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Prompt 74—Dark
Post Hiatus Pt 2
I went to his house the first time after he got out of the hospital. He’d just quit, handing in the keys to the kingdom. I was worried but by the time everything was mopped up, he was gone. He was so furious that I figured he was out somewhere. I didn’t panic until two nights had passed and it was clear he’d gone.
A printed note had appeared on the kitchen table, or maybe I hadn’t been looking for it. He asked me to lock up the house, to continue to pay his bills. Maybe he wasn’t even asking me but anyone he thought would come visit. Ducky? Abby?
When he walked in like he hadn’t even been gone, I was shocked. He looked…good. He looked healthy, tanned, stubbly. A Gibbs nobody had seen in years and years, if ever. And I regretted it when he left.
But he was soon back again, this time to stay. And I started to go over to his house, lurking, waiting, hoping, and watching.
It may sound creepy to think about me watching him in his most unguarded moments. I never slipped into the basement to watch him work on the boat but I knew he had to hear me creeping up the stairs, waiting for the time when peace overtook him again, his hardness mellowing out, moonlight tracing his features.
We each played our game. I pretended that I wasn’t there watching out for him and he pretended he didn’t know I was a constant presence at his house. But he made concessions. A relatively new television and DVD player appeared in the bedroom. He started going to bed earlier, probably knowing I wouldn’t leave until he was breathing deeply. Sometimes muffins would appear on the kitchen counter, the fresh baked stuff and not the store bought, preservative-clogged crap. I imagined him in an apron, a streak of flour on a cheek. Which was kind of a kinky thought. He started stocking hazelnut creamer for me even though he was a black coffee guy.
I didn’t know what he remembered, not that there was anything to us. Yet. I was interested, I’d hoped he was interested, but other than some long soulful looks we’d never done anything more. Not that I didn’t want to. I even wanted to kiss him when he had the damn moustache.
But it was enough watching him sprawled out in bed, his face and body relaxed, his soul unguarded. I should have felt awful about breaching his privacy but he knew I was there and that was all the absolution I needed.
Then I came down with a cold, my breathing raspy in the darkness. It was eleven when he came upstairs, hit the head and then settled between the sheets. He’d either turn over onto one side or stretch out on his back. I knew his sleep patterns better than my own.
Sure enough, he settled on his back, blue eyes reflecting the moonlight for a moment before he closed them. Then he did something I never could have expected. “Come to bed, DiNozzo.”
“Boss?” My voice squeaked in surprise.
“You’re not feeling good,” he said, levering his body up and crossing the room to my position. “Come. To. Bed.”
“Boss, I didn’t know you felt that way abo—OW!” He’d whacked the back of my head.
“Makes two of us.” His tone was gruff but there was a gentleness to it as well. He stood in front of me, eyes meeting mine. “Not a line or a come on, Tony. Hell, don’t even know what this is all about. Time someone looked after you though.”
I looked down for a brief moment and then took his hand, letting him guide me to his bed, trusting him as I’d never trusted another.
Our bed now.
It was slow and gradual, not an overnight thing, but even now, five years later, as I watch him sleeping beside me, I know I’m the luckiest man alive.