East Coast Gazette

Post-ep for “Agent Afloat,” and Hoyden suggested I title this something to do with sloppy seconds, just for truth in advertising, but I just don’t think I could do that to myself.  I mean you guys.  Really.  Anyway, SUPER NC-17.

“Oh, hells to the no,” Abby says.

Gibbs looks up at her, frowning.  “What?”

She turns bright red, whirls around from where she’s spying on DiNozzo via the camera she glued to his computer the other day, and lies, “Uh!  Nothing!  Nothing at all!”  She grabs his arm and beams at him, all sweetness and obfuscation.  “You should stay downstairs!  For — for the next hour!”

“Yeah,” Gibbs decides, extracting himself.  “I’m going back up.”

“Gibbs!” Abby wails from her computer.  “Don’t do it, Gibbs!”

He’s completely prepared for Tony harassing McGee and Ziva into helping him build towers of office furniture, of tormenting one another until there’s an open Post-It note wargame afoot, of McGee and Ziva getting into one of those silent arguments that seems to distress Tony to the point where he falls silent and wretched in a corner.

Instead, he sees a slim young man with a razor-sharp haircut in jeans and what looks like five t-shirts layered over each other.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” Tony is saying, leaning against his desk and leaning forward a little, smiling his sweetest smile.

“Just for the weekend,” the kid says, stuttering a little, and Gibbs looks at the back of his sunburned neck and figures, yeah, he could snap that one-handed.

Tony twists around, bending over to jot something down and turns back with the sticky note on his finger, holding it up.  It’d look innocent from just about anybody else, Gibbs figures, but coming from DiNozzo while he’s looking the kid up and down, it’s mostly foreplay.

“Look — I’m working the late shift tonight, but call me around 9, 10?  We should get some beers, catch up,” Tony offers.

The kid takes the note, fingers lingering way too long, and Gibbs catches his smile in profile.

“Can do, Agent DiNozzo,” he agrees.

Tony laughs.  “I told you you should just call me Tony.”

“Actually, you’ll just call  him Agent DiNozzo,” Gibbs says, and Tony and the kid both look like somebody got ahold of their spines and *pulled*.

“Boss!” Tony yelps, turning furiously red, which pretty much answers the question of whether this could have been innocent after all.

“Yes, sir!” the kid jumps in, and looks two seconds away from herniating himself, pulling a sharp salute, and offering to do 20 suicides as punishment.

Gibbs throws himself into his desk chair.  “DiNozzo, is this meeting work related?”

“Sort of?” Tony says.  “Corporal Packer and I met while I was agent afloat, boss — he’s in town for the weekend.”

Gibbs snaps the pencil he didn’t know he was holding.

The sailor swallows, hard, and giving DiNozzo a backward glance, he says, “Uh — I gotta run but I’ll call you…” and wisely trails off before finishing that sentence, beating a hasty retreat before Gibbs figures out a way to have security escort him out of the offices and straight to Leavenworth.

Tony actually has the chutzpah to *glare* at Gibbs afterward.  “You have got to learn how to be nicer to people, boss.”

“I’ll do that when I meet people, DiNozzo,” Gibbs mutters.

DiNozzo shakes his head, going back to whatever he was working on, mumbling to himself, and the only thing Gibbs manages to catch is, “…he’s such a *bear* these days…” but decides it’s probably best for everybody involved if he doesn’t tell anybody why.

***

Abby, of course, is Gibbs’ first stop after Tony leaves the office, grinning like a moron, at 8:30.

“Gibbs, no, I could never betray a confidence like that!” Abby protests, crossing her arms over her chest.  She’s wearing something that looks like it’s made out of electrical tape and DiNozzo’s out fucking a sailor, probably while doing cocaine and cheating at pool.  Jesus Christ, Gibbs thinks.

“Abby,” he says again.

“*No*,” she says, and poking him in the chest, adds, “Gibbs — you know and I know that firstly, you’re not allowed to ask and I’m not supposed to tell, and *secondly*, what Tony does in his free time is none of your business!  Especially if you’re the one who made him all lonely and sad anyway!”

Gibbs resists the urge to tear at his hair, but it’s hard.  “How did *I* make Tony lonely and sad?” he scoffs.

Abby actually gives him a pitying look.

“Oh, Gibbs,” she sighs.  “I didn’t know men *came* in this color of emotionally retarded.”

“Abigail,” Gibbs growls.

“Nope!” Abby crows, triumphant.  “Not even if you use my full name.  If *you’re* not going to play with Tony, you’ll just have to learn to share.”

Gibbs isn’t even sure what that means, but it sounds gay.

He points at her.  “No CaffPow.  For a week.”

“That’s so unfair, Gibbs!” she shouts at his retreating back.  “I *warned* you and *everything*!”

***

It takes six hours, but (im)patient waiting by the phone combined with the eternal stupidity of newly-enlisted men digs up a case.

The director’s about to hand if over to a probie team, but Gibbs more or less snatches it from their hands and silences their complaints with a glare.

“I don’t even want to know,” the director tells him, and walks away as Gibbs is dialing DiNozzo’s number from memory.

“Nrgh,” Tony says by way of hello.

“Up and at ‘em, DiNozzo,” Gibbs says.  “We have a case.”

There’s murmuring in the background, the shifting of bodies in bedlinens, and Gibbs hears the plastic casing of his cell phone creak in protest as he tightens his fist around it.  “What is is?” he hears somebody ask — not Tony — “What do they want?”

“Gibbs,” Tony yawns, “it’s 4 a.m.”

“Sorry if crime’s not conforming to your schedule, DiNozzo,” Gibbs snaps at him.  “Now get your ass out here.”

Tony sighs, long suffering, and Gibbs thinks that ever since he got back from agent afloat, he’s been more insubordinate than ever.  He’s going to kill the director; he’d just managed to season his guys just right.  “Right, boss,” Tony says, and hangs up without another word.

He’s there in record time, which makes it all the more embarrassing that the (more or less bullshit) case has (more or less) resolved itself by then: the suicide note is proven to be a fake and so is the suicide.

But murder is clearly on Tony’s mind.

“That’s it?” DiNozzo says.

Gibbs can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the bite on Tony’s neck, the stubble burn on the side of his face and his mouth, bruised and swollen.  He’s in an Ohio State t-shirt and jeans and Gibbs would bet good money that he’s not wearing anything underneath — just sweat and somebody else’s teethmarks.

Tony looks — not to put too fine a point on it — fucked out.

“Yeah, DiNozzo,” he manages to scrape out of his throat.  “We investigate every suicide as a homicide until — ”

“That is *bullshit*,” Tony bursts out, and looks as surprised as Gibbs feels.

Tony, for all the ugly things his previous managers have had to say on his evaluations in all the different places he hopscotched through on his way to NCIS, hasn’t even talked back or yelled at Gibbs, though to be fair Gibbs has more than deserved it sometimes.

Gibbs pushes himself to his feet, glad the bullpen’s empty and dark.

“You wanna say that again, DiNozzo?” he invites.

Tony still looks kind of stunned with himself, but he says, “I — you know what?  Whatever, I’m going back to bed.”

The vivid, stereo sound pornographic image of Tony shedding his t-shirt and jeans and crawling back onto his mattress, letting some sailor pin him down and touch him and bruise him up and fuck his ass is enough to make Gibbs reach out and grab Tony’s wrist as he turns to go, to pull him back, hard.

“Gibbs!  What the fuck!”

“What are you doing, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asks, pitching his voice soft.  It’s a dirty, rotten thing to do, but he says, “You know that kid can’t be doing this.”

DiNozzo’s eyes go wide and then they go furious, which Gibbs realizes, with less distress than he should be feeling, is hot as fuck.

He pulls his hand out of Gibbs’ grasp and says, “That’s none of your business, and what do you care, anyway?”  He takes a breath, like he’s weighing his options, and says, “You didn’t want in on this, fine, no hard feelings.  But you don’t get to do this.  I’m no hollaback girl.”

Gibbs stares at him.  “What does that even mean?”

Tony rolls his eyes and throws up his arms.  “I’m leaving now,” he tells Gibbs.

“Oh, fuck that,” Gibbs decides.

Tony sucks at covering his own six, which Gibbs makes a mental note to force him to work on the next time they’re at the gym, but mostly, he’s thinking about how he’s got Tony by the collar and how he’s jerking him toward the only camera blind spot on the floor — McGee’s desk.

This is going to cause all kinds of awkwardness on Monday, Gibbs figures, but at the moment all he can do is shove Tony up against the low, cube wall and kiss him, force Tony’s mouth open and try to lick the taste of somebody else out of him.

Tony fights him, for a minute, and then he goes still for another before a switch is flicked and it’s all hands on board, and Tony seems to have grown an extra three or four of them since the last time Gibbs checked.

“Never do that again, Tony,” Gibbs tells him when he finally pulls away, breathes it against Tony’s neck as he’s shoving the man toward McGee’s desk.  “Don’t make me watch you leave with some punk like that.”

DiNozzo actually laughs, bites Gibbs’ chin.  He’s pulling Gibbs’ shirttails out of his pants when he says, “I offered; you declined.”

“I was being an idiot,” Gibbs says, feeling religious all of a sudden, and shoves Tony down on the desk, dragging his jeans down over his hips — no shorts.  “Jesus Christ.”

Tony actually tenses up, the muscles in his back tightening, and he frames Gibbs’ face with his hands and says, “Uh, boss — not that I’m not extremely excited about fucking you on Probie’s desk but — ”

Gibbs pretty much has two guesses where that sentence is going.  “He’s got hand lotion here,” he says, and when Tony’s face doesn’t brighten, the surge of jealous insanity boiling its way through his gut goes four notches higher into DEFCOM DEAD SAILOR.  “Fuck,” he says.

DiNozzo actually looks away, looks shamefaced, and reaches down for the waist of his jeans when Gibbs stops him, shoves him back toward the desk and turns him around.

“Like I said,” Gibbs whispers, into the back of Tony’s neck, close to the skin so he’ll wear it like a reminder.  “Never again.”

He closes his hand over Tony’s throat — not tight, just possessing, and Tony swallows hard, and Gibbs can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing underneath his palm.  “Got it, boss,” Tony whispers, and Gibbs can tell how much he means it from the way blood is rushing underneath his skin, how his heart’s racing.

Later, Gibbs has plans on spreading Tony out across his bed, admiring the way Tony’s skin looks, warm and smooth against the stark white of his sheets and blankets.  He thinks he might spend a whole day mapping Tony’s wrists and ankles, the long lines of his body, and press a kiss to the inside of his knee, put his face in Tony’s sternum and listen to his lungs — healthy, working — breath in and out.

Later, he’ll put his handprints all over DiNozzo, until there’s nothing left for anybody else (there never should have been, anyway) and then just to be safe he’ll do it again, scour off the memory of anybody else who’s ever learned this geography.

Until then, though, Tony’s slick and fucked out between his legs, and the hand Gibbs has at his throat tightens involuntarily at that as Tony murmurs soothing things and apologies, slides his hands along Gibbs’ sides, encouraging and whispering, “Boss, come on, do it.”

Gibbs puts his face in Tony’s neck, to the place where it curves into his shoulder, and slides in, listening to Tony’s breath catch in his throat.  He puts his hand on DiNozzo’s belly, steadying him, and bends them over, and he hears Tony grabbing for the edge of the desk, bracing himself, before he shoves all the way in, until his balls are tight and hot against the cool skin of DiNozzo’s ass and Gibbs’ head’s about to fucking explode.

“Oh, God,” he pants, hot and wet into Tony’s shoulder.  “Fuck.”

Tony rolls his hips, purring.  “Oh, you were *such* a moron,” he says.

Gibbs figures he deserves that, so he just bites Tony’s shoulder in reproach before he starts pushing, groaning his devotion into the skin of DiNozzo’s back.

He can’t decide what’s making this so incendiary, what’s making this creep under his skin like a wildfire, but it’s making him a little wild, reckless, greedy and inconsiderate.  He can tell already Tony’s going to have bruises from where Gibbs is slamming his hips into the hard edge of McGee’s desk, and he’s gone from hungry to brutal, skin slapping against wet skin.  Gibbs can’t stop running his mouth and teeth along the skin of Tony’s spine, worshipful, earnest, trying to leave things to remind Tony after all of this is over — everybody can look (and they would anyway), but you’re mine, mine, you always have been.

Tony’s gone nonverbal, everything coming out of his throat just a long, keening, pleading noise, and Gibbs wants to give it to him, whatever he wants: time, attention, harder, more, whatever Tony wants.  Gibbs knows he’s not attentive, but he is lavish with his attentions, and Tony’s always had it, in one way or the other.

“Gibbs,” Tony croaks out, his voice shot.  “*Gibbs*,” he starts chanting, and Gibbs runs his hand down, down between Tony’s legs and starts fisting his dick, jerking hard and fast and with a twist.  He’s traded out depth for speed now, fucking DiNozzo in short, fast strokes, barely pulling out before he’s shoving back in, wanting more, and he can feel DiNozzo start to come, muscles fluttering around his cock when he leans in, closes his mouth over the bruise somebody else already left there — never, never again, Gibbs thinks — and bites, hard enough to draw blood.

“Oh, *fuck*,” is what Tony has to say about and comes hard enough to drag Gibbs over with him.  They knock over McGee’s computer and his desk lamp and the picture of his sister on his desk and Gibbs doesn’t even want to think about the spunk Tony just jerked out on the rug beneath them.

It takes a while — longer than recommended, actually — before Gibbs can bear to untangle them, to pull himself away from Tony and start to clean up.

DiNozzo looks dazed, starry.  He still looks fucked out (twice, Jesus Christ, Gibbs thinks) but now he looks happy, too, and Gibbs hadn’t known that the difference between Tony’s everyday handsomeness and his being beautiful was that extra measure.

He clears his throat, feeling stupid and shy, all of a sudden.  “You going to clean up?” he asks, and holds out McGee’s tissue box.

Tony bats his lashes innocently and slides up a little to sit on the edge of the desk, letting his legs fall open.  “I thought you could do it for me,” he says.

DiNozzo’s hole is red and puffy and — “*Jesus Christ*,” Gibbs says — there’s come dripping down the crease of his thigh and all in all, the tissues are abandoned and it’s another fifteen minutes before anybody manages to zip up their pants.

Gibbs drives DiNozzo back to his house, where he puts Tony to bed with deep, deep kisses, murmuring into his skin, running his hands through Tony’s hair.  He’s not fucking around, and Gibbs only plays for keeps, and he needs DiNozzo to know this.

“I got it, boss,” Tony says, eyes gleaming.  He still looks happy, and Gibbs wonders how long that’s going to last and thinks, Maybe, this time, it won’t go away period.

“Okay,” Gibbs agrees, and kisses him again, one last time.  “I have to go tie up some loose ends.”

Tony rolls his eyes and pulls the blankets up to his chin.  “Don’t scare him too bad, Gibbs,” he says.  “He’s a nice kid.”

Oh, hells to the no, is what Gibbs thinks, grabbing the shotgun he kept in the garage on the way out to his car.

THE END.

PS, I know, I know, Probie’s desk isn’t actually camera-blind, as according to SWAK, but COME ON.

PPS, Sorry, McGee.

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 8th, 2008 at 10:28 pm and is filed under ncis, snapshot. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.