AN: Written for lj comm 7 deadly sins challenge: envy.
He'll never admit it out loud, but every time Abby hugs McGee he feels a pang deep in the pit of his stomach. Every time they share a quiet smile over something that happened between them, every time she grazes her hand over the back of his neck or his arm or the small of his back, every time he makes her laugh in a way that Gibbs can never make her laugh, he feels the pin prick of jealousy deep down where he shouldn't feel anything at all. And every time he ignores it with a stoicism that he is only able to muster from years spent in the Corp, years spent watching things that churned his insides when his face had to stay like stone.
He feels it every time she wears something wholly work inappropriate, traipses up to his floor with little thought towards decency and the wandering eyes that follow her. She marches across the thin carpet in boots that echo her coming, lab coat trailing behind her in a mockery of modest composure, swirling like the train of a wedding dress, caressing her thighs as she comes to a stop and it flutters back down to hang proper. She stops in front of his desk, catches his eyes as every other pair in the room drinks her in, catalogues the curves of her waist and her breasts, saves for later the dirty thoughts of black leather trapped calves and white skin. Every pair except for his, that hold her eyes and keep them, unable and unallowed to look away and take what everyone else is so freely given.
He can't admit that he is jealous of every other man in the building, because it's ludicrous, childish, wrong, dirty and not even close to a fraction of the truth. He's not just jealous of every man in the building, he's jealous of every man she's ever been with, been near, every man that has shaken her hand, caressed her face, felt the press of her body to his. He is jealous of the world, but to admit that would be too dangerous, and so he sets his face, lets her touch him when she will, lets her touch others as she sees fit, as she so often sees fit, lets her float through life, through a crowd of lecherous gazes and wandering hands and want and need, and dirty dreams that she is most certainly the center of.
He can't admit that he's jealous, that he's envious of every smile she gives and every joke that makes her laugh and every phone call she makes to a number that isn't his. He can't admit that he wants her to himself so bad it burns and claws at his chest like an unwelcome animal that he has not felt in so many years, that maybe he has never felt like this, even when he was young and every passion was new and fueled by the fires of curiosity and ignorance, unaware of the ability to have too much. Now, he finds himself forgetting that there's such an idea as too much of a good thing, throwing logic and reason out the window whenever he catches the barest of hints of her perfume in the air. Now, he finds himself coveting, envying, sinning even as he sits at his desk and barks orders, commands his team, solves cases and goes on with life with those around him none the wiser.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs is a man of few words, and fewer yet when they're words so dirty, callous and petty as to embody jealousy. He is, though, a man of action, always a man of action, and he finds himself unable to lie to either of them as she sits on his kitchen table, sinful and aware of his every move, skirt riding high to tease him, just him, shirt and bra already missing. She swings her feet slowly to the music that plays on in the background, music that he can't hear over the rush and pounding of blood in his ears, doesn't care to hear as he slips a hand up and under her skirt and slides her panties down, down her thighs, over her calves, past her ankles and the soles of the boots that would take too much time to take off, too.
There is no gentleness in the thrust of his hips forward, sinking fast and hard into her welcoming heat, shoving up without patience and pulling back, shoving forward, catching the moan that sneaks past her mouth with his own as her eyes widen in surprise. He pulls her forward to meet the uncontrollable force of momentum, inertia, holds her close, owns her body with his as he can't when they're at work, basks in the knowledge that this, ithis/i is his, and only his. Possesses.
It's fast and almost brutal, but she comes with his name on her lips, a gasp of "Gibbs," to the ceiling, her whole body tightening and flexing and coaxing him over the edge with her, burying his face in her hair with his release.
His knees hit the floor and his face falls forward to rest against the soft flesh of her stomach, warm and flushed from the exertion, and her hands come up to card through his hair. If he opened his eyes and looked up right now he would be able to catch her at her finest, cheeks red, eyes closed gently, smile playing softly at her lips. He's trapped between her thighs and she's leaning back on the table, resting on her elbows, uncaring of the show that she's giving his kitchen. For once he doesn't care either, because it's just the two of them, and it will be for the rest of the night. He doesn't need to look up now, can rest, catch his breath, breathe easy, because until tomorrow, until she leaves ten minutes before he does to avoid suspicion and office politics, he can look at her all he wants, look at all of her, no need to worry about the eyes of others or when he'll next get the chance to have her to himself.
He can let grudges go, forgive those that trespass on his territory, leave invisible fingerprints across her body, burn their gazes into her flesh. When tomorrow comes the envy will return, and the jealousy will flare up, scalding and bitter at the back of his throat and in the pit of his stomach and every inch in between, but for now he is at peace.