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."
Author's Chapter Notes:
What starts as an undercover case with Gibbs and Ziva in a Goth bar ends up changing everyone's lives.