A/N: Crack!fic at its worst, and I have little else to say about it. Have a laugh, take it with a (large) pinch of salt, and know that the whole thing is to be blamed on my enablers, MatteaAva and madame alexandra, and is therefore dedicated to them with much love.

He did not know what he was looking at.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs' phone had beeped almost constantly that afternoon – a slow one, made for paperwork and other rather unappealing activities – and it showed how bored his partner was, up in her office, listening to SecNav butting heads with Homeland Security over God knew what. Jenny had texted him all kinds of things, on that app thing she had forced him to download, but most of them had been comprehensible.

'I want to get out of here' had made him smirk knowingly, giving his phone that lop-sided signature smile of his, and the texts that followed had made his afternoon just a little less boring as Jenny entertained him with comments about SecNav's need for a better cologne and how his counterpart needed to trim his nasal hair, but it was when she had started to send him pictures – no, emoticons, that's what she said they were called – that Gibbs started to struggle.

He got it when she snapped a picture of the lacy hem of her stockings behind the desk, and he understood what that little yellow winking face meant. He even knew how people called what they were doing, but he honestly had no idea what animals had to do with sexting.

"Is that a chicken?" He murmured to himself, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the screen, confused. It was a chicken, apparently and a little yellow cat right after the word 'my', but no matter how long he looked at it, he still did not understand why Jenny might want him to put 'his chicken into her cat'.

"McGee?" He called after a long moment, looking across the bullpen at his agent.

"Yeah, boss?"

"See if you can decode that message," he threw the phone at McGee and waited as the younger man unlocked it and read the text. And then he frowned, as McGee turned beet red in mere seconds.

"Boss, it's… it's from Director Shepard," he stammered, holding the phone as if it were about to explode, and Gibbs just gave him one of his infamous intimidating looks. "Right, you know who sent it… Ah, I'm not sure you want me to read it, I'm not-"

"What does it say, McGee? Puzzles are not my thing," Gibbs growled, glaring, and he watched McGee take a breath as he rose from his chair and crossed the bullpen to Gibbs' desk.

He looked like a man sentenced to the gallows, and it would have been amusing, had Gibbs been less frustrated by his own ignorance.

"Boss, it's a very private message, meant for your eyes only. I shouldn't be reading this, I'm sure Director Shepard wouldn't like to know I did," McGee started, leaning close to his chair, conscious of having piqued Tony's and Ziva's interest.

Gibbs' withering look was an answer in its own right, and McGee sighed, hanging his head in defeat. "The chicken, boss… it's a cock, right? A cock is another name for a chicken," he mumbled, placing the phone back on the desk in front of Gibbs. "And a cat… you know what a cat is called sometimes… So it's your cock into Director Shepard's-"

"Yeah, McGee, I got it," Gibbs intervened quickly, interrupting the young man's awkward explanation, and McGee took it as a sign he was free to flee back to his own desk, diving into his paperwork with renewed interest.

Sitting at his desk, Gibbs glowered, staring at his phone's screen sullenly for a long moment, before he pressed the reply button.

'If McGee needs therapy, you pay for it.'

THE END