A/N: This is relatively...different. I've either gone off some odd style of writing deep-end lately, or-well, no, that's it. This is very sort of "grown-up" and casual. There's not much to-do; it's very relaxed. It's smutty and snarky and sort of holiday spirit-ish. Enjoy!
She knew, and he knew, that they would end up together on this night. In the backs of their minds they acknowledged the inevitability, though they never spoke of it out loud. It was sort of something that had always happened when they were in the vicinity of each other during any Holiday season. They had in common the fact that they had no one else; thus, by default, they had each other.
So Jenny was neither resigned or melancholy when she leaned over the railing of his basement stairs late on December twenty-fourth and interrupted his precious boat-building with a soft but firm word:
"Gibbs," she called, tapping her fingers on the box she balanced in one palm.
He looked up from the part of the boat he was silently and carefully painting, squinting in the dim basement light to focus on her better.
"Jen," he returned mildly, nodding in greeting.
"Come upstairs and light a fire," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "It's ice-cold in this house."
He gave her a look of mild annoyance and stood, pushing the stool he'd been using away with his foot. He laid down his paintbrush and wiped his hands clean with a rag, cracking his knuckles in a stretch as he took a few stairs to meet her halfway up.
"What's in the box?" he asked, leaning in close to her.
She quirked an eyebrow wryly, tapping her fingers again.
"Pizza," she answered, though it was obvious that's what she was holding. "Meat Lover's," she added, and lifted her other hand, showing off a six-pack she held by tangling her fingers into plastic. "I've got beer if you've got ice."
Gibbs snorted, slipping past her and jogging up the rest of the stairs.
"Festive, Jen," he drawled, his voice fading.
She smiled, shook her head slightly, and followed him languidly, waltzing into his living room and setting the pizza and beer down on his paltry coffee table. She heard him throwing ice into some bowl or bucket in his kitchen and slipped her shoes off, throwing open the pizza box and breathing in.
Gibbs reappeared and thrust the six pack into the bucket of ice, turning to his old, rarely used fireplace to coax a flame from it. Crouched down, his back to her, he fiddled with the grate and spoke over the scratchy noise it made:
"Christmas on Capitol Hill fall through this year?" he asked smugly.
"You know how fickle Congress can be," she sighed in good-natured response, standing and watching him pull a lighter from his back pocket to stoke the fire. She tilted her head, her eyes roaming over the tight, firm muscles that moved slightly beneath his old t-shirt, and then down to the way his jeans fit over his ass.
Flames leapt high in the hearth and Gibbs leaned back swiftly, eyeing the fire critically for a moment before standing and tossing the lighter onto the table with the beer and the pizza. He got an eyeful of Jenny giving him a once-over and smirked, returning the familiar favor.
He didn't question why she was here on Christmas Eve; it felt comfortable. It hadn't been too long since Hollis had hit the road, and he'd been in a rut since then—he was sorry he had strung her along, but there was a guilty sense of relief that plagued him now that the blonde was out of his life.
He stood in front of the fire, drinking in the woman who was both the same and drastically different than she had been in Paris, and he was damn glad he didn't have to worry about Hollis.
"Why are you here, Jen?" he asked, his voice low.
She shrugged, rubbing her shoulders and moving closer to the fire. She looked into it, and the glow lit up her crimson hair and bounced in her green eyes. She smiled, a little nostalgia and a little mischief, and parted her lips to answer.
"You know it was either I end up here, or you end up at the townhouse," she murmured. "Figured I'd bite the bullet and come bearing gifts," she gestured at the offerings on the coffee table—modern day gold, frankincense, and myrrh. "Create some sort of Nativity."
"Need a virgin for that," he quipped, giving her a look.
She punched his shoulder lightly, tilting her head up a little to laugh. She gave him a sideways look through her lashes and smiled, biting her lower lip gently with her white teeth.
"We don't have to be alone, Jethro," she said simply. "Come on, I brought food, I brought a cheesy Christmas cartoon," she smirked and wriggled her shoulder, shrugging off her slouchy sweater to reveal a little enticing bit of red lace. "We can get a little buzzed, have sex, brood in holiday angst," she popped her eyebrows up and crinkled her nose.
Gibbs reached out and caressed her neck with his hands, leaning in for a much-needed kiss; he was starved for sexual attention, and he could taste the same need for gratification in her. She grasped his wrists, kissed back, and pulled away.
"Mmm," she murmured, her eyes drooping lazily.
"Casual sex, Jen?" he asked, nudging her back towards the couch. She looked behind her to watch her own step until she sat down and leaned back, looking up at him brazenly.
"It's what we're good at," she responded with a shrug. She tilted her head back and let out a breath. "Jethro, its been months, you know what to do to me, just do it," she said, lowering her voice. She looked at him through her eyelashes again and laughed.
He collapsed on the couch next to her and she shifted to her back, putting her foot over his shoulder. He leaned over her, hand running up her calve and her thigh, then right up the inseam of her jeans until he reached the designer button and unfastened it. He lowered his mouth to her neck and found her pulse to kiss.
Her head fell back against the armrest. She let one arm dangle off the couch, her fingers lazily brushing the carpet.
"God, that feels good," she murmured, eyes closed. She drew in a shuddering, quick breath and then swallowed hard, her heart rate elevating slightly. His body pressed down hard against hers, fitting against her, and she shifted, her sweater slipping further off her arm.
Gibbs dipped his hand under her panties and spread his fingers out over her, his breathing hitching a little raggedly when she arched up against his hips and dug her fingers into his shoulder.
"Get me out of the clothes," she murmured. "The lingerie's striped and ridiculous," she snorted, maneuvering her hands the sweep her loose sweater over her head. It rumpled her hair, and they tangled ungracefully a moment as he leaned back and readjusted to slide her jeans over her hips and yank them down her long, smooth legs.
It was shockingly natural how quickly they went from employer and employee to friends to lovers.
She leaned back on her arms, arching her back to offer him a satirical view of the thematic undergarments she'd worn under her comfortable after-work clothes. He smirked at the sight of red and white candy cane stripes making a maze of lace and cotton over her breasts and reached for her waist, pulling her towards him.
"How long for you?" she asked, her mouth open against his lips and ready for him to kiss with the welcome expertise of his tongue. He took her up on the lustful, wet offer and she moaned, her eyes sliding closed.
He grunted, non-committal, against her lips—and she took it to mean it had been since the blonde bombshell had hit the road, and he was naturally too much of a gentleman to bring up another woman whilst they were having easy, comfortable Christmas sex in his living room.
Gibbs drew down the strap of the silly lingerie with a calloused hand and traced the edges of it, slipping his hand under the material to cup her breast in his hand. She let out a soft, strangled gasp and pushed him back.
"Foreplay," she growled. "Whose idea was that?" she scoffed, her hands slipping down her sides to her hips. She slid her panties off, managing to do so without moving too much, and sling-shot them aside, nodding her head at his jeans. "I doubt you have any sort of holiday spirit to entice me with on your briefs," she said in a husky voice. "Just unbutton, I don't care if you keep them on," she ordered.
His eyes on her flushed skin and parted lips and disheveled hair, he did so, and she fumbled to help him, her thighs pressing into his as she leaned closer to him, their lips brushing. He groaned, clenching his teeth, as she touched him, just teasingly enough to make him want to slam her hips down on him.
She reached out and pressed her palms to his shoulders. He grabbed her hips.
"I just want you inside me Jethro, yes, god," she closed her eyes, tilting her head back; a quiet cry escaped her lips when he complied. "Oh, yes," she breathed, her stomach clenching.
"Pizza's getting cold," he drawled in her ear, his words thick with lust and his head dizzy with desire.
"Cold pizza," she moaned. "Cold Pizza's better with lukewarm beer," she managed, her hands sliding up to his neck. "Don't say anything for a minute, just fuck me," she murmured, arching over him. She hugged him tightly, their bodies close. She was hot, with the fire flickering; sweaty. "I need to concentrate. Just—" she broke off, moaning as his hands found exactly the right spot. "Just make me come."
She moved her hips selflessly enough to give him what he needed, and he used his hands enough to return the favor. She arched her back slowly and tilted her head back, rewarding him with a stunning view of her white, creamy skin in just that stupid, Christmas-themed bra.
"Jen?" he asked hoarsely, sitting up a little; his stomach tightened.
"Yes?" she answered, breathless, almost inaudible. She had trouble forcing the word out. "Yes—" she started to ask again. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders tightly again and moaned, her lips pressing against his temple. "Oh my god," she breathed hoarsely, "Yes."
"Never mind," Gibbs growled, lifting his head from her breasts to look at her face. He pulled her mouth away from his temple with a gentle hand in her shoulder-length, red hair and looked at her. "Got my answer."
She winced, breathing heavily.
"Jesus, Jesus Christ," she moaned, lowering her eyes. "Mmm. I know you like to look at me, Jethro," her pupils contracted rapidly and she shook her head, lowering her mouth to his shoulder. "I can't look—I have to close my—son of a bitch," she swore, her body shaking.
He took the opportunity to get what he needed; he pulled her hips forward and thrust once, twice, until he couldn't see or hear her for a minute and he was muttering the same heated, desperate swears against her hot, slick shoulder. He leaned back, running a hand over his mouth, and she lay against his chest heavily, her hands still gripping his ribs hard.
"Son of a bitch," she murmured again, weakly; her voice husky. She moved her head; her lips brushed his ear. "That was—damn, that was good."
He muttered and agreement, pushing damp hair off of his forehead. She lifted her head, propping her chin on her palm and using his shoulder as an elbow-rest. She motioned with her head towards the coffee table.
"Lukewarm beer?" she offered wryly.
Gibbs nodded lazily.
She shifted, let out a breath as she moved off of him, and slipped her jeans easily on over her bare ass. She tossed him a can of the brew she'd brought and pushed her hair back, sitting up. After a moment, he sat up next to her, silent. They didn't need words. There was nothing, cruel, kind, or otherwise, that hadn't been said between them.
Jenny leaned forward and snatched a piece of the, as predicted, now cold pizza. She bit off a hearty mouthful and nodded at the retro television in the corner.
"VCR work?"
Gibbs glanced over, narrowing his eyes.
"If you hit it coupla times," he drawled.
Jenny picked up a VHS of one of the cheesy Christmas movies she'd mentioned and shoved it at him, arching an eyebrow.
"Then hit it," she said.
He glared at her, squinting to read the title of the old, worn case he was holding. It was one of the classics, something he remembered seeing time after time on network television as a kid.
"The Year Without a Santa Claus," he scoffed.
Jenny shrugged, taking a deep, steadying breath and a long drink of beer. Her cheeks were still flushed; her eyes still sated, hot, and bright.
"Fits," she said matter-of-factly. She glanced smugly at the fireplace. "I don't see Santa coming down your chimney."
Gibbs stood to go mess with the old TV and VCR, giving into the strange, comfortable, friendly sort of thing they had going on here.
"Maybe you should've been nicer," he suggested gruffly.
"Hmm," she pondered sarcastically, swallowing another mouthful of cold pizza. "I suppose I should have gone to church instead of you," she mused. She tilted her head in mock thought. "Though then I'd have to get myself off, and I fear the Church frowns upon that." Jenny took a confident bite of pizza and gave him a wan look. "No Santa for me."
He shot her a lascivious look over her shoulder.
"You look deprived," he snorted.
He turned the TV on, banged the VCR, and adjusted an antenna and-voila. He stood up, stepped back, and the classic was starting. Jenny gave him a look that told him she was impressed and he pulled a soft blanket off the back of the couch as he came back over, forcing her to shift and adjust as he threw himself down horizontal on the couch, his rumpled shirt coming off.
In her jeans, bra, and post-coital haze, Jenny leaned back to curl against him, using his frayed old t-shirt to set her pizza on. She secured her beer between her thigh and the back of the couch and smiled a little girlishly when Gibbs pressed a kiss to her temple and pulled her closer, tangling them in blankets.
She relaxed, surprised and yet not surprised at how normal this was. She didn't know if they thought even occurred to either of them that they might rekindle a relationship these days; she just knew they knew each other well. They were comfortable with each other.
Jenny turned her head and kissed him, a long, slow, exploratory kiss that nearly made her heart stop. She breathed briefly, and dove back in, the movie playing in her ears and the slow, creeping beginnings of a buzz drifting into her head. She tasted him; tasted comfort and nostalgia and closeness; intimacy that she had never had and never would have with anyone else.
When they stopped, after hours—or days, whatever it had been—he looked at her with a mild curiosity.
"What the hell is this, Jen?" he asked huskily. "Why spend Christmas together?"
She shrugged, smiling a little.
"You're my best friend, Jethro," she said simply. She meant it. It wasn't a friends-with-benefits sort of thing; it wasn't a sickening, sappy couple thing—it was what it was. They understood each other. They connected, though on some level they both knew they as a couple, they would never be healthy.
But they understood the darkness in each other, and brought out the light. And they both hated the holidays not for the cheer, but for the loneliness it brought—and they could comfortably and languidly assuage that together.
He looked at her intensely for a moment, understanding reflecting in his eyes. Then he smirked, and brought his beer to his lips, giving some scene in the old movie a skeptical look. He arched a brow at his redhead.
"You kiss all your friends like that?" he drawled provocatively.
She laid her head on his shoulder, snuggled up, and settled down to watch the movie, dizzy from the sex, warm from the fire, and content with the Christmas Eve she'd chosen. She knew he associated best friends with teenage girls and slumber parties, and she could play with that—it was Christmas, after all. She let a smile drift across her lips and mumbled a tease of an answer:
"Oh, once. In college."
Merry Christmas [Eve]!
-Alexandra