SquidgeWorld Archive

The bullpen was quiet that late Sunday afternoon after the capture of the scumbag rapist and his accomplice. Only Tony DiNozzo sat at his desk, typing out his report on the case and cross-referencing his telephone traces. He looked up as the elevator dinged and watched Tim McGee, the newest member of the team enter, carrying a cup of coffee, remarkably similar to the brand Gibbs drank. Tony snorted at the blatant attempt to curry favor with the boss by pretending to like his coffee. Everyone knew that the stuff Gibbs drank was like high-grade motor oil, untainted by either dairy or sweetened additives. Despite a growing and grudging respect for McGee, Tony couldn’t resist ribbing him a bit.

“Stealing the boss’s coffee again, probie? Not good.” Tony teased the younger man, smiling his trademark grin and shaking his head warningly.

“No. He brought me a cup yesterday and I liked it so I went and got some. It’ll keep me awake while I finish off these reports.” McGee shrugged, settling himself at his desk.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Gibbs brought you coffee? Yeah, sure he did. Dream on, probie. And anyway, you can’t possible pretend you like that sludge he calls coffee?”

“It’s good. Strong. Dark. Just the way I like it.”

Tony snorted, putting down the report he’s been referring to when the agent came in. “Yeah, right,” he said, drawing out the words as one might do when humoring a child.

“I’m not buying it McGee. That would never happen.” Gibbs bringing McGee, or anyone for that matter, coffee. “Hah! You should try a more plausible lie next time you want to pull my leg.”

“I’m not—I mean—it’s true. Gibbs brought me coffee. I was in the tech lab, and Gibbs came in with his usual cup of coffee and then when he left he gave it to me and said it was for me.” McGee couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Tony was so disbelieving. C’mon, Gibbs had to have bought him a coffee in the three years they worked together before McGee joined the team. Sure he yelled a lot, something that Tim was just coming to terms with, and learning not to jump like a scared rabbit every time it happen, but still. Gibbs and Tony were a good team—hell, a great team. McGee looked up startled as Tony slammed back his chair and stalked over to stand directly over the young agent, his hands flat on the desk. McGee, looking at his face, realized that this wasn’t a joke anymore. Tony’s face was serious, his trademark grin gone, and replaced by a grim, tight-lipped expression.

“So, you telling me,” Tony said slowly and clearly, as if he was in the process of thinking this through as he spoke. “You’re telling me, that Jethro Gibbs, the second B is for bastard, walked into the computer lab, and gave you a cup of coffee that he specifically bought for you. Put it in your hand and said ‘this is for you’? Put it in the PROBIE’s hand?” McGee almost spilled said coffee when Tony shouted the nickname that Tim hated. He could only nod, grateful to hear the elevator ding, signally another team member returning.

Tony heard it too. He spun around and his eyes narrowed as his boss came down the steps from the hall, into the bullpen. Suddenly it was too much. For the last three years Tony had worked side by side with Jethro Gibbs, wanting to be like him, wanting his approval. For the last two years Tony had sought Gibbs’s approval and friendship. And for the last year, those wants had paled in comparison to the desire for Gibbs’s love. And after three years—three hard years—Tony hadn’t received one of those things. Gibbs just kept riding him, treating Tony like a kid, and then to start favoring the newbie. With coffee, no less, a sacred offering. Tony spun back to his desk and grabbed his backpack, shoving his laptop into it and zipping it shut roughly. As Gibbs rounded the corner of the cubicles, Tony stormed past him.

“I’m outta here.” He muttered at Gibbs as he passed.

“DiNozzo! Get your butt back here and finish those reports.”

Tony froze at the order and then turned back slowly. Very deliberately, he walked up to Gibbs and looking directly into those devastating blue eyes—the very ones he dreamt of at night—and said,

“No. I need to leave now. And I’m taking a personal day tomorrow.” Tony’s tone was quiet but firm. He turned towards the elevator. He almost made it, but the hurt was too much. He turned back and the question burst from him like a bullet from a gun, sounding loud and harsh in the quiet room. “And do you even know how I take MY coffee?” With that cryptic remark Tony was gone, eschewing the elevator for the more expeditious route of the stairs.

Gibbs looked down at the paper cup of coffee he held in his hands, perplexed by both Tony’s question and his behavior.

“McGee! What the hell just happened here?”

McGee was just standing there, his mouth partially open, the cause of the outburst still in his hand. He set the coffee down carefully and risked a glance at his boss. Gibbs was still standing in the middle of the bullpen, his own coffee forgotten as he looked at the empty hall at the slowly closing automatic door of the stairwell.

“McGee! I want an answer today!” McGee jumped but answered calmly enough.

“I think Tony was a bit upset that you bought me coffee yesterday, uh—boss.” Gibbs just gave the younger agent an are-you-crazy look and then his head snapped up as the elevator dinged again. Agent Kate Todd and the dapper and loquacious Donald Mallard, just returning from a quick dinner break, stepped out and quickly joined Gibbs and McGee.

“Does anyone know what’s up with Tony? He almost ran us down in the lobby—he looked a little upset.” Kate queried as she put her purse away in her drawer.

“Yes. The dear boy looked quite distraught. It reminds me of a time when I was--”

“Not now, Ducky.” Gibbs said warningly. “McGee was just about to tell us what happened.”

“Tony was ribbing me about stealing your coffee again and when I told him you gave me a cup yesterday, at first he didn’t believe me and then he got a little upset.”

The simultaneous sounds of ‘Oh Jethro, you didn’t’ and ‘Oh Gibbs, you didn’t?’ filled the air. Gibbs glanced at both Kate and Ducky trying to figure out what he’d done that was so heinous.

“What?” he asked, exasperated. He would have gesticulated with his hands except one still had the coffee cup in it.

Kate just shook her head at the question. It was so obvious. How was it possible that Gibbs didn’t see it?

“Gibbs, Tony is desperate for your approval. He’s starved for it. I know he comes off as a very confident person, but I think he’s insecure in many ways. Particularly here. When was the last time you took him out with you on a case? Last week? Last month is more like it. Yesterday, you left him running phone records while we executed that search warrant. I think Tony’s feeling out of the loop. Can’t you see that your bringing McGee coffee—no offense, McGee—was tantamount to you choosing him over Tony? At least, in Tony’s mind.” She amended hastily as Gibbs’s look of confusion turned to one of amused disbelief. He looked to Ducky for confirmation of the absurdity of Kate’s statement and was surprised to see not only agreement, but also, perhaps a bit of annoyance as well.

“Ducky?” Gibbs’s “uncertain” face—one very few people had ever seen—was back, his blue eyes under their expressive brows searching his oldest friend’s face for some hint of what was going through his mind.

“Jethro, can I speak with you privately, please?” The older man indicated the hall leading to the interrogation rooms and despite the situation, Kate could help picturing the unexpected role reversal as Gibbs faced the unusually stern Ducky.

“Yeah, okay. McGee, finish that report on Laura Rowans and then start the paperwork on Jeremy Davison. Kate, you handle Michelle Davison’s.” Leaving his team to work, Gibbs followed Ducky and they both disappeared down the hallway.

Kate watched them go, before turning to the newest member of their team, who was still standing at his desk, assimilating the news that Tony was less than secure about his position on the team.

“McGee. I’m warning you. Do not even think of using this information or I will make Tony seem like an amateur--”

McGee held up his hands in a placating manner. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Kate. I mean, I wish Tony would stop hassling me so much, but I really respect him and using this would be too low.” Kate nodded and they both turned to their respective tasks, each of them wondering what was being said in the room down the hall.

Ducky did not lead Gibbs into an interrogation room, as the younger man suspected he might. Instead, they ended up in the observation cubby, Ducky flipping on the lights as they entered. He turned towards the field agent, and Gibbs realized that Ducky was indeed annoyed with him.

“Jethro, I really cannot comprehend what you were thinking when you brought Tim a cup of your coffee. I can only conclude that your cognitive processes were somehow offline.”

“Ducky. I’m sorry, but I don’t see what the big deal is. DiNozzo and McGee are two very different people and that requires me to treat them differently. DiNozzo needs to be grounded. He’s too impulsive, too quick to act. I’m slow to compliment Tony because they go right to his head. He needs me hard on him. McGee, on the other hand, is less than confident right now. He tends to over-think and at the moment he really is too sensitive. I need to bolster his confidence, toughen him up. But if I’m too harsh, I’ll break him and we’ll lose what I think will be a damn fine field agent one day.”

“Jethro, I see all that. I’m not questioning your management skills. I agree with your assessments of our young friends. What I’m wondering is why haven’t you told Tony how you feel about him?” The hand holding the half-empty cup of coffee jerked and cooling coffee spilled onto the floor. Setting it down on a small table in a corner of the room, Gibbs played for time as he grabbed some Kleenex to wipe the coffee off the floor.

“Quit stalling, Jethro. Look at me and tell me why you haven’t told Tony you want him.”

“Dammit Ducky! You know I can’t do that.” Gibbs focused on sopping up the spill, his hand moving slower and slower across the floor, uncharacteristically putting off the moment when he’d have to meet his friend’s eyes—those knowing eyes. Finally, the tissue disintegrated in his hand and, taking a deep breath, Gibbs slowly stood and threw the sodden mess in the wastepaper basket. Squaring his shoulders he faced the coroner again. Dammit, he was a marine. He had faced much worse—seen much worse—done much worse—why couldn’t he look his oldest friend in the eyes?

Ducky’s stern demeanor softened at the look of hopelessness on the younger man’s face. Laying a comforting hand on Gibbs’ arm, he asked “Jethro, why can’t you tell Tony? It isn’t illegal, neither of you view it as a sin, and even the military has taken a more enlighten viewpoint about homosexuality. So what is stopping you from being happy?”

Gibbs closed his eyes and savored the momentary glimpse of he and Tony sometime in the future, together, happy, and loved. Then he opened his eyes and said flatly, “What’s stopping me? The fact that if he doesn’t return my feelings then I’ve lost him—I’ve lost everything. At least now, I’m near him. I can protect him. I can be with him, even if it’s just as his boss.”

“You’re being foolish, Jethro. Tony doesn’t want you ‘just as his boss,’ he wants your friendship at the very least, and your love at the very most. You could have it all if you would only try. I’ve watched Tony watching you. He is not indifferent to you. But like yourself, he is afraid of that first step. Afraid that he’ll lose what little he has of you if he’s wrong. You’re not an easy man to read, Jethro. Is it any wonder that Tony hasn’t a clue to your feelings? You cannot wait for him to make himself known; you must make that first move. And if it isn’t tonight, then I’m afraid you have already lost Tony.”

Gibbs’s head jerked up. “Ducky, I swear I had no intention of hurting him tonight. I guess I’d better go see him—talk to him.”

“What will you tell him?” What Ducky really meant was how much will you tell him, and both men knew it.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I do know I’m telling him what a great agent he is, and how much I rely on him here. After that, I’ll do what feels right.” Both men just looked at each other for a moment, not needing words to convey gratitude on Gibbs’ part and good-wishes on Ducky’s.

“You’ll see the team before you leave?”
“No, they know what to do. I’m heading to Tony’s. I just have to make one stop first.” The two men separated, Gibbs heading to the elevators and Ducky back to his morgue.

Thirty minutes later, Gibbs pulled up outside Tony’s apartment building. He sat there for another five minutes willing himself to get out of the car. Despite what he had told Ducky, he knew exactly how much he was going to tell the younger agent. Now he just had to get off his ass and face the rest of his life, come what may. Carefully he exited the car and made his way to Tony’s front door. His hands full, he thumped the door with his foot—one—two—three. He sensed rather than heard Tony approach the door. He knew he was checking through the peephole, and he willed Tony to open the door. When Tony didn’t, Gibbs thumped again and growled.

“Dammit, Tony. Open up!” Gibbs used his best ‘I’m pissed off here so you’d better do as I ask’ voice, hoping to make Tony mad enough to open the door. Just let him open it an inch, he urged. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Tony!”

Inside Tony just stood at door; he didn’t want to talk to Gibbs, he didn’t want to see Gibbs, and he such as hell didn’t want to hear Gibbs’ explanation for making McGee his fair-haired boy. Maybe he was here to fire him? Well, okay by him. Not working with Gibbs would be easier than watching him every day, bonding with McGee and raking Tony over the coals for next to nothing. Gibbs’ voice was getting louder and Tony knew that old Mrs. Caspar across the hall was getting an earful. Fine, he’d open the door and let Gibbs fire him and then he’d throw his ex-boss out on his ass—yes, the very one Tony wanted like he’d never wanted anything in his life.

Gibbs almost overbalanced as the door he was kicking was suddenly opened. He stumbled into the room almost dropping the two insulated cardboard cups he carried. Straightening up he looked at Tony, sorry beyond all measure that he’d put that stoic, you’ll-never-hurt-me-again look on his expressive face.

“Coffee.” Raising his left hand. “Mine.” Raising his right hand. “Cream and a disgusting amount of sugar. Yours. You want to close that door, DiNozzo, before everyone hears our business?” Gibbs set the cups down on the coffee table and heard the door shut and lock before he turned back to Tony who seemed not to notice the fact that Gibbs did indeed know how he took his coffee.

“Look, Gibbs. Just go ahead and do the Donald on me. Say it and I’ll be outta your hair and the office tomorrow.”

“Do the Donald?” Gibbs was momentarily distracted. ‘What the hell was a Donald?’

Tony looked at him for a moment and then remembered that Gibbs was the most clueless man on the planet when it came to pop culture. “Yeah, Donald Trump. The Apprentice. You’re fired. Why don’t you just say the words that’ll put me out of your life for good? Just say them. You. Are. Fired. And then you can leave me alone.”

Gibbs let the whole Donald Trump thing slide. Maybe Tony could explain it to him later, if there was a later, that is. Gibbs eyed the younger man, still standing stiffly by the front door, his posture indicative of a wariness that Gibbs wanted desperately to erase. He shook his head slightly. “I’m not here to fire you. I’m here to explain—to tell you why I—the coffee—McGee—fuck, Tony! You know you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with.” Gibbs explored, frustrated with the situation and his inability to put three words together to tell Tony how important he was to him.

Tony seemed just as frustrated. “How the fuck would I know that, Gibbs? Huh? It’s not like I hear you telling me that every day. Or ever, for that matter. Hell, I don’t even get a ‘good job, Tony’ or even a goddamn half-smile. So tell me, when, among all the head smacks, smart-ass putdowns, and reprimands, I was supposed to glean that you thought I was a good agent? I’m not fuckin’ psychic, Gibbs.”

Gibbs ran his hand through his closely-cropped silvered hair, turning away from Tony slightly as he paced the floor. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed heavily before meeting Tony’s angry eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for letting you think you weren’t appreciated at work. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what a fantastic agent you are—the best undercover, the best scene sketcher—the best creative thinker. Best wise-ass, too. I’ve assembled the perfect team and a large part of it is you. And I need you. I need you there by my side, covering my six. Keeping me from getting too wrapped up in each case. Keeping me laughing, even if I don’t always let you see that.”

Tony’s face had that surprised look that one usually associated with goldfish—his eyes were goggling at Gibbs and his mouth hung open slightly as though he was gasping for air. Gibbs just looked at him steadily as Tony blinked rapidly and closed his mouth, confusion reigning supreme.

“Then why all the putdowns and head-slaps?”

“Tony, I treated you like that because I thought it would make you a better agent. When you first started working at NCIS I fully expected you’d either quit or be dead within a year. You were so impulsive, so quick. Always acting first and thinking later. I rode you hard to mitigate those impulsive actions that were probably going to get you killed. Almost every case we worked, I found myself worrying about you. The insults and reprimands were just an outlet for my worry, relief, and frustration. The head-slaps . . .” Gibbs hesitated, knowing that this was the moment—the moment when he laid every on the line—the moment when he would either win or lose Tony forever.

“The head-slaps. Those were purely gratuitous. I needed to touch you. To see if that hair was as silky as it looked.”

Gibbs reached out a hesitant hand and stroked Tony’s hair lightly before letting his hand slide down to caress a cheek, relishing the faint rasp of Tony’s end-of the-day stubble against his calloused fingertips. He held his breath as Tony just stood there, frozen. Almost as if watching a slow motion replay, Gibbs watched as Tony closed his eyes against the touch and then opened them again to look directly into Gibbs’. Gibbs exhaled suddenly at that look, and then gulped in a lungful of desperately needed oxygen. Tony’s hand came up to cover his, but he still hadn’t acknowledged Gibbs’ declaration.

“Tony?” he whispered. “I need you to say something. Tell me I’m way off base, or way on base. Or thanks but no thanks. Or what--”

“What took you so long?” It was just a whisper.

It was time to be honest, really, really honest. “I was afraid. Afraid of admitting what I was. Afraid of losing my job. Afraid of losing you. Afraid of this.” Gibbs let his other hand cup Tony’s other cheek and then closed the scant distance between them to capture Tony’s lips in a gentle kiss. Tony’s lips were softer than Gibbs had expected, and he felt a thrill ran through him as Tony began to respond, angling those soft lips and parting them under the tentative sweep of Gibbs’ tongue. Long before he wanted to, Gibbs broke the kiss. They had to talk before things got out of hand.

Tony was sure he’d wake up any second now. This wasn’t the first time he’d dreamt of Gibbs arriving at his door and kissing him senseless within seconds of the door closing. He didn’t want to wake up—hell, he never wanted to wake up again if he could spend every moment in Gibbs’ arms—with Gibbs’ lips molded to his—feeling Gibbs’ arousal pressing against his thigh. He murmured a protest as dream-Gibbs reluctantly ended the kiss. Sometimes he dreamt they made it all the way to his bedroom before stopping for air. But wait a minute; his dreams never felt this good. This warm. This real. He wrenched open his eyelids only to find the real live, honest-to-God, living, breathing Jethro Gibbs just millimeters from his face. Yep, definitely breathing, quick, short breaths that signaled his real-life Gibbs was just as aroused as dream-Gibbs. He watched as Gibbs opened those incredibly talented lips and it actually took a second for Tony to process what Gibbs was saying.

“C’mere. Let get more comfortable.” Tony’s eyes flashed with longing at Gibbs’ words and he took the older man’s hand and started leading him down the hall towards his bedroom. Gibbs stopped him and steered him towards the sofa instead.

“No. We need to talk.” He felt Tony tense slightly and he pulled him close in a tight reassuring hug before settling them both on the oversized couch. Gibbs could feel himself relax slightly. The hardest part—that first move—was over. Now he just had to tell Tony how much he cared. And that was something that was a lot easier to do now that he knew Tony was at least receptive, if not outright interested in a relationship with him.

“You said you were afraid of admitting what you were. Were you so far in the closet you didn’t know you were inside?” Tony’s question broke through Gibbs’ thoughts and he turned to face the younger man.

Gibbs smiled ruefully. “Not quite that far inside, but despite a couple of temporary, I don’t know, flings? with other men, I never quite saw myself in a same-sex relationship. You know, the long-term, hi this is my partner fill-in-the-blank thing.” He took Tony’s hand and let their fingers twine together. “At least, not until I fell for you. And that scared the shit out of me. I’ve failed every relationship I’ve tried, and I didn’t want to fail with you. I couldn’t fail with you. And I thought that if you didn’t feel the same way--”

Tony didn’t let him finish. This time it was Tony that initiated the kiss. Tony who controlled the pace. Tony who pressed against Gibbs like he was the only piece of driftwood in a raging river. Tony’s tongue sweeping into Gibbs’ mouth. Tony’s hands in his hair. Tony’s mouth on his neck, licking a path to his ear. Tony’s hot breath ghosting over the tiny hairs on Gibbs’ neck, whispering and murmuring, the words of love and desire washing over them both.

The two men settled on the couch, neither wanting to hurry this; neither wanting to stop exploring each other long enough to move into the bedroom. Tony had lost all track of time; it could have been twenty minutes or twenty hours later, when their positions were reversed. He now lay underneath Gibbs, writhing as the older agent caressed his chest, both of their shirts long gone. When Gibbs lightly combed through Tony’s dark hair to find his hardened nipples with his fingernails Tony stiffened and moaned. Gibbs settled between his outstretched legs, pressing his pelvis against Tony’s, causing their equally hard erections to rub against each other. Tony’s long legs kicked out in an involuntary response. A muted sound reached their ears and Tony lifted his head to look over Gibbs’ shoulder. His foot had caught one of the insulated coffee cups and knocked it over.

“Oh shit! Gibbs, let me up. I just spilled the coffee.” Tony struggled to rise, but Gibbs held him down easily, letting his arousal press even more firmly into Tony’s.

“Not Gibbs. Not here. Jethro.” Gibbs looked deeply into Tony’s lust-drugged eyes. “And Tony? It’s a brown carpet. Forget about the coffee.”

And that’s when Tony knew. Knew for sure that this was everything he would ever want—everything he’d ever need and that Gibbs—no, Jethro—was going to be around for a long time to come.

“And besides,” Gibbs added with his trademark smirk, “it was yours.”

~Fin~

A/N: A shout out to Lila Blue’s “Snippet” at WWOMB NCIS slash archive for the suggestion that Gibbs swats Tony’s head whenever he needs to touch Tony.