Night Errant

by the stylus

Disclaimer: All characters are the properties of their creators. The author makes no profit from this work.

A/N: More smangst. I blame the weather. Sort of a thematic bookend to Joint Effort, because they're both most at home in the dark.

I am, as thou seest, a knight seeking for what I cannot find; long have I sought without success. (Chrétien de Troyes, Yvain)

He realized he was beyond tired the moment he stumbled over his front step. The slight tremor of his hand on the knob confirmed the insight and made him glad that he did not lock his doors. Having to fit a key into a lock might have been the last straw. Despite the fatigue that had crept up, silent as a cat, he knew he wouldn't sleep. His mind was roiling.

So he headed for the basement and the boat. For the comfortable smells of sawdust and cold oil and the balm of unthinking movement. He hefted the sander, not trusting himself with anything more complex, and placed it against a rib. The white noise drowned out his own recriminatory monologue, and he could feel the tension in his shoulders easing as the gentle motion warmed the muscles. For a few blissful moments there was nothing but the rasping sound and the rising cloud of dust.

Slowly, however, his thoughts drifted backward. Ziva's emotionless face as she shook her head: no pulse. McGee, awkwardly cradling the wailing baby to his chest, his hands strangely large and ungainly as he struggled to support the child. But it was DiNozzo who would haunt him. As much as Abby, DiNozzo needed to believe in his boss's infallibility, and tonight would chip away at that.

He'd been wrong. Dead wrong. And now a marine and his son were also dead.

The reproach became a refrain that coordinated with the motion of his arms. He sank into it, letting the bleakness break over him-- until the sharp sound of heels in the hallway shattered his reverie.

He didn't even let her reach the first stair before he spoke. "Jen, if you're here to yell at me about--"

"I'm not. I'll do that tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow."

"Later tomorrow."

He kept sanding as she descended, feeling her eyes on him the entire time but unwilling to meet them. She moved slowly around the basement, touching the boat at points with something akin to reverence. Tracing its form. Running her hand over the chipped, empty mug on the workbench and the abandoned tools.

"No bourbon."

"There's some in the usual spot." He gestured with his chin.

"But you're not drinking it."

"No."

"Don't trust yourself to stop?"

He didn't bother to respond. If she knew to ask, she knew the answer.

"Are you going to tell me it's not my fault?" He bit the words out.

"Would it help?" She came to a stop across from him and rested her hands on adjacent ribs, canting her body toward him.

He ground his teeth. Twelve hours ago they'd stood like this across the desk in her office while she argued against his gut and lost. And he'd been wrong. He pressed harder against the wood, feeling the muscles in his arm flex and play.

"Tell me about it."

"DiNozzo's report'll be on your desk."

"And I'll read it. Tell me about it."

"No." He exchanged the sander for a finer-grained paper and returned to his study of the wood. Keeping his hands moving seemed to be the key to keeping any distance from the night's events.

"Jethro." She drug his name out. "Tell me about it."

If she'd touched him-- even stood near him-- it would have been too much. But she didn't move, hardly even seemed to breathe. Just repeated the command and let the low steady lull of her voice across the span of the hull undo him.

He dropped his hands, the sandpaper fluttering out of reach, and stared at the far wall, seeing again the scene as they'd found it. "They were already dead by the time we arrived. But they hadn't been for long-- the bodies were still warm. You could smell the blood as soon as we came in the door-- it has that heavy, sweet smell. I knew.

"Robbie was in the living room. That was the kid's name, Robbie. He'd been shot twice-- once in the back. He turned away when he saw the gun, and his own father shot him in the back.

"Garcia was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Slouched, and with a bullet hole in his temple, but still upright.

"And then the baby started to cry. I sent McGee to get her while we cleared the rest of the house. Christ, you should have seen it. He came back out holding her like she was a bomb." It could have been a light memory amid the darkness, if hadn't been so aware of the blood that stained the infant's clothes. He was sure the blood would match the murder and the fingerprints the suicide: after killing his son, he'd checked on the baby before he offed himself in the kitchen. On the tile. For easy clean-up.

"I missed it. All the evidence in the world staring me in the face, telling me Garcia had been skimming off the top of contracts for years, that he killed his wife when she found out, and I couldn't see it."

"You didn't want to think it was possible that he could hurt someone he loved like that. You didn't want to believe."

"You believed it."

Her smile might have been a grimace. "I did."

Franks hadn't had a rule about second-guessing. Maybe he'd never needed one. "If we'd just gone straight there instead of wasting half the night trying to make the evidence fit Grant because my damn gut thought it should, that little boy might be alive."

"You can't know that."

"I can," he snapped. "Ducky will confirm it."

"Ducky will estimate a time of death. But he won't be able to tell you what would have happened had you arrived earlier. You know that. He might have shot you. Or McGee. Or maybe he wouldn't have been home and we'd have the kids in custody now and Garcia in the wind."

He snorted humorlessly. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

She shook her head. "That isn't what you want, anyway."

"Oh, really?" The rush of anger was a welcome distraction. "And what is it that I want, Director?"

She circled the boat to stand in front of him, regarding him with her head cocked to the side. "You want to know why. And I can't tell you that."

"If you're done psychoanalyzing me, I think I'll have a drink." He deliberately let his shoulder knock hers as he crossed the room, hard enough that she rocked back a step. He splashed bourbon into the mug she'd handled earlier and took a long swallow. "So why are you here, then?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you can't tell me what I want to know and you've heard the sordid story you came for, why are you still here?"

He suspected she was counting to ten in her head; as partners, he'd heard her do it under her breath when someone had really gotten under her skin. As he poured another slug of bourbon, he wondered how many languages she'd get through before she came down on his head like a ton of bricks.

Instead, her hand appeared from behind him and snatched the mug.

"What are you doing?"

"Drinking your bourbon."

"I can see that."

"Then why did you ask?" She hadn't given an inch as he turned, and they were now crowded together. He reached to take the mug from her, the back of his hand brushing across her breast. He froze, wondering if she'd slap him or just go straight for the knee to the groin.

She merely raised an eyebrow and retrieved the mug, tossing back another shot before refilling it and passing it to him. She was still standing in his personal space, the spicy note of her perfume competing with the acrid scent of the liquor for his senses. "I don't need a bartender. Or a babysitter. Go home, Jen. You've done your duty."

"You sure about that, Jethro? You weren't doing such a good job of drinking yourself stupid before I arrived."

He tipped the mug toward her in a salute before draining it. "Yeah, well, with your help I've made up time."

"It won't make it go away, you know."

"Sure isn't working with you."

"They're still going to be dead when you sober up."

"Dammit!" He whipped the mug at the cinder block wall side-armed, shattering it. "Don't you think I know that? I don't need you to stand here and wait to see if I'm going to crack. Go home, Director." He injected all the venom he could muster into her title.

If it was possible, she moved even closer. "No."

"No?"

"You heard me."

This time he leaned in, so close he could feel her breath on his face. Even with the heels she wore he was taller, and he used that to his advantage, crowding in on her until she took a step back. He moved in, putting his hands on either side of her and pinning her against the boat's frame. "Why did you come here?"

"You don't need to be alone."

"You don't get to decide what I need." She flinched a little at that and he leaned in, so close that he could hear the faint hitch in her breathing.

"I'm not sure you're in the best position--" His tongue outlining the tendons in her neck silenced her.

"I know what I need," he murmured against her pulse, feeling it pick up speed. She hissed but started to protest. He took a page out of her book and reached up to cover her mouth with his hand. What he knew was that she could make him lose the power to think entirely.

She murmured against his hand, but her hips moved with his as he crushed her against the boat with his body. When he felt her grip the back of his shirt, he slipped his hand from her mouth and worked it under the hem of her skirt, splaying his fingers across her thigh. His mouth traveled lower, tracing the neckline of her shirt.

He knew the moment she quit fighting her body, felt the rigid tension leave her and another sort take its place. She slipped a hand between them and cupped him, drawing a groan from him. Her head dropped to his shoulder and he felt her teeth through his shirt.

His hand inched higher, but the tight cut of the skirt restricted his movement. He settled for closing his mouth over a nipple, enjoying the way the wet stain spread across her silk shirt. She whispered something that might have been his name or no word at all, and he used his free hand to rend the fabric down the front, reveling in her surprise. She recovered quickly, returning the favor. As the buttons from his shirt trickled across the basement floor he searched for the clasp on her bra, confused for a moment until he realized it was in the front. He shoved the fabric away as soon it sprung free and moved his mouth back to her bare skin, feeling the heat rising from her skin and the satin surface of it under his lips.

Her hands were restless: first on his back, then his groin and his ass, spreading warmth wherever they went and leaving the rest of him chilled and expectant. By the time they got to his belt, he had her backed into a corner where one of the ribs jutted out from the arc of the hull and had lined her chest with a string of reddening marks. She made quick work of the belt and his zipper, and then her lithe fingers were moving below the waistband of his boxers and rasping against the skin of his belly. He surged and bucked as she teased, drawing out the moment of first contact until he rotated his hips and pressed himself into her palm. She closed her hand around him and he sucked a breath as the sensation rolled up his spine.

She rotated her wrist at a speed calculated to drive him crazy until all of his nerves were thrumming. It was going to be too much--and much too soon--if he didn't slow her down. He pulled back a little to run both hands up her thighs, dragging her skirt with him as his thumbs skimmed the soft flesh that was revealed. The flat of her tongue on his nipple and the realization that she'd shucked his pants and boxers down his legs encouraged him to do the same with the scrap of silk she wore.

His hand came back, but she batted it away impatiently and rolled her hips and raised a leg to drape over his. He slipped a hand under her thigh, feeling himself brush against her wet heat. She arched at the contact, which had the advantage of raising her breasts to his mouth. They surged back and forth, just missing the connection they sought.

Finally, desperately, he reached for her other leg. She struggled, but he gripped her thigh hard enough to bruise. She gave in, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pinned her back against the boat, his knees' dim protest drowned out by the feeling of being immersed in her. He buried himself deeply in her, holding them there until she levered against his hips and began to move.

He drove into her, his hands cupping her ass as she undulated. The scent of them filled the air and the sweat that stood out on their skin made the position more difficult than it might have been. Several times he had to readjust his hold, and she clung to him more fiercely to keep from slipping. When she whispered in his ear, he gave up any pretense at technique or leisure and picked up the pace.

"Harder," she repeated, even as her head cracked against the wood. He complied, feeling her come apart around him but too lost in the white heat that was washing through his body to focus on anything else. When he was spent, he collapsed against her, pinning her to the boat with his weight until she unwound her legs and slid down his body to stand, her chest heaving against his.

For a long moment they breathed together and then she drew away from him, shimmying her skirt down and slipping her shoes on. He turned, resting against the rib as he watched her move, slipping on the ruined blouse and buttoning her suit coat over it, tucking her bra in the pocket. He felt curiously blank, drained of all emotion as she dressed purposefully but without haste. He tugged his pants back up, absently fastening his belt.

When she was clothed, she crossed back to stand in front of him. Her eyes were huge and dark, and they moved restlessly over his face. She reached a hand up to cup his face and then gently brushed her lips across his cheek.

"Get some rest, Jethro. If I see you in the office before noon tomorrow, I'll shoot you myself."

He didn't move as she ascended the stairs, and he listened to the sound of her footsteps as they faded down the hall. As he reached up to scrub the place where her lips had been, he realized his hand was shaking—and he hadn't even kissed her on the mouth. But his mind was blessedly empty, and the ache that had clenched like a fist in his chest had faded. He kicked together the blankets that he kept in the basement and stretched out on the floor, wrapping himself against the creeping cold, certain he'd be able to sleep.

Fin