Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB. One line's from a Sandburg poem.
Rating: R. Slash.
Spoilers: None
Summary: This is almost as good as oblivion.
xxxxx
They fuck with the lights off, between dirty sweat-tangled sheets, because some things are undeserving of light. Dark, pitiful, all-too-human things that he doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to see in the scars on his own body, the dead and numb and senseless places, doesn't want to see in his lover's eyes, in the lines on his lover's face.
Except he's not really his lover, because Tony's not sure that love has anything to do with this. Love might not be romance, but this is too desperate to be either, to be anything more than here, now, hothardercloseryes. Rough hands, beer and bourbon, the way he bites down on Tony's shoulder as he comes, this is what happens at two a.m. because the hours until dawn are grainy and empty, and because neither of them are willing to go anywhere else, to be with someone who won't understand the need to bleed a little. Because neither of them are willing to say no.
To say please.
He knows this, but he doesn't do anything about it, and maybe that makes him even guiltier, makes this even more wrong. But he's lost in grey these days and as he pulls the leather belt from the loops of his jeans, Gibbs' hands forcing his head down, he decides that right now (oh god) it doesn't matter.
Sunrise is only a few hours away.
xxxxx
His eyes are bloodshot and he's not sure that he's the only one. His thoughts are coming slow today, the aftermath of shock and grief and too much cheap booze. Another body, another notch. (Another victim, another killer, but the distinctions fade in this regard, because no matter who they were, they're dead.) If he were keeping score he'd be the winner, but not compared to Gibbs. Gibbs has bodies stacked neck-deep, has ghosts whispering in his ears, and the slow careful twisting of the screws into hand-smoothed wood is an atheist's sign of the cross, barring of the door. Not everybody understands this and Tony knows that, which is why he never brings it up.
Which is why he still talks about burning the fucking boat, even when in his head this is accompanied by a spray of shattered stained glass, church windows exploding outwards in the flames.
xxxxx
They sleep with the lights on because both of them are prone to nightmares and the presence of another person is worthless when you wake up screaming after seeing your partner's face blown off. At that point he just needs to know where he is and that he's still alive and that the shapes in the corner are not (vampires) potential murderers who will take what matters to him and make him watch as the blood drips out onto the floor.
The alarm will go off in three hours and this sign of domesticity has never bothered him, because he doesn't have a choice. He's not going to stumble away from this, pretend it doesn't matter, be used. Not now, not here. It's an addiction, he thinks, and it's almost funny. Ironic. For the first time in his life he actually cares and he's not sure that it's mutual. Except Gibbs is the one who started it, who kissed him in the elevator, whose mouth slid from Tony's lips down his neck, whose hands dropped below the beltline of his trousers. And it was Gibbs who stepped away and looked almost afraid, almost hopeful, and it is Gibbs' smile after Tony said yes that he uses like religion after these nightmares. Instead of words, prayer, rosary beads –
But his memory must be going a little fuzzy, because he doesn't remember seeing that smile since then.
xxxxx
Glittering, whirling neon lights hit the ground one by one in slow motion as the room tilts and somehow he's here, watching the dizzying drift of snowflakes outside the window. They've melted in his hair and slide down his neck and are slowly licked away, one drop at a time. He's still suffocating, drowning in some woman's perfume, still feels her waxy lipstick against his skin (give me a call sometime, sugar) and the music in his head goes on and on, but none of this matters. He trips over something, stumbles, catches himself and feels Gibbs' shirt tearing in his grasp. He drops to his knees, fumbles with zippers and buttons and Gibbs doesn't call him by name, doesn't call him anything at all. His hands are clumsy, stroking, and he should have stayed longer, later, her soft uncallused hands warm on his thigh through thin cotton weave. Should have given her what she wanted and blacked out, been left with nothing (let the dead have peace and sleep).
But Gibbs is hard against him now and at least this way he'll know where he is when he wakes up.
Merry fucking Christmas, he says with a strange sobbing laugh that he doesn't recognize, and Gibbs tells him to shut up, his mouth hot against Tony's, salty and burning and familiar, and this is almost as good as oblivion.
xxxxx
They don't talk about what this means. Instead, he closes his eyes and listens to their heartbeats, beating in time. Beating as one. Connections, he thinks. This is about connections, and for the first time in his life he's found one. This is on a rainy Sunday morning, when they are lying in bed and he is watching the rain drizzling past the window and Gibbs is sleeping, and he is not thinking about the way he moved the night before, the stark sharp cruelty of their words and the agony of the aftermath, the way he felt tears in his eyes when he came and he swore that this would never happen again (even as he knew he was lying).
Because they work together, and there are boundaries. Because Gibbs has been married three times and might not even really like Tony, might just think he's convenient. Because they're fucked up and if it were a film it would be harsh and gorgeous, but it's real life and sometimes he thinks that the lack of elegance and glamour is killing him.
Because sometimes, on the hazy edge of sleep, with Gibbs' arm draped across his chest, he thinks that this could be forever.
Even if it's not (he refuses to think of it as anything remotely like) love.
xxxxx
End