a/n: i did a thing.
okay; someone once asked me if i'd ever do this, and i said a sort of wishy-washy "no". the truth is, i explore "Kibbs" every time I re-watch the old seasons, because i do think there's something to it, and i think Kate is sort of into Gibbs in an 'everyone wants to fuck the hot teacher' sort of way. i do not, however, think she had any vested interested in actually being with him. i see much more chemistry on kate's part than gibbs'. i finally decided to get this out of my system and actually tangibly explore how i feel about "Kibbs" and i think my definitive answer is: no. i don't ship it. i don't want to go here again. but i did once, and it was fun, and different-and writing Kate is an enjoyable challenge.
setting: post "Reveille" (Season 2)
Reveille: wake up, awaken
Sommeil: sleep, slumber
It only happened once.
He drove her home after that unbearable day, the day the manhunt escalated into madness, the day she didn't come back from lunch and he knew in his gut that bastard had her, the day the Israeli Prime Minister met with the United States President and the FBI tried to convince him that Ari Haswari wasn't a terrorist when he knew—Gibbs knew—in his gut that they were wrong.
He offered to take her home because he figured it was the least he could do since he let Ari get her—again.
He didn't know why he agreed to come up when she offered him coffee; he was a grown, thrice-married man—he knew damn well what an invitation to after-midnight coffee meant. It wasn't past midnight, no, but it was late, and he never had innocent coffee with women—and he was willing to bet she didn't usually make coffee this close to bedtime, if only because he rarely saw her drink coffee at all.
He walked—almost protectively—behind her up the outdoor stairs to her apartment. She was on the third floor, and she unlocked her door and let them in as silently and gracefully as anything. He made a stubborn point of locking the door behind them, clenching his jaw—he wondered if she felt safe, or if she was shaken and scared, and too proud to admit it. She had agreed almost too readily when he said he'd take her home.
"My mugs are all chipped," she remarked, selecting two and showing them the breaks in them with a half-smile. "I haven't bought new ones since college."
He was tempted to ask when she'd graduated, because he realized he'd never bothered to care how young she was—or wasn't. He didn't, though; he was best at silence, and he just took a faded yellow mug and watched her sift coffee grinds into a filter.
Her coffee maker was old and loud, and he smiled at it. He wandered around the kitchen, eyeing her refrigerator. There were childish drawers stuck to it, all with some sort of message to Aunt Kate! and he felt a pang of grief, remembering a time when his fridge used to look like that—except all of them had said Daddy.
He cleared his throat.
"You keep it cold in here," he said gruffly.
It was a simple observation. She tucked a strand of brunette hair behind her hear, and glanced at him.
"Surprised?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"Women usually have warmer apartments," he said sagely.
He saw her cheeks move as she grinned.
"You learn that from your wives, Gibbs?"
"Yeah," he drawled, arching a brow.
She turned and leaned into her counter. The coffee brewed, streaming musically into the decanter. He strode over to her, narrowing his eyes, and set his mug down. He stepped closer, and he watched her straighten up—almost apprehensively. He touched her jaw gently, cupping his palm around her face.
He moved his thumb to the swollen cut on her lip. She winced.
"He do this?" Gibbs asked quietly.
She was still for a moment. She lifted her chin, and pulled her face away from his hands. She shook her head.
"Haswari?" she murmured. "He didn't lay a hand on me. It was one of his—men."
Gibbs touched her lip again, lowering his head. He looked more closely at the injury, his nostrils flaring in silent anger. He shook his head curtly, a muscle in his temple throbbing tensely.
"Men do not hit women," he snapped in a low voice.
Kate shrugged.
"One of his animals, then," she corrected.
She pulled the cut lip into her mouth with her tongue, sucking on it. It made her to look as if she were pouting—but her eyes were so dark and firm, and so untouched by sullenness, that she looked almost comical. His lips turned up at the corner; the coffee maker beeped.
She didn't move; she crossed her arms across her breasts. He turned to the machine and took the decanter out loudly, pouring the both of them a generous handle of hot, black caffeine. He handed hers to her, and settled his in his grip, standing before her.
She clasped the mug tensely, her knuckles white, and he tipped his back to taste—he scalded his tongue, but he liked the burn as it melted down his throat. He breathed out appreciatively—Kate could make a damn good cup of coffee; he'd have to remember that the next time she screwed up in the field.
She put her lips on the edge of her mug, the chipped part of it nudging her cut, and then she seemed to abruptly change her mind. She swiftly set the mug on the counter—it made a ceramic, sharp noise—and she lunged forward, taking his from him confidently. She took a sip from that—he raised his eyebrows—and then she set it next to hers, and her petite hands slid up his shoulders and she interlaced her fingers at the nape of his neck.
Kate turned her head up and kissed him full on the lips; unexpectedly and surely, and when he thought she might pull back—shocked at herself—she didn't; she rose up on the tips of her toes and kissed him harder, her fingertips pressing into him, begging him to respond.
He didn't know why he kissed back, except maybe because he had a nasty habit of kissing women with whom he knew things could only go wrong, but he did—he kissed back hard.
She fell back against the counter—or he might have pushed her—and his arms went around her waist, pulling her tight to him, holding her away from the unforgiving surface. Her lips were soft, softer than they seemed when she was nagging DiNozzo or giving clipped orders to McGee, and he was surprised at how little she felt in his arms, because he had never thought about it before.
Kate tilted her head back, her lips brushing his nose as she took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, exposing her neck. He hesitated for a split second, but he took the hint before he could let logical thought get too far and pressed his lips to her throat.
She gasped and arched her back. Her hands slid down from his neck and she thrust them behind her, gripping the countertop. He reached out and ran his hand over one of hers, stroking her knuckles. He felt her pulse beating against his tongue and he closed his eyes-god, it had been such an unbearable day, for him because Ari was his great white whale, and for her because Ari had some maddening sort of power over her that almost seduced her.
He kissed down the slope of her throat, and something told him to stop—but he ignored it, because he suddenly didn't give a damn what happened the last time he jumped into bed with his junior agent, he was only painfully curious what Kate was like in bed. She seemed so unlike the women he typically went for—and she started it.
He convinced himself he was off the hook, because Kate started it.
He nipped her ear with his teeth, and found her mouth with his again.
She kissed in a seductively chaste way—she wasn't touching him, she was doing it all with little turns of her head, and swift movements of her lips and sweeps and jerks of her tongue and that was driving him crazy. He took her hips in his hands and pressed against her, pinning her back against that countertop. He looked at her, his eyes roaming over her flushed neck, the blush on her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered; he watched her muscles move as she swallowed—and then she gently pushed him away.
She slipped past him and beckoned with her hand. Silently, he followed—out of the kitchen, away from the scent of freshly brewed coffee, through the living room, past a tightly closed door, and into her bedroom.
Her bedroom was very feminine, soft and pink—he wasn't surprised; he smirked as he looked around. She took his coat at the lapels and pushed it off his shoulders, shoving it to the floor urgently. It was as if she was afraid she'd lose her nerve—she kept licking her lips, sucking the lower one into her mouth and chewing on it. He took her jaw in his hand and put a stop to that; she parted her lips, startled.
He lifted his chin and looked at her a moment, trying to figure out what she wanted out of this, what she was seeking. Her hands moved to his belt; she untucked his shirt and slipped the leather through the loops. He didn't move; he said nothing—he just let her ravage his clothing.
"Gibbs," she choked out, frustrated. Her hands slipped into his jeans, roaming over him explicitly. "Is it always just pointed glares with you?" she demanded desperately.
He reached for her waist and tugged her against him again, pressing her hips into his.
"You want me to talk?" he asked in her ear.
She shivered.
"No."
He nodded, and pushed her back towards the bed—he didn't bother shutting the door, or hitting the lights. They were alone, and there need be no formalities; sleeping with a colleague wasn't any less problematic if you did it in the dark.
She fumbled with his jeans as he crawled over her, trapping her thighs between his knees. She shifted beneath him, getting comfortable, arching her hips into his, and yanking his down to hers. She pressed her lips against him again and he noticed still that curiously chaste manner in which she kissed—submissive, almost, fierce and pleasurable, but quiet and hesitant at the same time—it was unreal.
He slid his hands up her sides, stroking the bare skin under her shirt, drawing it upwards until he forced her to throw her arms above her head so he could remove it. He tossed it aside, and he raked his eyes over her—even if he'd never thought to fantasize about her, even if he'd never considered sleeping with Kate, it couldn't be denied that she was an incomparably beautiful woman, and the hot-blooded male in him responded to her immediately.
He pulled down one of the straps of her bra, and then he rolled over, pulling her atop him. She settled over his hips, her weight almost nothing—lighter than he was used to—and she let her head fall back. Her skirt stretched across her thighs and his eyes went to her panties; his hands slid up the inside of her legs and she drew her lip into her mouth, anticipating his touch.
He hooked his fingers into the panties and pulled them down, inducing her to work with him, rise up a little, and shift her legs so he could get them off. She readjusted and tumbled against his chest and her caught her lips against his again, his hands roaming more freely—more assertively. She moved against him insistently and he groaned, clenching his jaw.
He nudged her back gently, pushing her shoulders, asking her silently to straddle him again, and he was reaching for the hooks of her bra when he noticed the look in her eyes—martyred, uncertain, anxious—and he realized abruptly, and astutely, that she was uncomfortable; she didn't want to be on top.
His rearrangement was swift; he flipped her over and instantly she relaxed—and then he realized she reminded him of Stephanie; she was timid in bed where she was confident in the field; Kate seemed to have a sort of repressive, Catholic-infused shyness to her sexuality. She was raised on hellfire and guilt and she was conscious of the wedding ring not on her finger—she liked to think of herself as progressively religious, but she struggled with deep-seated faith that held her back.
He nudged her lips with his nose and then kissed her again, possessively, aggressively, sensing she wanted male control in bed, sensing she wanted him to coax and chase the tension and stress of the day away rather than use him to beat it herself.
She moaned into his kiss and he reached between them to hike her skirt up. Her hands flew between them, loosening his jeans more, pushing them down, shucking his boxers down his thighs just enough—
Kate had her hands around him and he grit his teeth hard, biting back a groan. He bucked in her hand, parting his lips and pulling away from her. She breathed out heavily and licked her bottom lip, her eyes meeting his. She raised her eyebrows, moving under him, shifting her hips. She lifted her knee; he felt her press it into his side, dig her heel into his lower back, and he kissed her again, and ran his hand through her hair.
She—didn't seem to care that they still had half their clothes on, or that they were about to do something that couldn't be undone, and at this point, he had no intention of going back. Regardless of how he'd ever though of Kate before this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be inside her now—and he was blinded by that; driven by that.
Kate twisted to the side, fumbling clumsily in her bedside table, and stretched out on her back again, nimble fingers slipping a condom from a foil wrapper. He was intrigued with the dexterity and—skill with which she slipped it on him—but any question of her experience with that vanished when she wrapped her legs around him.
She met his eyes, and tilted her head up.
She licked her lips and swept her tongue against his; he shoved his knees tightly into her thighs and thrust inside her, lowering his lips to her jaw and groaning her name quietly. His vision whitened for a moment and he held his breath—she thrust her head back and gasped.
He waited for her to adjust—he waited to see what would escape her lips; he always wanted to know what women were going to call him, Leroy or Jethro or—
"Gibbs," she moaned, her lashes fluttering.
He moved his teeth against each other and she squeezed his shoulder, tossing her head. She tugged on him, her lips tightening. She arched her back, pressing her hips into him desperately, and he let her writhe, teased her for a moment, before he eased back and thrust into her hard.
She cried out, closing her eyes.
"Gibbs," she said again, encouraging him.
He dug his hand into the sheets next to her, and gripped her thigh with the other, bruising her skin. She felt—unimaginably good against him; she was warm and she was—tight, startlingly tight, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd had someone, and how badly she needed this.
He needed it badly, he realized, when his blood slammed through his veins and his stomach clenched with the effort it took to hold out. His jeans rubbed against her bare thighs; she yanked at his shirt, tangling it ruthlessly in her hands.
His lips found hers again; he concentrated on kissing her, tasting her, memorizing the way this night was going down, and he growled her name against her mouth.
"Kate," he groaned—he kept waiting for her hands to slide over her breasts, slip down her stomach, move between them—for her to show him what she wanted, tell him what she needed—but he realized she wouldn't do it; her lips were parted, and she was moaning and whimpering, but she didn't have the confidence in bed to demand and to seize, and he wondered if sex was ever really that good for her.
He backed off a little and drew his hand down her body, abandoning the tangled sheets. He slipped his hand between them and twisted his fingers gently against her, stroking until she tossed on the bed beneath him. She arched and ground her hips into his ministrations and he lowered his mouth to her chest, closing his lips over a nipple through the thin material of a bra.
"God," she whimpered weakly. "Oh, god."
She ran her hand through her hair. She bared her teeth against her wrist, and then bit gently on her own skin, and that's when he felt her stomach clench and her thigh tremble around his waist, and he thrust hard. She cried out, high-pitched, shocked, and then she cried out again, her lips moving shakily.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and watched her, satisfied she was coming, letting a smug sort of pride take over—she needed this, and he was starting to accept that he needed it, too.
"Gibbs," she moaned hoarsely.
His lips fell to the cut on her mouth and he kissed her there. His nose jammed against her cheek and his thrusts were a little rough—rougher than she was used to, if he judged by the gasps that escaped her—but she dug her nails into his biceps and pulled him closer, and when her tongue darted in his mouth again, he lost it, and buried himself in her deep, his shoulders shuddering.
Her grip was tightest when he stopped moving and simply held himself there, breathing out heavily, his head still rushing dizzily. She eased up on him after a moment, and he slipped out of her. She made a soft noise of protest and he turned onto his back. He reached behind him and swept his shirt off deftly, using it to—clean up. He tossed it onto the floor and ran a hand over his jaw.
Kate rolled onto her stomach next to him, her face buried in her hands. He turned towards her and let his eyes run over her, from her disheveled dark hair to the wrinkled, hiked up skirt. She rubbed her feet together. He reached over and pushed her hair off her face, seeking her eyes.
She opened them, and she smiled at him tiredly. He ran his hand over her back.
In a moment of weakness, she moved closer and kissed him softly, hazily, and he pulled her against his chest, and wrapped his arms around her—tightly.
It was dark, and he was disoriented, when she shook him awake. He blinked heavily and shifted, his jaw tightening. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw roughly, jolting himself awake—the lights were off now, but for a lamp, and she was sitting up sleepily next to him, her hair tangled and messy.
She had changed; she was in soft, purple pajamas now, and she yawned. He was still bare-chested, in jeans that were too loose and unbuckled. He rolled onto his back and looked at the time.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice thick with slumber. "You need to go home," she told him.
He was, he discovered, unperturbed by her words—he expected them, even agreed with them. He was almost relieved to be kicked out of bed, and he was grateful to her—and impressed with her—for doing it.
"Yeah," he answered gruffly, and nodded.
He sat up and rubbed his jaw again, blinking to full awareness. He stood up and righted his jeans—and he noticed his belt and shirt were folded neatly on the bedside table. She had cleaned up even more.
He slipped them both on. She ran her fingers over her lip, watching him mildly.
He found his shoes, and then he met her eyes and looked at her silently. There was nothing between them—that much was infinitely clear. It was—therapeutic, physical release, nothing more, and looking at her in the husky light, he felt no shame or awkwardness, and he sensed she wasn't upset.
He took a stride towards her, and kissed the corner of her mouth.
She tilted her head up.
"See you at work," she murmured in his ear.
He nodded—and then he left, without staying the night—without saying another word.
It was the most no-strings attached one-night stand he'd ever had; she never mentioned it again, and though he liked it, and he liked Kate, he never had the desire to do it again—she wasn't the woman he loved, and he was never going to be the sort of sensitive communicator she wanted in man, no matter how much she sometimes fantasized he could be—
That night—was just something that slept between them.
(i think kate was wearing a skirt in Reveille but tbh, i'm not sure)
alexandra
story #153; first and only Kibbs fic.