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Sometimes, he thought, it was moments like this that he had really missed. The moments that stretched out between the flares of passion wrought in lust or anger, or in both. A companionable silence; a gentle humour resting patiently in the air.
A hiccup sounded behind him and to his right. Gibbs hid a smile and continued touching up the varnish on the boat.
Another hiccup, this time followed by a chuckle, then a sigh.
“‘m not drunk.”
The varnish-dipped brush traced a sure, unhesitant line. “Didn’t say you were, DiNozzo.”
There was silence for a minute or two, until it was broken by an especially voluble hiccup.
“Slightly drunk?... Tipsy.” The last word was said with a distinct degree of satisfaction, as if Tony had definitively categorised his level of inebriation. Gibbs dropped the brush in a paint-splattered tin can and walked over to where Tony was slumped, in a rather diagonal manner, across the tattered old armchair that rested in Gibbs’ basement; its purgatory between house and dump.
The occupant of the chair regarded him with wide eyes. “Gonna headslap me?”
“Should I?”
“Not a school night.”
Gibbs nodded. Tony hiccupped. Then pouted.
“Stop these?” he asked between the hitches in his breathing.
“Hold your breath.”
Obediently, Ton sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes shone with a mischievous humour though, and after a few seconds he shifted and laughed.
Gibbs raised an eyebrow.
“You were looking at me!” Tony accused.
His glare was so accusative in its drunken sincerity in fact that Gibbs almost apologised before managing to catch himself, and the glare was then broken by another involuntary sound. Apparently it was impossible to look intimidating whilst hiccupping.
“Didn’t work.”
“You barely tried.”
“Suggest something else.”
There was a moment of, blessedly hiccup-free, silence; Tony’s faintly hopeful wide eyes wandering over Gibbs’ face as if he had never seen the man in front of him before.
Then Gibbs pounced.
Tony barely stiffened in surprise before relaxing into the kiss. They drew back reluctantly, and waited. Did it count as romantic, Gibbs wondered vaguely, stopping your lover’s hiccups with a kiss?
Tony hiccupped; sighed. It was Gibbs’ turn to chuckle.
“I’m all out of suggestions.”
Crossing his arms, Tony slumped more deeply into the sagging chair. “Call yourself a Special Agent…”
Gibbs did, and as such, did not miss the slight slur adding a honeyed quality to DiNozzo’s deep voice. Whilst quite amused by the pouting figure before him, in full sulking adolescent pose, he considered it was probably worth refraining from pointing out that Tony’s level of inebriation perhaps should be classed somewhere higher than tipsy.
Instead, he found himself saying, “You brushed your teeth.”
There was a hint of concern that perhaps Tony had felt the need to try and hide that he had been drinking from Gibbs, but then the younger man replied: “Got ready for bed. Think so anyway… not sure where I left my pants. Didn’t go out in these you know.” He pulled at the brushed cotton of the sweats he was wearing.
Gibbs snorted. “Ya think?”
“I think.” Tony grinned loopily, an expression Gibbs could not help but think somewhat contradicted his statement.
Tony took one of his hands. “I’m sleepy.” He tugged.
“I could go up.”
“Mmm. But could you get up?” Tony raised an eyebrow salaciously.
“Tell me you weren’t trying to make that an innuendo,” muttered Gibbs, rather incredulously.
He was given a full, look-at-my-beautiful-white-teeth, grin, the kind DiNozzo normally fixed on Ziva across the no man’s land between their desks. “In your en-” Then he seemed suddenly more energised, sitting up straight, “They’re gone!”
Gibbs relayed the last few minutes back to himself. “Uh huh,” he concurred.
Tony stood triumphantly, the resultant sway almost imperceptible, and stretched. Then plastered himself against Gibbs.
“Celebratory sex?” He nipped at Gibbs’ earlobe. Relaxing into the sudden embrace, Gibbs slid a hand down Tony’s back, the curve of a muscular buttock hardly obscured by the soft material of the well-worn sweats. Tony shifted in response and their hips came together in a burst of sensation.
“Celebratory drunken sex,” Gibbs corrected.
“The best kind.” Tony smiled and led Gibbs upstairs.
In the languorous comedown, Gibbs was again struck by a peaceful realisation of contentment. He placed a kiss on Tony’s shoulder bone, in the dip created by Tony’s use of his own hands as a pillow. Tony smiled, then blinked slowly. “Sleepy again,” he murmured.
“Mm-hm.” Gibbs turned on to his back, and Tony followed the movement, his head coming to rest on Gibbs’ chest. There was a caress of hair, then a feather-light kiss fell near his heart. He tightened the grip of his arm around Tony’s torso in response, having come to recognise the now-familiar unspoken declaration for what it was. The shadow that had grasped his soul so long ago was forced into another slight retreat. Gibbs knew it would never leave him entirely, but even that knowledge, he had come to find contentment in. He focussed on his lover’s breathing as it evened out into repose, emphatically glad to have such moments back again, free of the malignant undercurrents of his desperate attempts to remarry. He smiled to himself.
The hiccup that rudely broke the tranquillity was so loud and unexpected that Gibbs’ body jerked along with Tony’s. Still, he could only smother a laugh as his lover groaned. In that moment, he could think of nothing better than having a hiccupping Tony DiNozzo in his bed.