The Case

Gibbs does not dance. At least not when sober, and when he’s not sober, well that’s an entirely different story for a very different day.

Gibbs does have sex. Not as often as Tony, but he’s not a monk by any stretch of the imagination either. He’s quite fond of sex, but he’s also over fifty, so once or twice a week does just as well as once or twice a day used to. And, unfortunately, it’s been much longer than a week, or for that matter a month.

Gibbs is not a fan of leather clothing. At least, not on him, well, excluding belts and shoes which really should be made of leather. It’s not that he’s some sort of animal right’s guy, it’s just that it’s not terribly comfortable, and he’s old enough to appreciate comfortable.

All of these things are relevant because he is currently sitting in a booth at a Goth club with Ziva on his lap and Abby dancing (Well, she claims it’s dancing, it’s not anything he’d call dancing. And it is most certainly not something he will join in on. However, it does look quite a bit like sex, which he’s not unappreciative of.) with two other girls a few feet in front of them. He is wearing eye liner, lipstick, leather pants, and for as much as Ziva on his lap is a nice sensation, he’d rather be pretty much anywhere else right now.

Including trading places with McGee, currently in the hospital having his appendix removed.

Three hours ago, he was checking Ziva’s sound equipment while watching Abby apply makeup to McGee. McGee was surprisingly (Or maybe not, this is a guy who goes by the name Elflord on occasion.) compliant with the current assignment. Namely, accompany Abby and Ziva to the Camaria Club and try to lure out a woman, name unknown, but he knew that the team was calling her “Freaky Vampire Chick,” who was more than just a suspect in the ritual exsanguinations and mutilation of three Marines.

At least, he had seemed rather compliant. Abby had done a decent job of turning him into something that might pass muster at the Camaria Club. His hair was black and spiky. His skin was chalky white. (In retrospect Gibbs realized he never saw Abby apply any whitening make up to Tim, and that should have been his first clue that this night was not going to go as planned.) She was in the process of applying a rather intricate fake tattoo of an Ankh to his neck when he broke out into a sweat, clutched his side, and toppled off the stool he had been seated on.

Three minutes after that Ducky had declared that Tim needed to get to a hospital now, because he was probably about to perforate his appendix, and that would be a bad thing.

Ducky had gone with Tim, and Gibbs had spent several moments explaining to Abby that if they did not go get this woman tonight, then it was very likely that tomorrow there would be yet another dead Marine. Once Abby had been dissuaded from going to the hospital with Tim, Gibbs was left with another problem. He had two options, he could get made up himself, or send in Palmer. That decision took all of two seconds, Palmer wouldn’t be any use as backup for Abby or Ziva. And, although he was certain Ziva could take care of herself, he didn’t want to stick her with two untrained, untried, and potentially dangerous to her should either one panic, team members.

What he really wanted to do was strangle Tony for taking the week off. Really wanted to. His fingers were itching. And yet, there was nothing to be done, he couldn’t even call him back from wherever he had gone. NCIS mandates a certain amount of time off, and if Tony didn’t voluntarily take this week off, he was going to be put on leave by the Director, and in her words, “Barred from the building until he had used up each and every single unused vacation day he had accumulated.” Even Gibbs could accept that one week off every five years was a better deal than having Tony banned for the next eight weeks.

So now, while Tony frolicked in a bar on a tropical beach somewhere, and Tim was blissfully unconscious, Gibbs was sitting in a booth in leather pants vastly tighter than anything he would wear of his own free will. He was having a very hard time not touching his eyes, the eyeliner and mascara that Abby put on him bothered him much more than he wanted to admit.

Ziva was sitting on his lap, trying to look sexy, submissive, and undead. (Gibbs had to admit that she did look good, it was just that to his tastes she had on about ten pounds more make up than necessary. However, the tight little lace bustier thing Abby had put her in contrasted nicely with the black leather collar. And the cleavage, just under his nose, was lovely as well. He mentally smacked himself on the back of the head and recited Rule Number Twelve. Twice.) Ziva lowered her head, bit him below the jaw, and then moved her tongue up to his ear. He shivered, and mentally recited Rule Number One, the original version, while trying to think of the correct response to Ziva’s actions.

“Entering from the back. Black clothing, too much make-up, curly hair, necklace of what appears to be human ears…” she whispered while licking his earlobe.

He turned his eyes toward the door she had indicated. “I see her. You get that Abbs?” He wrapped a hand around the nape of Ziva’s neck and kissed her, trying his best to look something like the other necking Vampire fetish couples around them. He kept his eyes on Abby as his mouth moved over Ziva’s. Once more Rule Number Twelve rang in his mind.

Abby, without missing a beat from the writhing, grinding, dance thing she was doing signed at him from behind her partner’s back, “Yes. When the music changes I’ll ask her to dance.”

“Okay. Be careful,” he whispered against Ziva’s lips, the mic in her collar transmitted the sound to Abby.

“No problem,” Abby signed back to him.

Ziva shifted from sitting across his lap to straddling him. He gave her a very brief quizzical look, and she gave a fast nod to the smoked glass wall behind them. She could watch everything in the room without attracting any attention.

“Gibbs, move the table further from the booth.” He felt around with his foot, found the pedestal that the table rested upon, and slid it a few inches back. She leaned back until her back rested against the edge of the table, and nodded quickly at him again while straightening up. She had enough room to get out of that booth fast if need be.

Gibbs realized that, had anyone been watching, it now looked quite a bit like he and Ziva were screwing away in that booth. He also realized that had anyone been looking at his face, they’d never buy it. He lowered his face so that his forehead pressed against Ziva’s shoulder and moved his hands from her back to her buttocks.

“Be my eyes, Ziva.”

“I did not think your vision was that bad.” Part of him was very grateful that she was willing to joke at a time like this. Part of him was repeating Rule Number Twelve like a mantra, along with the original version of Rule Number One, because she had figured out why his face was hidden, and had added a grinding motion of her own to the sexual façade they were presenting. Part of him was very happy that these pants were so tight it was physically impossible to get an erection, let along poke a subordinate with it.

“My eyes are fine. It’s my acting that isn’t up to this.”

“You are doing fine. Much easier to work with than Tony.”

He chuckled quietly, memories of listening in on Tony and Ziva as a married couple lightened his mood. “You think?” He couldn’t see anything besides her the tops of her breasts, inches from his nose, but he was hoping she was smiling at him.

“Abby is moving towards the target.”

He lifted his face and began to nibble her shoulder, leaving a line of little pink bite marks. He hoped they’d only be little pink marks, explaining a line of hickies on Ziva’s shoulder to Jenny really wasn’t on his list of fun things to do. Especially since Jenny was intimately acquainted with both versions of Rule Number One, and the reason for Rule Number Twelve. This position allowed him to watch Abby without showing too much of his face.

“Remember Abbs, you need to get her to touch your outfit.” Once more the mic in Ziva’s collar transmitted his message to Abby.

“Gibbs… it was my idea to wear shiny black vinyl so that I could get her prints on me. I’ll get her prints, match them in the van, and then you and Ziva can swoop in, cuff her, and put her away for a long, long time. By the way, you two look really hot over there. Keep it up.”

“Thank you, Abby. But ‘hot’ is the last word I would use to describe this. I am freezing in this tiny little dress.”

“Then snuggle in closer to Gibbs, he looks plenty toasty. Now quit your chattering. I’ve got a vampire to seduce.”

The next five minutes were an exquisite torture for Gibbs. Between Ziva’s slow steady gyrations, the warm soft feel of her ass in his hands, and her whispered commentary on exactly which bits of Abby Freaky Vampire Chick was touching he was getting dangerously close to mortally embarrassing himself, exceptionally tight pants or not.

“Abby’s leaving,” Ziva whispered against his temple. “The suspect is heading towards the ladies’ room.” Ziva began to move faster on his lap, and began to make small moaning sounds. Rationally, he knew she was looking to end the performance and follow Freaky Vampire Chick into the restroom to keep an eye on her. The part of his brain that was in charge of his hands had other ideas. He found himself clutching her, pulling her tight to him, and kissing her fiercely.

He didn’t know how long the kiss lasted. He hoped it wasn’t too long. He was sure that if they lost the Freaky Vampire Chick because he was playing tonsil hockey with Ziva he’d have to shoot himself in the head, because there wasn’t a slap hard enough to make up for that kind of mistake. But, after some bit of time, he broke the kiss and slumped back in the booth, trying to look post orgasmic and hoping he hadn’t just blown the case. Ziva spent a second or two pressed against his chest, which, he had to admit was also rather nice (“Rule Number One: Do Not Screw Your Partner! Rule Number Twelve: Do Not Date Your Partner!” ran through his thoughts over and over and over again.) and then she slid out of the booth and followed the suspect into the ladies’ room.

He reached for the drink he had ordered when they entered the club. Bourbon, neat. He knocked it back, closed his eyes, spent another moment slumped against the booth. He didn’t see Freaky Vampire Chick anywhere, and he was about to ask Ziva what was up when he heard her voice through his earpiece.

“That is a lovely necklace you’ve got. They look so real. Are they latex?”

He sighed deeply. Ziva was talking to the suspect. “Abbs, what do you have for me?” This time his own mic, located behind the top button on his shirt, broadcast to Abby.

“Nothing yet Gibbs. But… OK… I’ve got two more prints lifted, and the computer’s about to do it’s magic. I should know in less than a minute.”

“Faster Abbs.”

“Gibbs, there is no faster.”

“Ziva’s in the head with the suspect.”

“You’ll be fine Ziva, just keep stalling her. Where are you Gibbs?”

“Still in the booth.”

“Well, maybe you should move closer to the ladies’ room so you can get in there as soon as I have the answer for you.”

Once more Gibbs wanted to slap himself upside the head. (Hell, Palmer might have done a better job. Well, no, he wouldn’t have, but he wouldn’t have known to follow Ziva, rather than having forgotten to do so.)

“Well Gibbs, you in position?”

“Yes, do you have an answer for me?”

“Oh yes, she’s your girl.”

From inside the washroom he heard a scuffle. He knew that Ziva must have made a move as soon as she too heard the news. He burst into the room, and helped Ziva subdue the screaming woman with the necklace of human ears. Between the two of them they were able to get her cuffed (With those stupid plastic strip things. He hated them. But there was no room in anyone’s outfit for handcuffs, or a gun, both of which had bothered him.) and into the van.

An hour later, in the interrogation room, Freaky Vampire Chick had broken. Her real name was Sarah Mende, and she picked her victims at random. Three Marines in three weeks was just her bad luck. (Or coincidence. Not that Gibbs believes in coincidence. He does believe that living in the town three minutes from Quantico increases the likelihood of coming in contact with Marines.) He’s also fairly sure that this woman is stark raving mad, and will soon be facing a very long stay in a very high security level mental institution. He is also deeply, deeply happy that he will soon be in his own home, in his own bathroom, and that he will never, ever have to wear eyeliner or tight leather pants again.


A/N: Rule Number One varies depending on who is saying it. Jenny came up with "Don't screw your partner." Gibbs had "Don't screw over your partner." Rule Number Twelve is "Do Not Date Co-workers."

The Aftermath:

Gibbs entered his home, tossed his keys in their usual place, and headed straight towards the shower. The crud that Abby put in his hair and on his face makes him feel dirtier than he has in a long, long time. In fact, he’s not quite sure if he’s more eager to get into the shower tonight, or the night they investigated the exploding mausoleum.

He is sure that he has never, ever been more ready to get out of a pair of pants. Well, at least, he’s never been more ready to get out of a pair of pants for the relief of getting the damn things off, he’s had other reasons to get out of his pants quickly, and some of them were probably more pressing at the time.

As soon as he’s closed the door to the bathroom he finds himself pulling off the damn things. The fly came down easily enough, but the rest of the pants are showing a stubborn level of resistance more appropriate to a Marine than a piece of clothing. He is seriously contemplating cutting them off (Which Abby had already told him not to do, unless he was willing to pay her the eight hundred dollars to replace them.) when his left leg comes free. The right quickly follows suit.

His sigh of relief is deep and heartfelt. Another one follows it as the warm water in his shower washes the goop off of him. This is the best he’s felt in hours.

Almost. Freed from its leather prison his cock is asking for some attention. Free from the presence of anyone else he’s willing to allow it. After all, there is no rule that states you can’t screw yourself while thinking of a co-worker. (And even if there was, he’d have broken it about a thousand times by now.)

His mind wanders back to the club and the point where Ziva straddled him. Her motions and clothing stayed the same, but his mind let her hair fall free of the stark dominatrix bun Abby had her wear, and the oodles of black make-up vanished.

This time, when she leaned back against the table, it was to undo his fly, and let him free from those damn pants. Her hands are warm and soft, with just a hint of rasp from a callus on her trigger finger. He finds the reminder that this is a fighting woman deeply erotic. He finds the quick glimpse of a black thong, pushed to one side, as she slides onto him even more so.

This time, he allows himself to relish the feel of her ass in his hands. This time his hands are under her skirt, his fingers splayed against her warm smooth skin.

This time, instead of resting his head against her shoulder, he leans back so he can see her move. He watches the flush spread on her chest and face. He yanks the bustier down so he can palm her breasts. Their soft weight is beautiful to his hands.

He lets his eyes drift closed. He feels her bend close to him. Her hair brushes his face and neck. Her lips slide wetly against his, and then move to his ear. She’s whispering in his ear, telling him how good he feels in her, how long she’s wanted to do this, how close she is. Then her voice looses words and switches to moans.

He moves faster, harder, wanting to come with her. He grabs the nape of her neck and moves in for a deep, wet kiss. She is sucking his tongue, and clenching around him. And he is wrapped in the searing, pulsing sensation of a blazing orgasm.

And eventually, he is once more in his shower. The water is getting cold. He quickly soaps, shampoos and rinses. He’s out of the shower and dried off in a matter of minutes. He replaces the towel on its rack and goes to brush his teeth. Getting into bed and slipping into sleep sounds wonderful just about now.

And, it is with thoughts of drifting off that he stops dead in his tracks two steps from the door of his bathroom upon seeing Ziva sitting on his bed.

He realizes he has three options. He can jump back into the bathroom. He can cover his privates and tell her to get the hell out of his room. Or he can walk to his dresser and grab his usual sleeping clothes, a pair of boxers and t-shirt. He’s fairly sure that both he and she would see options one and two as signs of weakness. So he walks to the dresser, grabs a pair of boxers from the top shelf, puts them on, and then turns to her.

“Ziva?” He’s pretty happy that that question came out as smoothly as it did. He’s not sure he could live with it if his voice broke like some sort of teenager, or worse, a flustered McGee.

She’s still wearing the same outfit. Her hair is still in the bun, but at least the make-up is gone. She’s looking at him carefully, and for once he’s not quite sure what her expression means. Part of him wants to turn back to the dresser and grab a t-shirt. Part of him is sure that breaking eye contact right now is a very bad idea.

“In the last ten years I have simulated sex with fifteen different partners in different undercover operations. And, until tonight, each and every single one has had the courtesy to get an erection.”

Well, of all the things she could have said, that was the last he was expecting. His face showed his surprise.

“How do you think it feels? I am in good shape. I was wearing this tiny little outfit.” She gestured at the outfit Abby had picked for her. “I was squirming in your lap, your face inches from my breasts, nibbling on your ears, and nothing. What does it take? Red hair?”

He smiled dryly. “No, just enough room in my pants for the blood to flow.”

“You are saying you were too constricted?” A smile was beginning to form on her face as well.

“Did you see those pants?” He sat next to her on the bed, careful not to touch her.

“Yes, Abby and I had been rather enjoying the view.”

“Wonderful.” There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

“And now?” She looked expectantly at him, and licked her lips.

“Now?” He was desperately trying to come up with a way to get her out of his home before he broke every rule he had concerning female co-workers including the few he was writing this second concerning subordinate employees.

She gestured delicately to his current lack of erection. “I’m in the same outfit, in your room, and could very easily be in your lap again.”

“How long have you been here?”

Ziva looked confused. She glanced at his clock. “Half an hour.”

“How many Marines do you know who take thirty minute showers just to get clean?” He hoped the look he was giving her got his message across.

Thankfully, it worked. “Oh.” She looked relieved, and happy. Gibbs found himself wondering once again about how women decided if male interest was a compliment or an insult.

“Do you know Rule Number One?”

“I am not your partner.”

“You were on this op.”

She stood up, her face less than an inch from his. “Aren’t rules made to be broken?”

She smelled good. His hands were itching to reach up and let her hair down. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her until she began to whimper. He took a step back, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Not this one.”

She nodded and walked to the door of his room. At the door frame she stopped, turned and said, “I will not always be working for you.”

“I know.”

“Until then?” Her question was filled with promise. He nodded back at her. Part of him hoping for that day, part of him dreading it.

Aftermath II

Many thoughts go through his head as he drives. The most pressing one is that this is probably a bad idea. A very bad idea. He’s absolutely sure that first thing tomorrow morning he’ll be doing everything he can to get Ziva, and Tony, and Tim back to where they belong, with him. (And even more importantly, before Abby has a total meltdown and the lab goes to hell and gone.) But tonight she’s no longer an employee, and he has no idea when he’ll have that luxury again.

He’s also sure that Jenny’s death has had an effect on his actions. Ever since that first death, when one of his buddies bought it in Basic, he’s known that nothing makes him want sex more than the loss of a friend. And Jenny was more than a friend. Just like with Kate, as soon as the investigation was over he felt the desire. Ducky’s told him that it has something to do with confirming that you are alive, but his own personal theory is that when you feel so bad it’s important to do something that feels this good. And nothing feels so good as sex.

He hopes Ziva agrees. Which is another problem. Ziva and Jenny were friends. And he does not know how Ziva responds to the death of a friend. He’s aware that he might end up spending the night on her couch getting drunk and cried on. He can live with that.

He also hopes Ziva still remembers that night. It’s been fifteen months, during which they have worked together like almost perfect professionals. If he spends a little too long looking at her, or stands a little too close, no one else has seemed to notice. Beyond that, he has done a very good job of keeping her out of his mind. He doesn’t let his thoughts go there more than once a month. He’s not sure if he could keep himself properly bosslike if he allowed himself to think of her, and him, and sex much more often than that.

As he pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex his eyes scan the cars. He sees her car, but not Tony’s, which was his other fear. He didn’t want to come knocking on her door and find Tony sitting on her couch. He had a plan should that happen, (Call McGee and begin working on getting them back together.) but still, he’d rather have tonight with just her.

At her door he debates knocking. He could just pick the lock and enter, repeating her actions from last year. But giving her the chance to say “No” is more important to him. He knocks.

She answers it in her robe. It is gray and silky, and only comes to her mid-thigh. Her hair is down around her shoulders. Her face is fresh and make-up free. And she smells exactly as he remembers her: Very, very good.

“It seems you no longer work for me.”

She pulls him into her home. “So, the rules no longer apply.”

She had barely finished the last syllable before he is kissing her. Much to his relief she is kissing him back just as eagerly.

He pulls back for a second. “Are you sure?”

“Tomorrow will take care of itself.” He has never been happier to hear words to that effect. He tosses his jacket behind him and wraps his arms around her again.

After several moments of frantic kissing and stroking she giggles. He pulls back and gives her a look that says, “What?” After all, giggles aren’t exactly the reaction he’s looking for.

She is smiling brightly. Her lips are swollen, and one shoulder has worked its way free of the robe. Her fingers ghost along the front of his pants. “There’s the salute I was looking for last year.”

He gives her a look, half smile, half smirk. “That’s not the half of it.”

“Really?” She’s teasing him, and he’s enjoying it. Yes, this is going to be very, very good.

He very slowly, without breaking eye contact, brushes her hair from her neck, his fingers stroking her skin before sliding through her hair, and then bends to kiss where her neck and shoulder meet. She shivers.

“Really,” he whispers against her neck.

She breaks from him and pulls him toward her room. He follows, not as quickly as he’d like, but he’s trying to walk and slip off his shoes at the same time. There never is a good time to take off shoes in a situation like this, but unless he plans an up against the wall quickie he needs to get them off. There is an appeal to pressing her against the wall of her hallway and wrapping her legs around him, but there’s even more appeal to getting her all the way out of that robe and into a nice soft bed. This is one of the few moments where he’d really like to erase twenty years. Had he still been in his thirties this would be very easy, he’d do both. As it was, both hadn’t been an option for some time.

On the upside he knew he was good for as long as she wanted to go. And there’s quite a bit to be said for not having to worry about that.

And there’s something to be said for not thinking at all. Which he is currently doing. They are in Ziva’s room, and she has wiped all the coherent thoughts out of his mind with the slide of her tongue in his mouth, and the feel of her hands on his belt.

They are both pushing and pulling at his clothing. Trying to get him out of a shirt, t-shirt, pants and boxers without breaking their mouth to mouth contact. Finally she pulls back and pushes his hands out of the way.

“This will go faster if just one of us does it.” He lets his hands drop to his sides and allows her to undress him. He’s not entirely passive though, as she unbuttons the top of his shirt he gives the hem of her robe a tug. The robe opens and slides from her shoulder to the crooks of her elbows. When she drops her hands to pull the hem of his shirt out of his pants it pools around her wrists. She pulls both of his shirts over his head in one go, and then allows the robe to fall to the ground.

She is naked under the robe, and he is enjoying the view of her kneeling on the ground to go after his pants. Not that they really need that level of attention. Undo the belt, unbutton the button, unzip the fly and they’ll fall to the floor all on their own. But he does appreciate the visual of her face inches from his fly, her fingers working his zipper. No matter what else happens tonight that memory is going into storage to be pulled out for later play.

He steps out of his pants and boxers, kicking them off one leg, while she visually inspects him in a much more thorough manner than he’s used to. He realizes she’s storing this for her private file of memories as well.

She stands, moves into his embrace, his kiss, and once again any thought beyond sensation is lost. She is smooth and tight in his arms. Her muscles flex under his fingers and her fingers scrape intricate patterns along his backside. He is aware of the edge of her bed against the back of his knees, and then sinking onto it. He is even more aware of her sinking onto him, and the hissing sound he makes when she does so.

She sets a pace that is slow and deliberate, and he’s happy to go with it. For a while he lays back and watches her move on him, his hands lightly resting on her hips. His hips roll with hers. His eyes are half lidded and lazy looking.

He wants her closer to him. He sits up and wraps his arms around her, pressing kisses to her breasts. From this position he can’t thrust and she slows way down, barely moving. Then he feels her squeeze. He makes that hissing sound again as his eyes roll closed and he pulls her lips into a very deep, very fast kiss.

The kiss builds and with it her speed. She is saying something, breathy and hot in his ear, but it’s not English. He is nibbling one nipple while his hands stroke her hips and ass. Her hands are using his shoulders for balance. Her motions are losing their focus, and the sounds she’s making are no longer words of any language. He feels her tighten against him, feels the pulsations he loves so much, and very quickly flips them so he’s on top.

This is his favorite position. His body crushed to hers, her legs wrapped around his back, and her lips on his. In a few strokes he’s able to join her bliss. They rest that way, breathing hard, hearts calming down, for a few moments, and then he rolls to his side, easing his weight off of her, but staying in contact.

Her face is inches from his, and she strokes his bottom lip with her finger tips. He takes her hand in his and kisses her palm, and then her wrist.

“Would you like to stay?” She asks him, a look of tenderness he only remembers seeing on her once before, at the bedside of Lt. Sanders.

“Yes, I would.”