A/N: I can't really explain. I was listening to this song in the car today, and then I got the Fleetwood Mac line in the shower, and I just...this is nonsense, utter nonsense. It's as if I either write total cold stone angst or utter ramma-lamma-ding-dong nonsense and this is the latter.

I would ask for forgiveness, but I had too much fun, and I never was a fan of the Confessional.*

Jenny Shepard did not even flinch when the door of her office flew open forcefully and hit the back wall with a bang, ricocheting off with a troublesome creaking noise. She was used to violence such as this, and Cynthia's flustered sputtering over the intercom confirmed her assumption that it was Agent Gibbs who had just stampeded so callously into her office sanctuary.

"It's fine, Cynthia," she soothed blithely, shutting off the intercom without bothering to look up.

She did, however, flinch slightly and look up in surprise when the door slam-banged shut; usually Gibbs didn't bother to so kindly give them some privacy before he started verbally assaulting her skills as a director, an agent, a female, or all of the above.

Jenny casually laid her ballpoint pen down and raised her eyebrows at Gibbs, waiting for him to start in on her. She actually was quite interested in whatever he was pissed about, considering she literally could not remember what she had done today that would have provoked him.

He swore and stalked over to her desk, looking positively incensed.

"If I have to hear that song one more damn time, we're re-enacting the liberation of Baghdad and they're playing Hussein's cronies."

The redhead pursed her lips, taken aback by his impassioned outburst.

Rare was the day when Gibbs just waltzed up to her office to whine about how annoying his team was.

"Shouldn't you be working on one of your numerous open cases?" she asked loftily, whipping her reading glasses off her face and holding them delicately.

"This is how DiNozzo works," muttered Gibbs, growling under his breath for a moment.

Jenny laughed a little, and leaned back.

"I'll humor you," she said lightly, and pursed her lips again, painting a sympathetic look on her face. "What are the mean popular kids forcing you to listen to?" she asked in a patronizing voice. "Nicki Minaj? Justin Bieber? One Direction?"

"Which Direction?"

"Never mind, Jethro."

Gibbs glared at her, and then grabbed a chair and dropped down into moodily, meeting her eyes across the desk with his annoyed blue ones.

"I put the three stooges on the domestic violence case while I worked embezzlement," he started stiffly. "Next thing I know, there's some crap blaring through the bullpen on repeat because DiNozzo and Ziva got into some philosophical debate over a singer getting back with her abuser."

"Ah, you must mean Chris Brown and Rihanna's new song," Jenny said wisely.

"Jen, Rhiannon is a song by Fleetwood Mac," Gibbs corrected her disdainfully.

"I said Rihann-AH, Jethro, she's a singer from Barbados," Jenny raised an eyebrow at him mockingly. "Are you aware that time has passed since the eighties?"

He chose to glare at her for a very long moment of silence, and she grinned.

"Why did you come harass me about it?" she asked. "Why not just tell those meddling kids to get off your lawn, you old man?"

"Cut it out, Jenny," he snapped at her mildly. He sat back and looked incensed some more, his forehead crinkling. He reached up and touched his temple, and she guessed the pounding music had been giving him a headache, which wouldn't have been helped by yelling or Gibbs' Olympic-level glaring.

A second wave of irritation seemed to hit him and he set his jaw, the lines in his face stiffening in annoyance again.

"Cake," he growled.

"Pardon?" Jenny asked politely.

"Cake," he snarled again. "It was just the word 'cake' over and over and over again," he complained. "Cake, cake, cake, cake—"

"I get it, Agent Gibbs."

"Who the hell writes a song about cake?" he scoffed, as if personally offended by modern music trends.

Jenny, still mildly amused that Leroy Jethro Gibbs had essentially just been singing the latest R&B hit by Rihanna in her office, nearly lost her composure laughing when the last words came out of his mouth. She bit down on her lip and arched an eyebrow, looking at him intently.

"Really?" she asked skeptically, emphasizing the word.

"What?" he asked curtly.

"Jethro, that song isn't about cake."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's—"

"Jen, I think I would know."

"Obviously not," she shot back. "Did you even listen to the lyrics?"

"All I heard was cake, and the record skipping."

Jenny tactfully chose to ignore that Gibbs had just referred to an mp3 as a record, and also refrained from pointing out that the 'skipping' was no more than the strategic editing of a very vulgar song.

"It's a metaphor," Jenny said vaguely.

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously.

"Cake isn't a metaphor for anything," he said blankly. "It's dessert."

She blinked at him balefully.

"Trust me, Jethro, it's a metaphor."

He looked at her suspiciously for another moment, and then his expression went back to pissed and brooding, and he glared at her again.

"It's pretty clear, Jen, he wants to lick the icing off."

She couldn't help it; she burst into shocked laughter, quickly slapping her hand over her lips to stifle it.

"Jethro!" she shrieked, scandalized and amused, into her palm. She composed herself and reached over to swat at him, shushing him, a flush touching her cheeks. He gave her a wide-eyed, surprised look.

"I've heard the song," Jenny said, slightly breathless. "There is no literal cake."

"Then why is she so excited about it?" Gibbs scoffed seriously.

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. She puckered her lips thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing him wickedly.

"What's the metaphor?" he demanded. "C'mon, Jen, if you're so savvy."

She stuck her tongue between her teeth teasingly and wiggled it a little. He looked at her bluntly, waiting impatiently.

"Think about it a moment, Jethro," she sighed, shaking her head a little.

She leaned back in her chair and thumped a finger against the table intently.

He glared at her for a moment.

"She said it wasn't even her birthday," he remembered, out of the blue, and stating it very seriously as if it were relevant to his ultimate discovery of what cake really was.

"It's not always my birthday when you eat it," Jenny deadpanned.

He blinked.

"Jethro, get up and lock my door," she ordered, exasperated.

She had a good minute to get her nerve together—not that he hadn't seen what he was about to see before. She reached below her desk and slipped her hand up her skirt, hooking her index finger into the bikini string of her panties, while Gibbs looked at her uncertainly, with a slight hopeful glimmer in his eyes.

He got up and stalked to the door, locking it loudly, and when he turned and strolled back to her arrogantly and stood smugly in front of her desk, she sling-shot her black panties into his chest and propped her nude Steve Madden pump up on the edge of her desk, revealing a long leg clad in beige, lace-trimmed thigh-highs.

She slid her skirt up her thighs delicately, her French-manicured hand resting on the hem as she exposed him to a particularly intimate, unexpected view. He promptly dropped her lingerie onto the floor at his feet and stared at her, his mouth open in what could only be pure, concentrated astonishment.

She pointed with, her pinky finger, between her legs and pursed her lips, meeting his eyes brazenly.

"Cake," she said.

Gibbs stared at her in disbelief for a memorable fifteen seconds. He slowly let his eyes drift down, tilted his head a little, and swallowed hard.

"Oh."

Inspiration: 'Birthday Cake'; Rihanna and Chris Brown/'Rhiannon'; Fleetwood Mac/also, 'Starships'; Nicki Minaj (because I listened to that today.)

-Alexandra
*obviously, this is a crack!fic