A/N: Warning. This is total and complete nonsense. It's not in-character, because Gibbs is drunk off his ass. It's weird as fuck and it made my room mate laugh her face off. It is a ver Crack!fic. And it's meant to be set around the time Ducky's mother died, as he is in the process of getting rid of the prized Corgis.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs glared reluctantly at his old friend. Much as he liked Ducky, he did not particularly want to—

"It is only for one night, Jethro," Ducky persuaded apologetically. "Their new owner cannot pick them up until tomorrow afternoon and I am fumigating Mother's house tonight."

On the inside, Gibbs pitched a hysterical hissy fit at the prospect of having seven purebred, yippy Welsh Corgis prancing around his basement, but his outward expression showed no sign of the tantrum and he just nodded curtly.

"I heartily appreciate it, Jethro!" Ducky said, clapping him on the back with relief.

The Scottish Medical Examiner bustled off and Gibbs surrendered to a subtle grimace.

If he was going to have those damn dogs in the house, he was just going to have to get blind drunk to survive it.

The bottle of bourbon he had in the basement was a little bit less than half-empty, so he finished it off. He had an ironclad excuse for opening his other bottle and starting in on that one.

That excuse being that it had started to thunderstorm, and apparently the late Mrs. Mallard's Corgis were afraid of storms. They were skulking and crawling around his basement, hiding under things, knocking things over, whining, and trying to jump into his arms.

He didn't mean to get as drunk as he did, but really—could he be blamed?

One of the dogs began keening pitifully and Gibbs groaned, pressing his palm to his forehead. The alcohol was just making the sad dog noises more annoying. Turning around, Gibbs glared dejectedly around the basement, insistently pushing a Corgi away from him with his foot.

"Stop," he snapped at one of them, pointing aggressively.

He didn't know their names. He had just been calling all of them 'buddy' all night and ordering them to stop chewing on his tools or his stairs or whatever one of them was putting in its mouth.

Gibbs glared at the one he was yelling at and it wagged its stupid tale at him, its whole body wiggling in a stupid, comical way. Gibbs topped off his Mason jar with another pour of whiskey and set it down loudly, walking over to remove his hammer from the dog's mouth again.

"Bad dog," he growled menacingly, throwing the hammer onto his work bench.

The noise startled a different dog and it began barking alertly, its ears perking up.

Gibbs turned sharply and glared at that one, too.

"Stop!" he ordered, exasperated.

Then that one began wagging its tale and wiggling stupidly.

Gibbs gave it a baleful look and sat down on his bottom stair, cradling his Mason jar in his hands. Immediately, the dogs scampered over to him, wagging their tails happily and trying to escape from the storm.

Thunder crashed.

A few of them started barking.

One of them began darting around the basement in a panic. One of them scuttled under the stairs and whined. One of them jumped into his lap and started shaking, looking up at him with big, sad, love-me brown eyes.

Gibbs stared back at it, holding out his arm and trying not to spill his bourbon.

One of the Corgis snapped and growled and Gibbs looked up to discover that one of the other ones was attempting to mate with it. The one that had snapped was evidently not pleased with that turn of events.

"Hey," snapped Gibbs, snapping at the frisky one. "No. Bad. No means no," he told it, clapping his hands awkwardly around the one that was still trying to snuggle him.

The harassed Corgi bit the frisky one on the tail, and Gibbs figured it could take care of itself.

It thundered again and the one in his lap whimpered and licked his face.

"Argh," grumbled Gibbs, glaring at it.

He furrowed his brow. Why hadn't he asked if they had names? He was getting confused—he was sure they had names; he just hadn't given a damn when Ducky had rattled them off. He knew they were a bunch of prissy, dumb names like 'Duchess' or 'Archibald' or 'Snookums'.

Maneuvering around the scared Corgi in his lap, he took a long drink of bourbon and eyed all of the basement invaders critically. He narrowed his eyes at one that kept walking in circles and poking its nose against the ground.

Gibbs decided he should name them.

It thundered again and the dog under the stairs started whining piteously, obviously the one that was most afraid of the wild weather. Gibbs looked down at it and glared, shaking his head as it stared at him and whined.

"Shut up, McGee," he snapped at it. "It's thunder."

The Corgi covered its face with its paws and whined some more. Gibbs rolled his eyes and looked up, snapping forcefully at the one that was circling around and around like a socially inept little freak.

"Palmer," he growled. "Sit."

It stopped circling and sat, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Gibbs glared at it distastefully and eyed the other ones, thinking up names. He pointed at a perky looking on in the middle.

"You're Abby," he informed it. It perked its ears up and wriggled as it wagged its tail. Gibbs smirked at it, and nodded, pleased with himself.

One came sniffing up to him curiously and he reached down to touch its head, intent on picking a name for it. It growled and snapped at his hand, baring its teeth threateningly.

"Damn," he swore, snatching his hand back. He stared at the dog. "Diane," he hissed at it accusingly, scooting away. He gave it a sneaky look and knocked back the rest of his bourbon, setting the Mason jar aside.

Absently, he stroked the one in his lap, scratching its ears and back. It looked up at him happily and he grinned. He was about to start paying more attention to the friendly one in his lap when that frisky one acted up again.

"No," barked Gibbs, clapping his hands. "Bad," he admonished, glaring at the dog. "Tony," he growled at it, glaring. He pointed at the dog it had been going after. "Leave Kate alone," Gibbs said dangerously.

He shook his finger at Tony the Corgi seriously. Kate the Corgi growled and retreated towards McGee the Corgi, looking pretty pleased with herself. Tony the Corgi wagged his tail and then strutted off towards the nearest one, attempting to mate with that one.

This one barked scarily at Tony the Corgi and then knocked him over, staring down at him meanly.

Gibbs snorted.

"Leave Ziva alone, too," Gibbs ordered.

Tony the Corgi sulked around, whining.

The dog in Gibbs' lap butted its head into his chest, begging for attention. This one obviously liked him. It had a thing for him. He smirked.

"This one is Jenny," Gibbs decided, leaning down to bury his face in the Corgi's furry neck. "Jen," he said seriously, stroking its head nicely. A cold nose nudged Gibbs' leg and he glanced down to see Tony the Corgi eyeing Jen the Corgi lasciviously.

Gibbs swatted him on the nose.

"No," he snarled at it, moving away. He glared viciously at Tony. "I know you slept with her, you prick," he snapped, narrowing his eyes. He scooted away from Tony, and Diane the Corgi snarled at him again, baring her teeth at Jenny.

Gibbs stood up, the room spinning.

"Jesus, leave her alone, she's mine!" he yelled at the Corgis.

…how much bourbon had he drank…

He snuggled Jenny the Corgi, glaring at the neurotic, stupid dogs still milling around his basement. His head was going to hurt like hell in the morning. It thundered again and the dogs started howling.

Jen the Corgi looked up at Gibbs with an annoyed expression on his face and he groaned, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Damn dogs were annoying. He looked back down at Jen and blinked rapidly, trying to focus.

"What are you lookin' at, Madame Director?" he asked seriously.

The words echoed vaguely in his alcohol-corrupted mind. He was really drunk. Was he—was he really naming these purebred mongrels after his team? No—well, if he was…no, he wouldn't remember it.

Tony the Corgi barked loudly and chased Ziva—or was it Kate? —the Corgi over to the workbench, his tail wagging madly. Affording the dogs a nasty glare, Gibbs turned and stormed up the stairs, peering into the basement seriously before he quietly shut the door, leaving six of the Corgis alone to entertain each other while it stormed.

Gibbs walked—stumbled—over to his couch and stretched out, letting Jen the Corgi walk on his chest and curl up with her head near his shoulder. She whined and licked his face and he smirked, scratching her gently behind the ears.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He missed Jenny. He was drunk. He was about to fall asleep. And when he woke up, the dogs would go away and he could go back to being alone with his thoughts in the basement. But until then—

He turned on his side and curled up and snuggled the dog.

"Why is your hair so fluffy, Jen?" he mumbled incoherently, half-asleep, and clearly out of his mind. He winced when the damned dog licked his face again and then he opened his eyes and looked at her, blinking.

"You're pretty," he told the Corgi.

It occurred to him that he hadn't been this drunk in a really long time.

"I really do appreciate it, Jethro," Ducky said, a grateful, warm smile on his face.

Gibbs just glared at him, his head pounding.

"I do hope the thunderstorm didn't frighten them too much," Ducky went on, corralling another dog into its stupid little box and picking up the last empty little kennel. He looked at Gibbs curiously and tilted his head.

He took in Gibbs bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair and t-shirt, and wrinkled jeans and frowned.

"Oh, dear," he said with a frown. "They must have behaved horribly."

Gibbs just shook his head, even though it hurt like hell. Ducky gave him a sympathetic look. The Medical Examiner looked around, his brow furrowing.

"Now where," he began curiously, "is Contessa…" he trailed off, and then spotted the last dog curled up neatly on Jethro's couch. "Ah," he said, beginning to call it.

Gibbs turned around and looked at the dog curled up on his couch. It cocked its head at him curiously and thumped its tail. Gibbs turned back to Ducky, vaguely recalling that he had developed some sort of weird affinity for that particular dog. He didn't understand why Duck was calling it 'Contessa'. Gibbs could have sworn its name was Jen.

He jerked his thumb at the one on his couch.

"Mind if I keep that one, Duck?"

Ducky stared at Gibbs. Gibbs glared right back.

After a moment, Ducky shrugged and nodded, still in some shock.

"Well, I see no problem with that, Jethro, if you've become attached to her…"

-See? I warned you. I was tempted to have him name one of the Corgis 'Tobias', but I remembered I'd already written a fic involving a Corgi named Tobias. I wanted no redundancies.

-Alexandra