away.

Then:

"How's the punch?" he drawled sarcastically.

McGee looked confused. He shrugged hesitantly.

"I haven't had any yet," he answered slowly.

The probationary agent looked at his cup and tilted his head with interest. DiNozzo strutted back into the bullpen, collapsed in his chair, threw his legs up on his desk, and balanced a plate stacked full of food on his knees, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

He raised his own cup of punch.

"I toast to you, McPunch," Tony mocked solemnly, taking a long drink of the reddish-orange concoction. Tony lowered the plastic cup and blinked, breathing out with a whistle. "Damn, that's some strong punch," he remarked, kicking up an eyebrow in suspicious amusement.

Gibbs sat up slightly, frowning. He glanced back to the Christmas tree. Jenny was no longer standing near it; a quick look around told him she was refilling her cup. He noticed, almost by chance, that she had slipped her heels off, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Taste that, McGee," DiNozzo was saying.

Ziva had looked up.

"The punch is non-alcoholic," she said shortly.

McGee had taken his sip. He coughed in surprise.

"No, it isn't," he said in surprise. "Someone's spiked it with," he paused, taking another sip, and made a face.

Gibbs stood up his eyes following Jenny as she caught sight of him watching her and sauntered over, giving him a sultry sort of warning look. He was beginning to think the punch was spiked with—

"Gibbs," Jenny greeted in her throaty voice, perching on the edge of his desk. She set down her glass and unbuttoned her sweater, slipping it off and handing it to him briskly, adjusting the crisp oxford she had on underneath the cardigan. "Keep track of that, will you?"

—tequila.

It was the only explanation.

Alcohol could effortlessly explain the rising volume of Jenny's laughter and conversation, but only tequila could explain why her shoes had come off, and why her sweater was now coming off and—well, Gibbs didn't plan on being cruel enough to let her remain in public while he waited to see what would come off next.

"Jesus, this is tequila," McGee declared, befuddled. "Abby!" he yelped, pushing his glass away.

Gibbs heard a giggle, but ignored the commotion her drink-spiking capers were causing among his team. He came around his desk, laying Jenny's sweater over his keyboard, and turned his back to the team, lifting a brow at Jenny.

"How much punch have you had?" he asked in a low voice.

Her lips twitched up at the corners and she lifted her eyes, shaking her head a little. She ran her hand through her hair and pushed it back again, succeeding in making it look entrancingly messy.

"A couple of cups," she said breezily. "Try it, Jethro, Abby is some sort of punch-goddess," she said, and then giggled. "It's better than the eggnog. I think it has ginger ale in it. It's hot in here."

"Jen, it's got tequila in it," he said, amusement creeping into his voice.

She burst out laughing, tilting her head back. She almost fell onto his desk, and succeeding in knocking over a cup of pencils and pushing his stapler to the floor. The team looked over, their attention caught. Gibbs subtly grabbed her arm to steady her and raised an eyebrow again.

"Don't be ridiculous," she admonished, waving her hand at him flippantly. "I think I would be aware of it if I were drinking tequila," she scoffed, giving him a haughty look. She pushed her hair back again and unbuttoned the top two clasps of her oxford. "It's hot in here," she said again, her eyes bright.

She smiled at him fetchingly.

"Jen," he said quietly, speaking through clenched teeth. "You need to go to the ladies' room," he advised her. "Splash water on your face."

She leaned in closer.

"Why are you whispering?" she asked in the same hushed tone. She placed her palm on his neck and her fingers stroked the base of his hairline; the touch sent desirable chills down his spine. She smiled at him again.

He pushed her hand away gently.

"Jen, remember that brothel in Prague?" Gibbs asked slyly, tilting his head threateningly.

Her eyes widened a little and she gave him a distasteful look. She frowned and glanced at the glass of punch she had placed on his desk. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and then picked up the glass. She pointed at him and nodded confidently.

"You know what, Jethro, I think you're right," she said, her words just a little slurred. "Ladies' room."

He looked at her skeptically.

"Yeah," he snorted, taking her arm. "C'mon," he said authoritatively, marching her out of the bullpen. He glanced behind him, noting that his team's attention had been diverted by a triumphant Abby taking a bow for secretly spiking the punch.

Cynthia was just entering the ladies' room as Gibbs approached, so he abruptly changed direction and escorted Jenny into the men's room. It was quiet and empty and much more secluded than the ladies', as women tended to gather and gossip in their bathrooms.

Gibbs turned to make sure the door was shut, and when he turned back around, Jenny was standing right in front of him, her eyes alert and slightly mischievous, her hair loose and tangled by her own fingers, and the top of her oxford temptingly unbuttoned. He smirked, shaking his head, and swore to himself this was not going to happen.

He took her shoulders and walked her backwards, slapping his palm on the counter.

"Sit," he ordered.

She lifted both eyebrows suggestively and hopped up on the counter, her skirt riding up her thighs. She leaned back a little, arching her back, and looked at him surreptitiously through her eyelashes. She reached up and unbuttoned the rest of her oxford.

"It's even hotter in here," she whined, shrugging her shoulder out of the long-sleeved shirt. She pouted her lips and reached out to tug him towards her a little, leaning forward. Her hair fell over her shoulders and brushed his cheek. "If there really is tequila in the punch I can get naked real fast," she murmured suggestively.

He gently detached her hand and pushed her to sit back.

"I know," he muttered with a smirk. "I remember Prague, too," he snorted, shaking his head at the thought of his first experience with Jenny and tequila. The agave, Mexican liquor had some sort of inexplicable effect on Jenny—it immediately turned her into a stripper if she consumed too much too quickly.

Jenny giggled and pulled her leg up, resting her foot on the edge of the counter and giving him a straight view up her skirt. She pulled her skirt down and fingered the edge of her thigh-high stockings, tilting her head.

She reached out for him again, her hand pressing against his neck and shoulder.

"Mmm," she murmured huskily. "We had a good night in Prague."

Once again, he extracted himself. He reached for the sink and turned the water on cold, biting back a smug grin and shaking his head slightly.

"Jen, you're drunk," he informed her. "We're at work."

"We were at work in Prague," she retorted sassily. She gripped the counter and pulled on it roughly. "This is pretty sturdy," she said to him brazenly.

"Yeah," he humored her. "We figured that out six years ago," he reminded her, perfectly willing to play the nostalgia game if it would get her to cooperate. Jenny burst into laughter, her eyes widening. She nodded, parting her lips tantalizingly and wetting them with her tongue.

She tilted her head back and shook her hear back, reaching for her earring. She unclasped it and fumbled it, dropping it right into her cup of tequila-sodden punch—she gasped and, in her attempt to recover the earring, knocked her drink and the piece of jewelry into the sink where the running water forced it all down the drain.

"Oh, no!" Jenny cried, covering her mouth. She pouted.

"Dammit, Jen," swore Gibbs good-naturedly. He looked at her and shook his head. "How many pairs are you going to lose to Patron?"

She fiddled with the lone earring left.

"You gave me these," she pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

"I'll buy you another pair," he placated absently, pointing to the cold water. "Splash your face, Jen, try to sober it up a little."

He was being good. He was trying to save her some embarrassment, save some face. He was even resisting the urge he had to respond to her intoxicated attempts to seduce him, as difficult as it was to turn her down.

The redhead was suddenly outraged.

"I am not splashing water on my face," she protested indignantly. "Oh, Jethro, I dropped my earring down the sink," she lamented, bowing her head.

She seemed to suddenly notice that her stocking was exposed and looked at it in fascination. Then in one fell swoop she slid the nylon off her leg and threw it at him. She let out a relieved breath, and went for the other leg.

"No," Gibbs barked sharply, stepping in between her legs to prevent her. She shrieked and then covered her mouth, eyes wide, and she giggled into her palm. He grabbed her foot and fumbled with the stocking she'd removed, trying to maneuver it back on. "Jen, keep your damn clothes on," he growled.

She moved closer to him and leaned forward, her lips close to his hear.

"I never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth," she hissed aggressively, reaching out to steady herself using his shoulders. She slid her hand down his chest towards his waist and he swallowed hard, steeling himself to fight her off.

"Jethro," she snapped playfully. "Stop it," she entreated, squirming and gripping his belt. "Jethro, it's hot, let me take them off."

He was determined to get her stocking back on her. He got her leg in a sort of chokehold and pulled her towards him. She laughed in surprise and wrapped her free leg around his waist, wriggling her toes a little.

Gibbs set his jaw and moved his hand up her leg, pressing his palm against her inner thigh to distract her. She threw her head back and bit her lip, her heel curling into his back anxiously, and just when he thought he'd gotten her foot into the nylon, the men's room door flew open, his arm jerked in surprise, and Jenny escaped.

Gibbs turned his head toward the door with a murderous glare. DiNozzo looked back at him, his eyes wide as saucers and his mouth hanging open. Gibbs grit his teeth and swore under his breath; he knew exactly what DiNozzo was seeing: the Director, intoxicated, in a state of semi-undress, with her long legs wrapped around his boss's waist in the men's restroom.

It wasn't what it looked like, but DiNozzo was never going to believe it.

Gibbs glared at DiNozzo in a tense, silent standoff, daring his senior agent to make a smart-ass remark. For once in his skirt chasing life, Tony seemed at a loss for what was appropriate in the situation and backed up a little.

It didn't last long; DiNozzo unwittingly cracked his characteristic, suggestive grin.

Jenny looked up at DiNozzo, biting her lip provocatively. She let her legs slide off of Gibbs a little, pulling it together a little when she sort of half-realized what was going on. She looked at the leg with no nylon, and then at the one that was still wearing it's pristine stocking, and she pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at Tony.

His grin faded a little, but he was clearly fighting back a smirk.

"Er," he muttered quickly. "I didn't see anything?" he tried slyly.

"You're damn right you didn't," snapped Gibbs, giving DiNozzo a menacing glare. "She broke a heel," he threw out, a weak excuse that his tone made clear was going to be believed whether Tony wanted to or not.

DiNozzo held up his hands and backed up slowly.

"Broken heel," he reported. "The punch was spiked, Director, we can blame the tequila," he said smugly, disappearing before Gibbs had time to storm over and head-slap him into the next dimension.

The door slammed, and Gibbs turned to Jenny in frustration, still holding her wrinkled stocking. She bit her lip, managing to look contrite, innocent, and wicked all at the same time. She lifted her brows.

"Jethro," she said matter-of-factly. "If I'm being completely honest with myself, I think I might be drunk."

"You think?" he retorted sharply, glaring at her.

She closed her green eyes and nodded primly. Her lashes fluttered and she opened them again, looking at him seriously.

"I think you should take me home."

"Yeah, I think so," he agreed, disgruntled. He raised his eyebrows and held out his hand.

She hopped down from the counter, feet bare, shirt un-tucked and unbuttoned, hair a mess, wearing only one earring, and missing her sweater. She stumbled into him and blinked, apparently confused by how she had gotten so intoxicated on the seemingly innocent punch.

She glanced up at him salaciously through her eyelashes and pursed her lips, arching an eyebrow impishly.

"Let's have an adult sleepover," she whispered, a soft giggle escaping her lips before she even finished the sentence.

"Not a good idea, Jen," he said half-heartedly.

She gave him a smug look.

"Wrong; it's a damn good idea, Jethro," she said silkily. "We can blame the alcohol."

Her head was aching steadily and bluntly when she woke up the next morning, momentarily unaware of where she was. She was sleeping on her stomach with her face in the pillows and her arms above her head; she was vaguely cold and that, she discovered as she lifted her head and looked around a little, was due to her being very naked.

She pushed her hair away from her eyes, nose and mouth, breathing in and frowning slightly.

"Jesus, I smell like a Kenny Chesney song," she mumbled, tequila filling her nostrils.

She heard a snort of amusement.

Subconsciously, she reached up swiftly and felt her ears. She only had one earring in, and the discovery coaxed a frown to her lips. She blinked, rubbed one eye gently, grimaced, and narrowed her eyes at the man sprawled on his back next to her.

It was he who had laughed.

Rudely, she reached out and punched his side.

His skin jumped and he looked down at her, glaring. He'd obviously been awake; there was no trace of sleep in his eyes. She met his annoyed gaze firmly and puckered her lips, pushing herself up a little more.

"What the hell are you doing here, Jethro?" she asked indignantly.

"Taking advantage of you," he answered bluntly, his eyes roaming over her. She followed his wandering, appreciative gaze and shifted onto her side, blinking, racking her brain for any recollection of what had gone down. A rush of dizzying sensory memories slammed into her and she closed her eyes.

Apparently Jethro had; and then she had. And then Jethro again.

She bit her lip, shaking her head a little, overwhelmed for a moment. She let out a shaky breath.

"…There was tequila in the punch?" she ventured slowly, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered, smug.

She groaned softly and reached up, cradling her head. She sighed and tilted her head back, laying down on her back and staring, resigned, at the ceiling. She looked over at him, wetting her lips.

"Was it good for me?" she asked dryly.

He rolled onto his side and slid an arm around her waist burying his nose and lips in her neck and breathing in her faded tequila, sandalwood, and afterglow scent. He nodded arrogantly.

"Four times," he told her.

She laughed a little, the sound humming in her throat and against his lips. She covered her eyes and groaned again; exasperated with events, which, she was sure, had involved some degree of her systematically removing articles of her clothing.

"Oh," she bitched, wrinkling her nose. "What have I done?"

*Credit, of course, to Joe Nichol's "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off"

-Alexandra