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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
Words:
686
Chapters:
1/1
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5
Kudos:
18
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4,674

1- Perfect Husbands

Summary:

Tony's thoughts on the Perect Wives Club... (Possible episode spoilers)

Work Text:

Perfect Husbands

 

I'm sitting here naked and alone on Gibbs' bed, one wrist shackled to the head post, a part of me wondering if I might not have lost my mind. The other part is convinced, and torn between jabbering about what Gibbs is going to do when he finds out what I've done to his bed...

And what he'll do when he finds me, naked at the day I was born, sitting in it. On it. Chained and helpless, waiting on my boss in his own bedroom.

My feet could dangle off the edge to barely touch the floor on this side if I let them. I won't. I much prefer sitting Indian style on the comforter, not quite facing the door. A naughty little boy in search of discipline. Of punishment to bring him back in line so that he can once more know his place in the grand scheme of things.

See Kate isn't the only profiler on the team. Not by a long shot. And as a patient I know myself very well. I wasn't worried about McGee taking my place with Gibbs as his 'right hand man'.

I'm terrified of it.

He's smart, he's well rounded and a good field agent. And he takes orders as easily as breathing. I don't. I wish I could. Obedient, loyal, eager to do whatever he's told for the good of the team, the mission and the world at large. The whole perfect fold to Gibbs' expectation of what an NCIS agent should be. So much better than I am or could be.

I mean he even reads Redbook and whatever else is out there just to be better able to understand women. And here I just want someone to be able to understand me. Not the clown, the goof or the chauvinistic asshole that I put on for people. Just me. Just Tony.

But it's what they see, what they expect to see so that's who I am. I blend in. I adapt. For them. Not for me.

Not that I think I identify with the whole 'prefect wife' crap, because I don't. That whole spiel was a bunch of hooey back when that piece of...well, crap, was published in 1955. I let McGee and the lovely Officer Whatshername believe that just to see how far I could take it. And to tweak the Probie, of course.

No - and Kate would just love to hear me admit this - I identify mostly with the kidnapper. The 1950's Perfect Husband Wannabe. We all want to be it. Not because we deserve it. Or even come close to living it.

But because we *don't*.

We're nowhere near close so we look for what we want to be in the people around us. In his case, a woman to mold into what he thought a wife should be so he could play the perfect husband. In mine, someone who knows me well enough to know I want to be there. Right there up front as a partner; the perfect fold and compliment to whatever needs doing. That, deep down, I'm someone they can count on, depend on. And yet to know me well enough to realize I need to be first in their mind, in their consideration. The first one they call on to be by their side. Even if it's only in the order that he calls out our names.

I need him to know this.

I need *Gibbs* to know this.

But I can't tell him. I don't know how. So I sit here, chained to his bed like those women were chained and shivering in the slight chill of the air of my boss' house, waiting for him to come home and take the decision from me.

So that maybe he can see me. The real me that I desperately need him to see.

The real me that I'm so desperately afraid he will.

 

end