Dead marine, Gibbs… Bruised knees, New job (or, How Tony Thinks He Got His Job) A NCIS Fanfiction By Ingenius Inc

Ingenius Inc

Dead Marine, Gibss…Bruised Knee, New Job 3

Tony gets his job at NCIS because a marine has the bad taste to be murdered in a dirty hotel that’s already in the middle of a double homicide investigation being run by Baltimore PD. Just one look at the tired and ragged officers -(“Detective DiNozzo,” he said, offering a hand that was curtly ignored. Tony smiled up at the man instead, and pointed at the body on the floor, “He’s one of yours, but we’re running an operation here. If you’re willing to share jurisdiction, I’m sure you’ll find we’re very flexible with arrangements,” he said and licked his lips for good measure. The NCIS agent glared at him for a moment, all hard lined mouth and cold assessing eyes, before saying, “You have an office where we could work out the details, Detective DiNozzo?”) -- is enough to convince Special Agent Gibbs to share jurisdiction with the locals on this one. Well, actually, Tony likes to think he got the job because he smiled at Gibbs, invited him (discreetly) to the men’s room, got on his knees and gave him the dirtiest blowjob ever– and did it all again a few hours later. Tony’s always had a thing for blue eyes and the guy had been awfully nice about not messing up weeks of work. There might have been a form and an interview somewhere, but for Tony it’s always going to be dead marine, Gibbs, men’s room, bruised knees, new job. Gibbs says “You can’t do this again if you come and work for me,” the day they wrap up the investigation. Tony licks his lips (he might as well be saying we’ll see) and says “Sure thing, boss.”

Tony sleeps with women because they’re beautiful and easy; all smooth skin, silky hair and soft bodies, mouths that smile and hips that push eagerly into his hands. He loves that he can make them laugh and blush, even if he doesn’t love them the way he should. And they don’t seem to expect it from him, most of the time, or love him back. Sometimes it hurts a little, though most of the time Tony doesn’t notice. Tony sleeps with men because they’re beautiful and easy and because sometimes he likes to be held down, bent over and fucked hard and fast so he can still feel it the next day sitting in the office reading through files, sated and sore in the best ways. But what Tony likes best, what he’s looking forward to even while he’s on his knees, someone’s fingers wrapped in his hair and forcing him to open up, to take more and more and more, is that Gibbs always seems to know, as if that famous gut is telling him exactly what Tony’s been up to (down to) in seedy out-of-the-way clubs and back alleys. Gibbs’ growls will be a little more malicious, the glares more intent and no matter what Tony does or says, Gibbs won’t be smacking the back of his head. It’s nice, like maybe Gibbs cares. And really, Tony should know better than to try to delude himself.

3

Then one day Gibbs walks into Abby’s lab in the middle of a conversation just as Abby says “Tony, you slut, there’s no way you can swallow around something that big,” and really, how do you come back from something like that, especially if smiling is only going to emphasise how your mouth is still a little bruised and your jaw aches? Gibbs barks at him to get the van and then drinks a lot of dark bitter coffee -- the stuff smells so strong Tony gets nauseous just making the runs to the coffee shop (wherever they are, there’s always a coffee shop around for Gibbs; The Universe’s Guide To Survival, Third Edition, chapter one, page four) and back-- and then there’s an hour spent looking for fingerprints on really obscure (but no doubt important) surfaces --like rocks-- in the mid-summer heat and Gibbs only calls it quits when Tony begins to worry about contaminating the crime scene with his own sweat. Back at the office the other agents all give Gibbs a wide berth, obviously having seen this mood before. Some of them pause long enough to give Tony sympathetic glances before disappearing into the relative safety of their own cubicles. Gibbs says “DiNozzo, go down to Abby and see what’s taking her so damn long.” Tony licks his lips (his bruised and stretched lips) and says “Sure thing boss.”

A year into his job at NCIS (dead marine, Gibbs, men’s room, bruised knees, new job) and Tony thinks he might be in trouble because he sort of, without meaning to, might have fallen in love with his boss, which probably has something to do with karma and all those women (and men) Tony’s left hanging through the years starting with Mandy in the fourth grade (or maybe he should go back to Peter Howard in the second grade-- they had a tree house and a pillow together, which, sadly, means they got a lot further than any of Tony’s relationships since). The situation has the potential to be a hell of a mess and Tony really likes his job with NCIS and doesn’t want to have to leave (again). It’s Gibbs, who’s about as touchyfeely as a slab of concrete and likely to do terrible things to Tony’s misguided heart and not because Tony’s a boy; it’s been proven that Gibbs is very happy to play with other boys, but because Gibbs has had three nasty divorces and also happens to be Tony’s boss--which complicates things a lot. Like a big lot. Finally, Tony decides that being in love with Gibbs is sort of like shooting yourself in the foot; it’s sudden, unexpected and really-- really-- embarrassingly stupid because you so should not have been playing with your damn gun without the safety on in the first place. So it’s probably for the best that Tony puts the whole thing out of his mind. And if sometimes he still thinks about getting on his knees (bending over, lying down, on his stomach, on his back) for Gibbs, Tony learns to ignore it.

Two years into dead marine, Gibbs, men’s room, bruised knees, new job, Gibbs says “It seemed like a good idea at the time” and Tony has to fight the sudden flood of bitterness that’s abruptly threatening to overwhelm him and his hastily swallowed breakfast. The ignoring thing? It’s not working out so well.

Tony meets Anna in the coffee line (which is ironic for only too many reasons); tall, brunette, blue eyes and a smile that has Tony grinning back and charming her into a dinner date. They end up making out on Anna’s Italian import designer couch and Tony’s got his hand down her shirt before he realises: this isn’t working. Luckily Abby sends a picture of her newest tattoo on his phone and Tony gets out of the expensive apartment as fast as he can, pleading a new case at work. He’s halfway back to his apartment when he changes his mind, ends up in a club and gets picked up by a guy who’s got five inches and maybe fifty pounds on him. He slaps Tony, twice, hard, calls him a slut and fucks him out in the alley behind the club, empty except for a couple of whores who don’t care (or notice), just a condom, lube and he’s pushing inside Tony, burning, stretching, hurting. Tony feels tears sting behind his lids but chews down on his lip, wraps a hand around his own cock and tries to get off. When they’re done the man says “You’re good” and opens his wallet and tries to pay Tony, who laughs (it sounds a little brittle), says “And here I thought I should be paying you.” It feels a lot like maybe he’s going to break.

All in all, it’s an appropriate way to mark two years of dead marine, Gibbs, men’s room, bruised knees, new job and if Tony looks miserable when he gets called into the office at three a.m., well then at least he isn’t drunk (which he really desperately wants to be). But there’s a dead little girl and even Kate isn’t going to take the time to make jibs at Tony. Which is good. Or maybe not.

They’re beautiful, all of them, and remind Tony of his cousins and of summers spent learning to waltz in a summer house (mansion) somewhere, soft frilly dresses and his own starch stiff shirt, when the air would have been heavy with the scent of flowers and dust, because the rooms hadn’t been aired properly for months--Tony imagines his cousins (Angela, Mary, Hanna, Sophie and Katherine) are all grown up now, married maybe, with children. Happy (maybe) (hopefully) (in fact, right after this case, Tony is going to find them and make sure that they’re happy)-- only these are corpses, dresses torn and muddied, bodies cut open with professional precision and laid out as a warning. Tony tries not to think about Katherine and the bruises on her forearms that she would try to hide; how she was shy and wouldn’t want to play with them. When they catch their man (Captain Anders), Tony doesn’t kill him, but it’s a very close thing and if the guy wasn’t so obviously a loony, he would have been able to press charges. Tony doesn’t throw up until he’s back at his apartment, but it’s a close thing.

Kate pops something orange into a glass of water and lets it fizz and dissolve before putting it down on Tony’s desk without a word. Tony knows he should probably make non-specific and indignant noises, but he’s too incredibly grateful and the stuff actually settles his stomach and eases the saw-to-the-skull headache he’s been nursing. “I didn’t notice Anders land a punch,” Gibbs says, all casual like he hadn’t noticed the swelling on Tony’s face while they were working the case. Tony lies easily, “He got lucky once or twice,” and tries not to reach up to touch his face where it must have bruised lightly by now. Later, when Gibbs snaps, “Can’t you sit down DiNozzo?” Tony gives him a filthy smile (the sort that leaves nothing to the imagination) and says “I like standing, boss,” because dealing with an angry Gibbs is easier than thinking about dead bodies and bright summer dresses. Morrow tells them to take two days and the weekend. Tony loses count of the number of times he lets someone fuck him or push him down to his knees, but by Monday morning he’s bruised and sore and hurting and maybe just brave enough to face the world again. He discreetly ignores the fact that Gibbs avoids looking at him when he can. Just like shooting yourself in the foot, Tony thinks, because falling in love with Gibbs is just about the stupidest thing he’s ever done (and Tony has a hell of a misspent youth to draw on for comparison).

Then, Tony goes and does something that’s really (almost as bad as being in love with Gibbs) stupid. He knows he’s the only one infected, even while Kate yells at him about making her sick when he can scarcely get enough air to speak. He knows it’s a lie because he’s on his back, barely able to move and Kate just looks like she’s finally gotten over her cold. And then Tony thinks that he really is dying because everyone’s gone and there’s Gibbs telling him he’s not going to die. Damn Gibbs, Tony thinks, always asking for the impossible, but he still can’t help the way he curls weak fingers desperately around the cell phone Gibbs puts into his hand, trying to find any residue of heat.

It’s hours after the funeral when the pain hits him, sharp and bright and almost too much to bear and it leaves Tony curled up on his bed, crying and remembering the warmth of blood on his face, her smile, and the way he’d loved her-- because he had. Just like that, Kate’s gone. Tony drives by Gibbs’s house before midnight and lets himself in, stepping on every creaking floorboard he knows of and holding out a bottle of impressively aged bourbon in front him like a shield. Gibbs doesn’t look away from his boat. “There’s a clean cup somewhere.” Tony snorts, “No, there isn’t. Just your coffee cup down here boss, and I seriously don’t want to think about how long it’s been since you washed it out.” It gets him a raised eyebrow, but Gibbs decides not to take offence on behalf of his coffee cup and they end up drinking bourbon from the bottle. Tony doesn’t remember the last time he got shit-faced so quickly or cried in front of anyone but he spends a good ten minutes sobbing oh god, she’s gone, she’s really gone, into Gibbs’s old faded USMC shirt, too blessedly drunk to be embarrassed or worry about the eventual embarrassment when it’s morning and he’s sober (hung-over) again. At some point Tony remembers pressing his face into Gibbs’s neck and maybe Gibbs kissing his temple a few times to calm him down. Tony says “Hey boss, you know I --” and Gibbs stops him by saying “Yeah, I know, I know,” with a hand resting against Tony’s back and then Tony wakes up on Gibbs’s couch, sober and embarrassed and more than happy to sneak out and pretend none of it ever happened. Only, it did, and Gibbs knows -- but things don’t change. Unless you count how Tony thinks about Gibbs’s voice whispering I know, yeah I know, in his ear over and over again while he’s jerking off now-- which Tony really doesn’t.

Tony begins to hate Gibbs the morning after the bastard quits and hands over all his responsibilities to Tony like a gift. He’s beginning to appreciate the need for strong coffee -- either that or something that’s capable of rotting his liver down to a shredded mess. It’s not even nine o’clock and Tony has already had to fight off the vultures with their minds on McGee, trying to seduce him away with coffee and Danish rolls because apparently having worked under Gibbs makes you hot property. Of course, Tony can’t remember anyone ever trying to take him away from Gibbs and offering him Danish rolls which leads to a few minutes of self-conscious-induced what if I’m not really good enough and nobody ever wanted me? anxiety and jitters which turn out to be from the coffee he hates and has apparently been pumping into himself all morning. He eventually figures out that no one offered him Danish rolls because no one was stupid enough to try and steal him away from Gibbs when the FBI men show up and start flirting and Tony can’t even protect McGee because he’s too busy trying to defend his own professional virtue. Ziva’s terribly pragmatic about the whole thing, which Tony should be able to appreciate -- only he can’t really. “Shouldn’t you be moving your things?” Ziva nods at Gibbs’s empty desk and Tony feels something twist itself into knots in his stomach. He tries very very hard not to be sick, and manages a smile instead. “I like the view from here better,” he says and leers and Ziva rolls her eyes but lets it go. Totally by accident, Tony spills hot coffee on the next agent who leans over McGee’s desk like a John about to proposition McGee with something filthy and perverse. Apparently news gets around fast, because no one else tries to hit on his team after that. By ten they’re working a case, Ziva driving the van and McGee on his cell giving instructions for securing the area. Funny thing is, it’s all over in a flash, the suspect tracked down and confessing by five and Tony really wishes it was harder than this to move on. He gets a call from Gibbs a few nights later and Gibbs sounds drunk, which is fine because Tony’s groggy with sleep and wearing Mr. Fantastic boxers (he has vindictive ex-girlfriends who know his birthday. He’s also bad at remembering to do laundry) and that puts them on a level playing field. “How are things Tony?” Gibbs asks, his tone suspiciously warm and affectionate. Tony wonders just how far down into the bottle Gibbs must be. “Things are fine. Good. Fornell calls everyday and offers me a job.” All the warmth drains out of Gibbs’s voice, “Don’t accept it, DiNozzo. He’s a bastard.” “Gee, that’s rich coming from you, boss.” Tony snaps deprecatingly . “I’m not your boss anymore, DiNozzo.” “Then fuck you, what are you doing calling me at two in the morning? Some of us don’t get to spend our days on the beach.” “You know where I am?” Gibbs asks after a few moments and Tony begins to feel a little insulted.

“Traced you down in less than a day,” Tony says smugly, “I haven’t told the director, but I suspect she has her own sources. Now, hang up, I need to sleep before I go into the office in the morning.” “As if you don’t usually spend half the night fucking anyway.” Tony’s mouth moves wordlessly for a few moments. “Fuck you Gibbs; it’s none of your damn business,” he snaps eventually. “It is when you come into the office looking like it” Gibbs insists dryly. Tony has to pause, his mind running circles around itself and pretty much coming up with Gibbs knows, oh God, Gibbs knows and PANIC. He takes a deep breath and says, “Didn’t know you were looking, boss. Didn’t know you cared.” “Not your boss anymore, DiNozzo. Stop calling me that.” “I’m sorry,” Tony bit out, “Is it Jethro now? Or Leroy? Or is that reserved for people you’ve actually fucked, because we never got that far and I don’t know the rules you have set up for that--” “DiNozzo,” Gibbs warns. “Well what do you want? You want to know how things are? Fine, they’re fine, just great. McGee is Super Geek and Abby is still weird, Ziva is under control and no one is willing to sit at your desk. Fornell doesn’t seem to have a problem actually, but some poor Probie had to use it for half a day and nearly pissed his pants. Your desk is still here, still yours, and we’re all waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass, stop sulking and come back, alright? Is that what you want to hear?” “Tony,” Gibbs says, sounding choked. “No, shut up,” Tony snaps, he’s on a roll here and damned if he’ll let Gibbs try and stop him. “Abby misses you and Ducky has no one to humour him. He’s sad; he’s missing his friend and comes up here just to stand in front of your desk. You abandoned McGee, who actually looked up to you for some reason, you bastard. Even Ziva misses you, which is twisted. She was showing Abby her new set of knives; they’re getting along just great, they all are. Only they miss you.” Gibbs sounds frighteningly sober when he says, “And you.” Tony laughs. He can’t help how it comes out sounding exhausted and bitter. “No Gibbs. I don’t miss you,” Tony says dryly. “I know, Tony,” Gibbs says, full of understanding. “I know.” “No, you don’t. You don’t know a damn thing. I was in love with you for years. And don’t tell me you know because that line’s getting old real fast.” “What do you want me to say then, Tony?” Tony sighs, kicks the covers off the bed, agitated, frustrated and desperate. “Say you’ll come home. Say you’re done with your vacation and you’re ready to come back, just, I promise not to bring any of it up, ever again, just--” Suddenly Gibbs says, “You have no idea, the number of times I’d wanted to push you down and fuck you.” Tony feels his stomach drop. Gibbs’s voice is all hot and raucous, no drunken slur there any more, and it’s totally unfair that Gibbs seems to have sobered up in ten

minutes. Tony’s beginning to suspect foul play, like maybe Gibbs was only pretending to be drunk so he could get away with saying shit on the phone where Tony can’t actually see him. Still, the words burn down Tony’s spine and curl white hot somewhere low in his belly and make him shiver. “You think you’re the only one who’s been wanting, Tony? Because you’re not,” Gibbs goes on, and Tony feels his mind blank. “I had to watch you flirt and brag and come into the office looking thoroughly fucked, by someone else, and not say a damn thing because I was your boss and the last thing I needed was for Morrow to send you off to another state.” “You never said anything. We could have kept it quiet,” Tony insists dryly. “Maybe,” Gibbs allows, but doesn’t sound convinced. “Hey, Gibbs,” Tony says, suddenly desperate to keep Gibbs on the line, “Did I ever tell you about learning to waltz with my cousins when I was a kid?” He can hear the smile in Gibbs’s voice when he says “Nope.” Tony smiles and thinks of the piece of paper sitting in his desk’s top drawer at work; a list of names and current numbers that he’s going to call as soon as he’s stopped feeling so raw from Gibbs fucking him over. He doesn’t want to think about why he couldn’t find a current number for Katherine, but he does want to share something with Gibbs, something precious, like a happy childhood memory, because Tony doesn’t have very many of those. “Every summer we’d go to the summer house my parents kept,” he says. “Sometimes my aunts and uncles would be there too. My cousins and I had to spend an hour every afternoon practicing. We’d use the music room and I was always sneezing and miserable the first few days because the room was dusty and played havoc on my allergies. The girls were all taller than me too; that made things a little awkward. Afterwards we’d all rush out and go play by the stream, chase frogs, roll in the dirt and grass until we were called in for dinner. We’d get good and dirty and our parents would tell us all off and send us to bed without dessert, but I tell you, it was the best feeling ever. The dessert didn’t even matter to us.” What he doesn’t tell Gibbs about is the piano lessons in the mornings and how his knuckles would always be sore and bruised from too-sharp taps from a heavy ruler or how his hands sometimes ache with the ghost of past hurts when it’s cold. “DiNozzo.” “Yeah?” “Go to sleep.” “Okay,” Tony says, and later he can’t remember hanging up.

The next day Tony gives himself the morning off, one of the perks of being the boss and all, and drives to the cemetery to stand by Kate’s grave for ten minutes, feeling a little like an idiot because he has no idea what to do.

He manages a dry “Hey Kate,” and then there are walls coming down, breaking, and tears and grief pouring out. It leaves Tony feeling empty and cleansed and red eyed (okay, so he had red eyes to begin with, but now he has an excuse) with a small smile. He arranges the flowers he’s brought (from her favourite florist), says a prayer that he can barely remember but knows Kate would have appreciated, and thinks that it’s been a good morning.

It goes on being a good morning and a good afternoon and a good evening. Until the next morning.

Gibbs is back sitting behind his desk, extra-large and extra-strong coffee next to him, flipping through reports. “Morning, boss,” Tony says casually, because he’s either gone insane from two months of stress or because Gibbs is actually back, and either situation calls for a little extra caution. He sets his smaller and hazelnut-smothered coffee down on his desk but doesn’t bother to lock up his gun just yet. He’s just not willing to face Gibbs unarmed, for all the good a gun will actually do him. “You’re a little early, DiNozzo.” Gibbs is right, of course. It’s barely past six a.m. and there’s no one else in the office and outside the sky is still more dark than light. He could lie, but the truth is beginning to look terribly appealing. So, reminding himself that he is armed and perfectly capable of defending himself, Tony says, “This asshole marine went AWOL on me, left me shorthanded with a hell of a lot of paperwork.” Tony can hear the amusement in Gibbs’s dry “Did he now?” “Yeah,” Tony tries for cool but the sound that comes out is choked. “Think I might be able to find your marine for you.” Gibbs puts the file he’s been reading down and Tony can see the faint traces of a tan and sunburn. Apparently spending all day at the beach does absolutely nothing for Gibbs’s complexion. Tony tries not to feel too good about that. Then Gibbs looks up and smiles, a real smile, not just a half twist of his mouth, and Tony feels his heart do a disconcerting little flutter in his chest. Oh, Tony thinks wretchedly, I am in *so* much shit.

The thing with having Gibbs back is that it’s not easy. Tony’s gotten a taste for command now, he’s used to making the decisions and calling the shots and having to defer to Gibbs again is harder than it was learning to take control. Of course the odd looks and awkward silences followed by awkward apologies (from Tony) are nothing compared to having Gibbs there with them, grumpy and mean, drinking coffee that’s probably toxic and Tony’s the happiest he’s been in weeks with Gibbs snapping at him and slapping his head. And then there are the fingers that linger a little too long when Tony passes the evidence bags to Gibbs, the slight invasion of personal space that leaves Tony hot and trembling and wanting. It’s confusing, Gibbs’s smiles and the fleeting, seemingly innocuous touches, like maybe he can’t get enough of touching and by the end of the week Tony’s not sure he can tell the difference between a slap and having his hair patted. Of course that leads to Tony thinking about having Gibbs’s fingers running through his hair and -- well that just leads to problems of its own. Suddenly they’re reaching for the same things and walking into each other all the time, standing too close in the elevator, sitting pressed hip to thigh in the van and there’s an extra edge in Gibbs’s voice when he says “Tony” or “DiNozzo” that makes the words feel like caresses, and it’s doing it’s best to drive Tony mad. Gibbs spends a suspicious amount of time up in MTAC or locked in meetings with the Director. He also takes extra trips down to the morgue and labs, which Tony suspects is Gibbs’s way of making it up to Ducky and Abby. “Good news DiNozzo, and bad news,” Gibbs says one afternoon and drops a suspicious-looking yellow envelope down onto Tony’s desk. “I’ll take the bad news first boss.” “You’ve been promoted. You get your own team and all the responsibility.” “Really,” Ziva whistles, “So what is the good news?” “He’s free from my apparent tyranny.” Tony’s stomach feels like it’s been filled with lead. “Boss,” he says, “I’d really rather not--” “DiNozzo,” Gibbs warns, and offers the envelope to Tony again. And then Tony remembers; being sleepy and angry and just desperate to have Gibbs back where he could see the damn man, to know he was there even if Tony couldn’t have him that he’d promised anything: say you’ll come home. Say you’re done with your vacation and you’re ready to come back, just, I promise not to bring any of it up, ever again. So this is part of the deal. The part where Tony doesn’t get the opportunity to say anything again because Gibbs will make sure he’s not there to have the chance. And yeah, Tony’s not stupid, he gets it. “Thanks boss,” he says and takes the envelope with a grin. “Well,” Ziva says, “I’m actually impressed.”

“Congratulations, Tony,” McGee says, and it’s all heartfelt sincerity that has Tony’s eyes misting. He ignores the stab of pain when Gibbs turns and runs up the stairs with a careless “You start tomorrow, DiNozzo,” over his shoulder and a wave. “I believe it is an American custom to celebrate promotions,” Ziva says slyly. “You owe us dinner.” Tony says something, he can’t remember what but that doesn’t matter because Ziva and McGee are both laughing and then there’s a blur of a dinner at an absurdly expensive restaurant Ziva chooses, Abby calls toast after toast and Ducky entertains with outrageous stories. Tony knows what this is. He’s too numb from the shock to really feel the hurt that should be there because for a few days he’d thought that Gibbs had wanted-But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Not any more.

In retrospect, being in love with Gibbs is much worse than shooting yourself in the foot. And Tony totally should have seen this coming. The sheer amount of stupidity he feels is overwhelming.

Tony takes over three little cubicles in the far corner of the office where it’s dark and too far way from everything (break room, bathroom, elevators, Gibbs). He doesn’t have to wonder why they’re the only desks available and there’s nothing to make you feel the drop from being the most senior agent on Gibbs’s team to the leader (no team yet though) of the most junior field team more acutely than sitting down after hauling all your junk over only to realise you’ve got the one corner of the office that isn’t in the direct path of the air-conditioning system. Of course, there’s always watching Gibbs, Ziva and McGee leave on a case, limbless heads just visible over the dividers, and be left behind doing backlog on cases from years ago because Tony’s not high enough up on the food chain to get the good cases (and he’s also without a team, but Tony tries not to think about that) to really drive the point home. Tony’s too old to sit down and feel sorry for himself like a teenager with a crush (because crushes, Tony can handle -- much better than the handles things like Gibbs) but he can’t help this really inconvenient ache in his chest every time he thinks about Gibbs. This feels too much like being left behind (which he sort of is being, but totally justifiable because he’s not on Gibbs’s team anymore, so it’s not like they’re really leaving him behind -- except for the bit where they are) and Tony’s never been very good at dealing with things like that. Suddenly a week’s gone by and Tony hasn’t seen Ducky (no bodies, not when you’re still backlogging) or Abby (no evidence that needs processing) or Ziva or McGee. It’s

no surprise that he hasn’t seen Gibbs. It’s not like they’re going to run into each other in the break room and talk about the weather while they wait for the coffee. Gibbs doesn’t drink the coffee in there anyway. He hears third hand from another agent that Gibbs and his team are working some high profile triple murder case. “Must be glad you’re off that team, eh, DiNozzo? I hear they haven’t slept in a week.” Tony says something like “Oh you have no idea buddy,” and gets out of there as quickly as he can. Back at his desk there are a pile of folders and a note from Director Shepard telling him to choose two other members for his team, and also, sorry about the delay. The file on top of the pile is a marine sergeant who busted his knee in Afghanistan. It’s a small injury but bad enough to get him thrown out (not literally, but Tony’s feeling bitter these days-- and technically, it’s a medical honourable discharge, so no, no kicking to the curb) of the Marines. Not bad enough to hinder him at NCIS though. The second file is a former FBI agent who specialises in a million things, has excellent references from two dozen people and really should not be applying for a job at NCIS. Tony doesn’t even bother to look over the other files. He’s already made his decisions.

The ex-FBI agent shows up the next morning wearing a black suit and a dark tie, all tight rigid lines and deep, haunted eyes. Special agent Tobias Wilson opens up quickly enough, rewires Tony’s computer to go freakishly fast, gets through a whole heap of backlog while keeping up a steady stream of conversation about sports and movies. By the end of the day Tony’s calling him ‘Willy’ and telling him all about his Hitchcock collection. (Former) Sergeant Reef shows up the day after. Tony blinks up at him for a few moments before grinning, “Oh boy, am I glad you’re on my side.” And really, Tony is glad, because Reef is six-foot-six with fists as big as bricks and a grin that’s deceptively bright and easy. “Yeah, most people prefer it that way,” Reef grins. And they’re all instantly best friends because Willy’s brought coffee (with sugar and creamer) and Reef’s brought doughnuts with pink sprinkles, so Tony stops angsting (so not like a teenage girl) and thinking about Gibbs long enough to enjoy the moment. Then the day really picks up and they get their first case. * Monday morning Tony catches the elevator with Gibbs. It’s awkward in a gnaw-off-my-own-foot-to-get-away sort of way so Tony mumbles out a “Good morning.”

“Doughnuts, DiNozzo?” Gibbs sounds amused and Tony’s just glad he hasn’t noticed the tick next to ‘Sprinkles, Pink’ when Gibbs says “Pink sprinkles?” Tony shrugs, “Reef likes them. Big guy you know. Can’t mess with him.” Gibbs sips his coffee. “So you’re more of a carrot than stick kind of boss.” “As opposed to the bastard kind?” Tony says derisively and jumps out of the elevator the moment the doors open. * Tony spends Saturday making phone calls and ticking off names from his list and somehow, between one phone call and the next (learning the names of babies he can hear giggling in the background, hearing about school plays and husbands he can barely remember having met and being chastised for one Drunk At Wedding incident), morning becomes afternoon then becomes evening and Tony finds himself at home alone, again, which is beginning to look like a disturbingly familiar pattern, waiting for his dinner and watching a basketball game. When the doorbell rings he isn’t really surprised to find Gibbs standing there instead of his pizza. “Special agent Gibbs,” Tony says dryly, “What can I do for you?” Gibbs glares at him. “You could invite me in.” Tony debates that, with just enough beer in him to think keeping Gibbs waiting outside his door is a good idea. “I could,” he agrees eventually. Gibbs glares up at him and Tony figures that Gibbs is probably being polite, seeing as how Gibbs still has a key to Tony’s apartment, unlike Tony who’d left Gibbs’s house keys down on Gibbs’s desk the day he’d emptied his own desk (the nice desk with air-conditioning and the elevators and the close proximity to Gibbs). “Okay,” Tony says, moving out of the doorway, “You should come in.” “You want a beer?” Tony asks, and needlessly adds “I’m watching a game” which Gibbs can no doubt see because Tony’s television is big and obnoxious and sort of fills in every bit of the apartment with either light or noise. Gibbs sits down easily and helps himself to one of the extra bottles Tony’s left on the coffee table, twists the cap off and drinks with a wince. Tony grins. Gibbs probably hates beer, which is fine because Tony hates coffee and he still has to drink it. Something happens on screen, but Tony isn’t paying attention any more. He’s too busy watching the lights reflecting off of Gibbs’s hair and face. The silence between them is actually sort of comfortable, which Tony doesn’t like. “You could, you know, say something maybe.” “No date tonight, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asks dryly. Tony grins. He knows Gibbs too well to fall for that. They know each other too well; know which buttons to press and what to say to make it really hurt. “No, not tonight. But then, you already knew that, or you wouldn’t have come over.” “I came to talk, Tony.” Gibbs sounds uncomfortable and looks it too, from the way he moves the beer bottle from hand to hand and shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. Tony can just imagine what Gibbs is here to talk about: I’m sorry I kicked you off the team, but it was for the best, yada yada, and Tony really doesn’t want to hear it, the reasonable logic behind Gibbs’s decision, the empty sympathy.

He smiles at Gibbs, the way he smiles at men in dark clubs and licks his lips because if Gibbs is here to screw him over (again), then Tony isn’t going to go down without a fight. “So, talk away, boss,” he says and smiles wider (lewder) when Gibbs’s eyes narrow. Oh yeah. So not going to go down without a fight. “I’m not sorry I took you off the team DiNozzo.” “Of course you’re not,” Tony concurs. Gibbs wouldn’t be sorry. Not like Tony’s upset or anything about it. Gibbs glares at him, but goes on. “It was time you had your own team. Besides, you deserved it.” “I like Reef, and Willy’s cool. You know his name is Tobias? One of his references was from Fornell too. That was creepy.” “Good.” “Is that all then? Cause I really want to get back to the game.” Gibbs sets his beer down and for a moment Tony thinks that he’s going to leave. But then Gibbs smiles and Tony feels that familiar ache in his chest followed by that terrible longing to reach out and touch. “Tony,” Gibbs says softy, and Tony can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine, “The game’s over.” And he’s right, the game is over, only Tony must have been paying too much attention to Gibbs to notice. “Oh,” he says, which is neither intelligent nor what he’d planned to say, and watches the screen blankly. “Tony,” Gibbs says again, and Tony really should stop drinking now because Gibbs’s voice is at least an octave lower than it should be and it’s doing terrible (wonderful) things to Tony. “I didn’t want to get rid of you Tony.” Tony swallows down the rest of his beer. It tastes bitter in his mouth, the way Gibbs’s apology will. “I remember my promise boss. I said I’d never mention it again if you came back, and you came back,” he smiles then, “You came back.” “Damnit Tony, why do you have to make everything so hard?” “Sorry boss,” Tony says, getting up and reaching for another beer. “Sit down DiNozzo, you’ve had enough of those,” Gibbs says and Tony feels every muscle in his body twitching with the need to follow that order. Stubbornly, Tony wraps his fingers around the neck of a bottle and picks it up. But then Tony’s on the sofa, on his back with Gibbs hovering over him with a sinister sort of glint in his eyes, and Tony still gripping the neck of a beer bottle out of sheer (but clearly unconscious) determination. Gibbs growls “Tony, I need you to be sober,” and Tony realises with a sick feeling in his gut that they’re actually going to try and talk about this. Only, they end up sitting on opposite sides of the soft leather sofa, not talking. Tony plays with his beer bottle, not thirsty but too stubborn to put it down, and Gibbs watches Tony like he’s waiting for him to slip.

Tony tries not to fidget, his mouth is dry and he’s beginning to sweat even though he’s only wearing a pair of worn jeans and an old faded concert t-shirt, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy for every person Gibbs has ever interrogated. “So,” Tony tries, and stops because his voice comes out dry and scratchy. “I didn’t get rid of you Tony.” Gibbs runs a hand through his hair and Tony watches from the corner of his eye. He can almost feel the frustration rolling off of Gibbs in waves. It paints an oddly attractive picture; Gibbs with his shirt less-than-perfectlypressed and his hair messy, he looks warm and attainable in a way he hasn’t in five years and Tony has to swallow down another wave of longing. “We still work on the same floor,” Tony agrees amicably. “Instead of in different states.” Tony isn’t sure what to say to that so he goes back to his beer bottle. “I couldn’t have you working under me anymore,” Gibbs says, and it hurts just that little bit when Tony thinks back to just a few weeks ago when Gibbs had just walked back into the office, a little sunburned, the way he’d smiled and touched and made Tony think that maybe-“Sorry boss,” he says, trying desperately not to sound as miserable as he feels. He could handle this; Gibbs’s logic and not-apology, accept them gracefully and from Monday on he would keep out of Gibbs’s way, never make Gibbs feel uncomfortable like that again. If he was lucky, they could still even work together from time to time. Tony could be generous like that. Maybe in ten years time, they can have something reminiscent of a friendship. And maybe, when Gibbs has settled down with another redhead (a nurse or a teacher maybe, who goes to church on Sundays and would make sure Gibbs didn’t fall asleep under that damn boat), he’ll invite Tony over for Thanksgiving and Tony will play board games with Gibbs’s children and somehow manage to grin when Gibbs says “stop messing around Tony, find someone, settle down.” “I’m not your boss anymore, Tony,” Gibbs says again, still watching Tony. Tony smiles, small and painful, and looks back down at his hands. “So you keep reminding me,” he wants to say Gibbs, he wants to say Jethro, he wants to say any of the dozen endearments his mind comes up with-- but doesn’t. The sofa shifts and when Gibbs says “And you still don’t get it.” Tony feels a hand brush over his cheek, “Pay attention Tony,” and then Gibbs is kissing him, licking his way into Tony’s mouth, soft and slow and nothing like Gibbs at all, and Tony makes a desperate sound that he’s probably going to be embarrassed about later and digs his fingers into Gibbs’s arms, trying to hold on. Gibbs is looking down at him, eyes blue and clear and bright, and all of that intensity focused on Tony in a way that makes him feel raw and exposed and wanted and--- and finally, finally, Tony gets it. “Oh,” Tony breaths, mind racing for a moment and then Gibbs is kissing him again; long, slow, messy and clumsy, Gibbs’s tongue tracing Tony’s lips, pushing inside his mouth and taking everything, Gibbs’s hands rubbing over Tony’s sides and making him shiver.

It’s the best kiss ever, and Tony doesn’t want to let go, not even when he’s dizzy and seeing black, because this is Gibbs, (Boss, Gibbs, Jethro-- Jethro, not boss anymore, thank fucking God) and Tony’s been in love with him for years, and he’s not willing to pull away even for the moment it would take to catch their breath. In the end, Jethro pulls away, tugging on Tony’s hair gently and kissing the corner of his mouth. Tony licks his lips and smiles. For a moment it looks as though Gibbs might try to say something, which is bad, because talking is not their forte, so they should just go back to the kissing, which is hot and good like nothing else Tony’s ever known.

Tony’s never expected to actually get Gibbs (Jethro, he can call him that now, what with the bodily fluids they’re about to exchange and all), but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t thought about it. In his fantasies (and there’s so many more than one) having sex with Gibbs is a whole bundle of sensation; hot kisses, hard cocks and coming hard enough to see grey and white and then pass out. In reality, Tony falls off the couch when the pizza he can’t even remember ordering arrives. It takes two attempts before Tony can stand up on shaky legs and find his wallet to pay the delivery boy while Gibbs sits back (no, he sprawls, resting back with his legs stretched out and spread all over the soft leather sofa Tony saved up for months to buy, and looking so hot it’s just damn ridiculous) watching Tony with a disconcerting gleam in his eyes and a smirk so predatory that Tony ends up stammering and tips the delivery boy eighty bucks because he can’t wait for the change without embarrassing himself (and traumatising the poor kid who’s actually apologising for the delivery taking so long, mumbling about traffic and a three car pile-up). And this, Tony thinks, dropping the pizza box unceremoniously and crawling in between Jethro’s open legs (where he can kiss Jethro’s mouth, his neck and move down until he can mouth Jethro’s cock through his damn sensible, ironed, khaki pants), is way better than any of his fantasies.

It’s only fair that Tony refuses to get out of bed until seven the next morning. His hip bone doesn’t feel quite right, there’s the tingle of what might be friction burns and he’s sore (in a good way, but still sore). Also, Gibbs is looking all smug and satisfied with himself, so Tony decides that a few hours of caffeine deprivation is just the way to get even, seeing as how Tony’s coffee machine has way more buttons than Gibbs is generally comfortable with (anything beyond On and Off makes Gibbs twitchy) and not set to start for another hour. Of course, Gibbs finds other ways to entertain himself and Tony gets to limp (pulled thigh muscle) to the kitchen once they’re done, concede defeat and start the coffee.

All that working on a boat with his hands has given Gibbs some pretty interesting calluses. Tony needs to remember that the next time he makes a bet with the man. “You know, it’s hard, working without you” Gibbs says a little later when they’re leaning against the kitchen counters with their second cup of coffee, so close their knees keep bumping and brushing against each other, and just like that, the light mood disappears. This isn’t the Gibbs that smiles and flirts and whispers filthy things into Tony’s ear, the one who held him down last night and tickled him just because he liked the sound of Tony’s laughter. This is Gibbs who needs to talk. And yeah, they should, because they have this thing, this hurtful, five year history where Gibbs has fucked Tony over a lot and Tony’s pretty much just fucked around. And thinking about it, it’s a miracle they can stand the sight of each other. “It wasn’t exactly easy leaving,” Tony says and sips his coffee. God, he hates the taste of industrial strength coffee. “I miss everyone” he admits, quietly. “I’m not sorry.” You should be, Tony thinks acrimoniously, dictating my life, changing it, moving me just because you weren’t willing to break regs to fuck me. He bites his tongue to keep quiet. “Morrow suspected,” Gibbs says, moving to refill his cup, “Mentioned moving you to another team a few times, but I convinced him there was nothing. Jenny on the other hand…” “The venerable director wasn’t so easily convinced I take it?” Tony asks dryly. “She had you all ready for a transfer to California, DiNozzo,” Gibbs snaps back, “Do you think?” Tony grins, “That’s as good as Pearl Harbor,” he says, “Good weather, beaches, bikinis,” and apparently that’s all it takes, because the next instant Gibbs has Tony pressed up against the counter, hands trapped at his sides and a thigh making its way between his legs. “You’re not going anywhere Tony,” Gibbs whispers against Tony’s ear, part quiet assurance, part promise and Tony remembers Gibbs growling at a half empty tube of lube before throwing it over his shoulder into the dark hallway and opening a new packet, keeping Tony down with a hand against his throat and biting into Tony’s shoulder possessively. When Gibbs kisses him, he tastes like coffee, but Tony doesn’t mind.

Monday morning Tony still hates the taste of Gibbs’s coffee, but suspects he’s going to be building a tolerance towards it because he’s carrying an extra-large take away cup of it with him when he walks into the office. Reef has the doughnuts already set out and Willy’s fiddling with the computer cables again. And there’s something else--

“Is that the air-conditioner?” Tony asks incredulously, surprised to feel cool air against his face. Reef grins, “I had a talk with a few people. Apparently, you guys had some sort of major breakdown a few years back, but they did something and something else and then something else happened, and for some reason they didn’t bother to fix this part. Now they have,” he explains in that offhanded and sensible tone Tony is learning to be wary of. “Huh,” Tony smiles. “Any leads on Major Owens?” Gibbs drops by Tony’s little corner at lunch to say nice work on the Owens case with three cups of coffee (and sugar and creamer). He takes Tony’s hand when he sets the carrier down, runs an affectionate thumb over Tony’s knuckles and lets go with a squeeze that’s full of promise. He pats Tony’s hair, runs a knuckle over Tony’s cheekbone and says “Later, DiNozzo,” when he leaves and Tony can’t help smiling, because they can have this now, without having to hide and lie and pretend, and maybe, it was worth the pain and the wait for this. “Well,” Reef says blithely, picking up one of the cups and sipping experimentally, “That explains why you came in this morning grinning and looking so impressed with yourself,” and holds his hand out to a quietly grumbling Willey who’s pulling a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet.