A/N: I promised a follow up to 'That's What She Said', and I've decided to make good. Livi [Proudley; forgive me, I don't remember your penname] reminded me on facebook, and though I had been planning on this eventaully, the muse-bug kind of bit me after I talked to her:) And so commences more nonsense.

Jennifer Shepard, Director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, slowly lowered her eyeglasses and peered over them, her brows lifting just slightly. She stared at her fidgeting assistant; Cynthia Sumner looked back at her, biting her lip, looking very uncomfortable and yet wide-eyed.

Jenny cleared her throat primly.

"He said what?" she asked very precisely, her words dropping like ice cubes.

Cynthia nodded as if she were trying to convince herself. The young woman clutched the file she was holding and shifted her weight.

"He said—"

Jenny held up a hand and removed her glasses, clasping them between her hands.

"I will not make you repeat it, Cynthia," she said fairly, her green eyes still intently focused on her poor, harassed assistant. Staring at the woman, she tilted her head to the side just a little, and knit her brows fractionally.

"Are you sure you heard him correctly?"

Cynthia nodded curtly; sincerely.

Jenny's lips turned down a bit in a frown.

"He informed you he was—"

"Hard," Cynthia finished, nodding again for effect. She stared Jenny in the eye. "Yes," she added for emphasis.

Jenny leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, pausing to flick an invisible bit of dust off of her designer skirt.

"That is certainly inappropriate," Jenny stated neutrally.

"I'm just concerned for his health, Director," Cynthia muttered, almost earnestly, and her little joke of the situation brought the ghost of a smirk to her boss' lips. "He has clearly lost his senses."

Jenny inclined her head in some small agreement.

"Those, Cynthia, he may never have been in possession of," she murmured, and Cynthia smiled.

Jenny closed her lips over the edge of her glasses and narrowed her eyes over Cynthia's shoulder, snapping her eyes suddenly back to her nervous assistant with a glint in her eye. She nodded gratefully.

"Thank you for telling me, Cynthia," she said diplomatically. "I shall be having a talk with Agent Gibbs," she growled in addition, her voice low and threatening.

"Oh, Director, don't say anything—" Cynthia tried to protest in a murmur.

"It is not going to be a verbal talk," muttered Jenny ominously.

Cynthia winced a little, and retreated as the Director turned slowly back to her work, a signal for Cynthia to let her be. Leaving the posh office, Cynthia was unsure whether to give into her amusement or to feel overwhelmingly sympathetic for Agent Gibbs.

Jenny glanced up through her lashes as her door shut quietly and snapped the file folder on her desk shut, leaning back in her high-backed chair again and setting her glasses down upon the desk.

She narrowed her emerald eyes at nothing in particular.

Jenny was growing increasingly concerned. Her agents were looking at her funny; they had been doing it all day. Anthony DiNozzo, in particular, seemed to be leering at her especially suggestively. Even Abby Scuito has graced her with a bit of a mysterious smirk.

And now this.

Cynthia, quietly entering the office to inform her that one Leroy Jethro Gibbs had apparently inquired of her, at an unnecessary volume, if she 'knew how hard he was'.

There were many glaring reasons this concerned her. The main one being Jethro's blunt reference to his...anatomy in Cynthia's presence.

Something was amiss in her agency.

Jethro was behaving strangely. She had noticed he was in a foul mood when she'd seen him in the parking garage this morning, slamming his door in an offensively rough manner. The few times she'd emerged from the sanctity of her office today, she had developed the distinct feeling that seemed to be present in high schools: someone was talking about her.


She was miffed. She was suspicious.

She spun casually in the chair, turning to look back at the view of the harbor and the darkening sky, considering going home early. She did not at all enjoy the feelings she was currently harboring. She was getting slightly paranoid.

Ducky had given a slight blush when she greeted him in the break room near lunch time.

Jenny put a thoughtful hand to her lips and arched an eyebrow when she heard the office door bang open dramatically behind her, tilting her head at the window with an inaudible sigh. Just the person she needed to speak to…

Yet when she turned around, her eyes widened a little in surprise and she parted her lips. It was not her errant Agent Gibbs barging in, but instead Ziva David, who stood smirking in the middle of the room as she allowed the office door to close.

"Ziva," Jenny greeted cordially after a moment of silence.

"Director," Ziva greeted formally, a smile itching to break over her face.

Jenny arched a brow inquiringly.

Ziva inclined her head and sauntered forward, bracing an arm on Jenny's desk and resting another at her hip, her dark, glittering eyes alive with mirth as she stared down her red-haired friend.

"I have a report for you, Jenny," Ziva announced silkily.

"You are bypassing the chain of command," Jenny pointed out sarcastically, referring to Jethro's power-pettiness.

"With good reason," scoffed Ziva, lifting both perfect eyebrows.

Jenny gestured slightly with her hand and leaned forward on the desk, nodding. She waited for her Israeli comrade to continue. The brunette did look like she was enjoying this. Savoring it, even, whatever it was.

Her manner was distinctly different than Cynthia's had been, and yet, Jenny had a feeling in her stomach…

"Perhaps you would like to know how Gibbs has entertained himself today," Ziva began casually, her little smile escaping over half of her mouth.

Jenny compressed her lips a tiny bit, her ears sharpening.

"He informed Ducky that he 'did you a few years ago'," Ziva informed loyally, as if merely stating a statistic.

Jenny stared at her. She blinked.

Excuse me?

"He then informed Abby that, and I directly quote Abby herself, 'Jenny always comes," Ziva continued, her smile creeping just a little bit more into her eyes.

What the hell, Jethro?!

Jenny drew her brows together. Her jaw set tightly as she glared at Ziva.

Ziva gave a moment of reflection, and went on.

"He went on to tell Tony you like it up against the wall," she said solemnly, "He let McGee in on the secret that it is not at all hard to make you scream," Ziva lowered her eyes, as if preparing for the grand finale.

Jenny had a hand pressed to her forehead in distress.

She considered what Cynthia had said about Agent Gibbs.

She swore under her breath.

Ziva grinned wickedly.

"I do not quite remember what we were conversing about, but about ten minutes ago, Gibbs informed me that you like it rough," she completed her report on Jethro's abominable word vomit.

"Son of a bitch."

Ziva laughed shortly at Jenny's curse.

Jenny glared in near disbelief at Ziva.

"That son of a bitch!"

It was unthinkable.

Jethro wasn't the type!

He…he was dead.

Plain and simple.

Deliberately and slowly, Jenny nodded to Ziva, her movements cool and calculated as she rose gratefully from her chair and organized a few stray items on her desk.

"I see," she said, seething on the inside.

Sterilization. No, you know what Leroy Jethro Gibbs? I'm just going to cut it off, we'll just see what stories you tell then…

"Gibbs is having a bad day, Jenny," Ziva said with mirth, straightening up and folding her arms.

Jenny clicked her tongue mockingly.

"It is only because he is so sick of women tiring him out in bed—oh," she broke off, she lifted her fingertips to her mouth and puckered her lips innocently. "Did I say that out loud?"

Ziva's eyebrows shot into her hairline in amusement.

Jenny shrugged, perching on the edge of her desk with a dramatic sigh.

"Me and my mouth," she shook her head. "At least I haven't broken my promise never to tell that he can't last two minutes in the shower—damn," she broke off, unconcerned. "There I go again."

Jenny shared a truly devious look with Ziva.

She laid in wait until a later hour. She knew he would remain at the office late, and it was a custom of hers. She would prefer privacy to an open show when she spilled his blood in the bullpen.

Jenny left her office purposefully, giving a quick glance to Cynthia's neat desk. She stormed out onto the catwalk, her hand gliding along the cool rail.

Jethro's desk lamp was the only one on below; it case an eerie shadow over his silvery bent head. She made her way down the stairs, shoulders straight, head held high. Her approach was brisk and fierce, and he looked up at her as she halted in front of his desk.

Her green eyes flashed lividly.

Jethro visibly flinched.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she demanded, growling at him. "What the hell have you been talking about with my employees?!"

He groaned, and slouched in his chair, chucking a pen violently onto his desk.

His blue eyes flicked to her face and, she noticed, directly to her chest. He lingered there daringly, as if he felt she wouldn't notice.

"You bastard," she snarled, and lunged forward, hooking two fingers into his collar and pulling him forward close to his face.

"Conference room," she hissed in his ear, thrusting him away from her and storming off, her manicured nails flicking his desk lamp of adroitly in her retreat.

She didn't have to make sure he was following. He wouldn't dare ignore her direct order.

She smacked her palm against the elevator button and whirled on her heel to face him as she waited inside. He trudged in, looking glum and petulant, and as the doors slid snugly closed, she firmly switched off the power, casting them in darkness.

Jenny glared straight forward.

"Jethro," she began coldly, her eyes on the reflective metal of the elevator. "You had better have a damn good explanation."

"Jen," he drawled, almost whining at her. "It wasn't my fault."


"It isn't—wasn't—how it sounds!"

Jenny turned to him and shoved him against the elevator wall, her petite, warm hand bearing into his shoulder. She positioned her knee dangerously between his legs. Jethro winced involuntarily.

"I like it rough, do I, Jethro? Up against the wall, when you're making me scream and I always come—the way you did me a few years ago?" she met his eye sharply, glaring at him. "When you don't have to wonder about how hard you are because I know, oh Jethro, I always know."

He swallowed, his head falling back against the wall.

"Christ, Jen," he muttered. "Are you tryin' to punish me?"

She put her other hand against his shoulder and pressed her nails in, leaning a little closer, scowling, glaring; her lips compressed.

"I don't think you want me telling DiNozzo how you like your women on top," she hissed, "or Abby that you like your hair pulled. I'm sure you'd rather Ducky and McGee not find out what I moan in your ear when we're alone," she pushed him into the wall for good measure. "I know for certain you don't want Miss David finding out how much you need to cuddle when its over."

Jethro raised his eyes to the ceiling, whispering a silent prayer.

He didn't want her to notice that his hands were on her waist, pulling her into him and holding her warmth against him. He was a fool to think he'd slide it be here. She tilted her head and caught his eye, flashing her emeralds beautifully.

"Everything I said came out wrong today," he muttered, defeated, and then closed his eyes. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed hard again. "Jen…" he started hoarsely.

"I should make you suffer," she threatened coldly.

"It wouldn't have happened if I wasn't constantly thinking about making love to you, JEN!"

Jenny cocked her brow at him and smirked slowly, melting into him a little.

"Kiss-ass," she whispered, brushing her lips against hers.

He pressed his hand into the back of her neck and held her lips against his, tracing her lips with his tongue. She could taste the tension in him and rubbed his shoulders a little sympathetically.

She supposed such flattering sexual desire of her was deserving of forgiveness, regardless of what salacious little details he'd peppered the office with today.

Though she was more inclined to forgive knowing that tomorrow, the words she'd let slip to Ziva would be the scuttlebutt of the century.

Then it wouldn't matter that he'd said what he said.

There are times when vulgarity is just divine. Or so I think.