SquidgeWorld Archive

It never ceases to amaze Tony. On these nights, when he's settled down for sleep on faded clean sheets, a soft blue comforter tucked around him, a hint of cold seeping in from the window--he can never fall asleep without looking, and wondering, and trying to figure out how he's gotten here.

Because this isn't his bed, with the wooden slats in the headboard and its old, decidedly *not* pillow-top mattress. This isn't his leaky window, and this is certainly not his comforter. Nor is this his bedroom, or his house.

He doesn't live here. He'll never live here, not unless about five dozen rules and attitudes change. Tony's not even sure if he belongs here, sometimes.

But he spends his nights here, more often than not, and he has a drawer in the old oak dresser, and he has space in the closet, and he has half of the bed.

Gibbs' bed.

Which, naturally, has Gibbs in it.

Tony doesn't really understand how he ended up here. Sure, the details are crystal clear, but somewhere between the last drink and the first kiss sanity went out the window and Tony doesn't know why neither of them ever got it back.

He keeps meaning to ask Gibbs, to see if maybe Gibbs knows why this happened and why Tony's tales of his girlfriends have become fiction and Gibbs' redhead has vanished as mysteriously as she arrived. Only he never quite remembers when they're eating takeout and watching a movie, or working on the boat, and by the time he *does* remember they're in bed and he's on his back under Gibbs being slowly driven insane by the man's hands and mouth--and the rest of him.

Okay, sometimes he's on top, or on his stomach, or--well, Gibbs is as inventive in bed as he is in interrogation and Tony's not without a few tricks of his own. But that's besides the point.

The *point* is that they're together, or whatever they'd call it if they ever talked about it. They don't, of course; they're men, and men Do Not Talk. Especially not a thrice-married ex-Marine and a ladies' man with an image to protect.

Truthfully, Tony thinks he'd get more respect from McGee and Ziva if he told them he was sleeping with Gibbs, but that's not the point either.

This doesn't make *sense*, and Tony wants things to make sense. He doesn't want to go to sleep next to Gibbs wondering why he's there, or if Gibbs will show him the door as silently as he opened it the first time. He doesn't want to spend his days at work thinking about sucking Gibbs off over lunch, like he did last Wednesday, or daydreaming about Gibbs jerking him off in the bathroom after an endless seminar on sexual harrassment; that was a one-time deal and not likely to happen again either.

Well, maybe he does like the fantasies. They sure as hell make a slow day at work go by faster, and when they're in the field or on a case he's got no time to think about anything other than the job.

But it still doesn't make sense. Tony doesn't quite understand why Gibbs has two kinds of coffee stocked in his kitchen now--the sludge he drinks and the hazelnut Tony likes. He doesn't know why his own apartment has mysteriously grown a second nightstand, for the nights Gibbs spends there. He doesn't know why Gibbs will spend what feels like hours mapping his body, lips and fingers and tongue seeking out all of Tony's sensitive spots.

Tony doesn't know how Gibbs knows to leave him alone after a bad case, until he's had a chance to shower and scald his skin and wash the grime of human cruelty away, any more than he knows when he learned that sometimes Gibbs just needs to be alone with his boat.

So every night they spend together--which is more often than not--he takes a while to just look at Gibbs, and wonder, and try and make sense of a completely impossible situation. And every night, the confusion and the worry grow, until he falls into a restless slumber. He doesn't know what to do, other than go on, but he doesn't know how to deal with it, and it's eating him up inside.

"Tony," Gibbs says, one cold winter night.

He jumps; he'd thought Gibbs was asleep. "Yeah?" he asks carefully.

Gibbs sighs and shifts onto his back. "C'mere." He holds out an arm, and Tony moves to settle in against him, his head on Gibbs' chest and Gibbs' arms around him.

Tony listens to Gibbs' heartbeat under his ear, feels the warm strength of his arms, and closes his eyes, breathing in the Ivory-and-sawdust scent of Gibbs. He tries to relax, but he can't. He's too wound up by his own thoughts, by what he wants and what he fears.

"Shh," Gibbs whispers, kissing Tony's head. "It's all right, Tony. It's all right."

"I don't understand," Tony whispers.

"I know." Gibbs' arms tighten, and it's a moment before he says anything. When he does, his voice is soft, almost gentle. "You don't have to understand, Tony. You just have to believe."

Tony swallows. "Do you?" he asks.

Gibbs tips Tony's chin up with a finger. "You're here, aren't you?" he says, and it's not an answer and it's everything Tony needs to hear.

He settles back in against Gibbs, closing his eyes. This still doesn't make sense. It won't make sense in the morning, or tomorrow, or the next day.

But he's here. And he will be tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

And maybe...maybe he can believe that.