A/N: I toyed with the idea of doing this on a whim after the discovery of this song, and I had a good response, so I filed it away to do 'eventually'. Here I am, pulling an all-nighter in order to "study for my Russian test" and what have I accomplished? I did two Statistics quizzes, filled out an internship application, and wrote a fanfic. I'm consistently productive in the right things at the wrong time.

This is obviously utter nonsense and logistically impossible, considering this song came out this year and Jenny's...well, dead. It's fanfiction. Just have fun.

Jenny Shepard had experienced a blissfully uneventful day at the Navy Yard. Operations had run smoothly, six cases had been satisfactorily closed, she'd secured some high-end new equipment for the ballistics lab, and certain pigheaded agents had remained mellow and unobtrusive.

Yes, it had been quite a suitable day, and she was exponentially pleased to be leaving the office before seven and going home to a hot bath, a good book, and possibly a glass of wine—or bourbon, she hadn't made up her mind yet.

She stepped on the elevator, pondering the choice between White Zinfandel and Jack Daniels, when Agent Gibbs strolled onto the elevator with her, miraculously strutting through the closing doors without brushing them and still managing to look unruffled as he did so.

Her mind was immediately made up: Jack Daniels it was. Whatever he wanted to harass her about right before she left was going to leave her needing something stronger than a prissy blush wine.

She raised one eyebrow delicately and said nothing, looking calmly at the closed metal doors in front of her. She waited patiently for him to execute his signature move—

Gibbs flicked the stop button and the elevator stuttered to a halt and threw them into dim emergency lighting. She smirked, mentally congratulating herself for predicting him so perfectly, and she had just about decided to humor him when he preempted her:

"My team won't stop whistling."

Jenny sighed loudly, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

"I spent all day in my office with so much free time, and you decide to seek my counsel right as I'm leaving for the day," she said mildly.

"Thought you'd leave later," he retorted. He went on without giving her a split second to tell him to save it for tomorrow: "Suspend my team."

"The entire team?" she asked, surprised.

"All of 'em."

"For—for whistling?" she clarified, looking at him skeptically.

"They. Won't. Stop," he growled, punctuating every word intensely.

She pursed her lips and looked at him intently, nodding a little.

"I had noticed that," she said, and then shrugged, turning to look back at the elevator doors. "They harmonize well," she remarked.

She felt him glaring at her and grinned.

"I can't suspend them for whistling," she said, shaking her head.

"Then cite it as being annoying," he bitched.

"Also not a valid reason for suspension," she retorted, looking over at him pointedly and arching her eyebrow critically. "Unfortunately."

"You callin' me annoying, Jen?" Gibbs asked, turning towards her indignantly and stepping closer.

"Plead the fifth," she answered coolly, and then turned to him, a little exasperated. "Head slap them around," she told him. "It works for you."

"They've been hypnotized," he protested neurotically. "The song they're whistling, it's got some sadistic hold over them," he went on seriously. "Jen, the head slaps aren't working."

On cue, she widened her eyes and gasped.

"The head slaps aren't working? Well I never—alert the media, the end of days is upon us!"

"Isn't funny, Director."

She cocked an eyebrow smugly.

"No?" she asked wryly. "You don't think I could be a comedian?"

"Don't quit your day job," he retorted dryly.

She rolled her eyes and stepped forward purposefully to restart the elevator; Gibbs grabbed her hand and blocked her way, stepping in front of her with an angle. He fixed a determined glare on her and did not let go of her hand. She glanced down at his hand and narrowed her eyes, snapping her eyes back up at him seriously.

"Do you have any idea why they're whistling?" she asked, patronizing him. "Have they run amok of an eccentric sorcerer who's cursed them?"

Gibbs dropped her hand with a snort.

"Don't go all McGee on me," he warned, arching an eyebrow. "It's some song Ziva likes," he growled darkly. "She can whistle it perfectly. She challenged the others."

Jenny tilted her head.

"Whistle?" she asked.

"I just said they were whistling," he answered, glaring at her like she was an idiot.

"Jethro, I know—" she broke off, and gave him a baleful look. "The song, is it called Whistle?"

Gibbs shrugged moodily.

"Dunno, sounds right," he brooded. "Some guy named Ken Tucky or Ida Ho raps it."

She stared at him, and then she burst out laughing.

"I think you mean Flo Rida," she corrected, biting her lip to keep from dissolving into another fit of laughter.

Gibbs scowled, his brow furrowing.

"Same thing—Flo Rida?" he interrupted himself, sounding outraged. "That's just Florida with a damn space in between!"

"And a serious syllabic stress adjustment," Jenny deadpanned.

"The damn music today—" Gibbs began. He stopped himself and grumbled under his breath, hiding the rest of what was probably a seriously cliché old man statement in a huff of angry breathing. He looked at the elevator doors menacingly, still, as if listening for more whistling, and then shifted in irritating, looking back at her.

"This guy names himself after a state and then gets famous on a song about gym class?"

Jenny let the statement sink in for a moment, unsure where she should start.

"Well," she began slowly. "Flo Rida actually became famous with a song called Low," she noticed Gibbs looking murderous and changed gears. "Which is irrelevant—but what do you mean, gym class? Gym Class Heroes?"

"Gym Class what?"

"Jethro, you went from talking about Whistle to gym class—"

"No, not me, him—Florida guy!" Gibbs protested roughly. "The song's all about blowing a whistle, like in sports—gym class!"

Jenny stared at him, simultaneously shocked and completely unsurprised that he could be so dense. She shook her head as if in a daze, blinked, and swallowed—and then cocked an eyebrow incredulously.

"What kind of perverted gym class did you have in high school?" she demanded.

He narrowed his eyes.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

"The song—it's not…it's not about a literal whistle, Jethro," she explained pointedly, looking at him in the eyes emphatically.

Where they really going to have to go over the innovative metaphors of today's popular music again? When not even a month had passed since she'd had to explain to him what Rihanna's Cake insinuated using visual aids?

He glared at her.

"Not everything's a damn metaphor," he growled sarcastically. "He says 'let me see you whistle while you work it'—"

"I don't understand how you're not getting this," Jenny broke in desperately, her putting a hand on her hip intently. "The lyrics are 'can you blow my whistle baby'," she said, raising her voice a little. Gibbs still glared at her. "'You just put your lips together and come real close'? Jethro?" she went on, almost shouting.

Nothing. He just looked at her blankly. She groaned and reached up to rub her forehead, swearing under her breath in French. She pushed her hair back and looked up matter-of-factly, meeting his eyes resolutely.

"Fellatio. Jethro, the song is about fellatio."

"It's a mistake?"

"That's fallacious—Jesus, Jethro, get a dictionary!" she burst out, slapping her hand against his shoulder. "Blow job!" she all but shouted, holding her hand by her head as if it were obvious.

His face completely changed.

"That an offer, Jen?"

"For the love of God."

She shoved him out of the way and turned the elevator back on, pressing the button for the garage furiously. She shook her head, trying to hold back a smirk, and gritting her teeth. She wished she had these encounters with him recorded for Ziva. Gibbs could be so unfathomably stupid sometimes.

"The song, Jethro," she said. "Whistle. The song is literally about a blow job."

Gibbs fell silent. Standing next to her, he stared at the control panel for the elevator, mulling over her explanation.

"Oh."

He didn't move a muscle, and just when she thought she'd successfully shut him up, he turned towards her. She eyed him suspiciously wary of the wicked glint in his blue eyes.

A sly smirk spread over his lips.

"I don't think I understand, Jen. Want to demonstrate?"

The elevator stalled to a stop and opened with a soft ping! in the parking garage. She looked at him for a full thirty seconds in complete silence, making sure he was convinced she was considering it, and then she inclined her head towards the open doors slightly.

"Get off my elevator," she ordered.

"Hey, elevator's my territory," he reminded her smugly.

Her fist collided with his bicep and she shook her head, fighting to hide the smirk on her own lips. She turned and stalked into the parking garage, determined not to turn around and give him the satisfaction of roping her into some sort of banter that was definitely going to land them in a compromising position. She was almost ready to congratulate herself on escaping when he whistled at her.

Whistled at her in a clear, sharp, arrogant catcall.

She stopped in her tracks. She slowly turned around, and then walked back towards him, her heels clicking on the pavement. He was holding the elevator door open, leaning against it with one hand over the hole the doors slid into. She met his eyes, then flicked her gaze down below his belt and back up to his face, raising her chin and puckering her lips seductively.

"You think I can give you the perfect pitch, Jethro?"

Inspiration: "Whistle"; Flo Rida, as well as Gym Class Heroes, I suppose, by association. Also the states of Kentucky and Idaho.

-Alexandra
Story#97

P.S. This is not beta'd. Because it's 5:30 in the morning.