They don't do this when he's married.
Gibbs is too much of a Marine (a man) to betray a wife like that and Callen…well…he didn't really have any choice in the matter.
Has never really had much of a choice about anything when it comes to Gibbs.
They don't do this in the states.
Too many people to potentially run into. Too many enemies and too many friends and too many friends who were better off as enemies.
It takes a certain country and a certain type of alcohol and certain memories and certain déjà vu's to culminate in something like this.
The Cyrillics getting hazy at this point and the Russian is coming out more like Taiwanese or Spanglish and the bottles of vodka are piling up.
They don't do this because they love each other, or like each other, in fact Callen was pretty sure they hated each other quite a bit.
This was all about dominance.
A smart-ass remark gone awry, something about the Team and Callen is flat on his back, a growling Gibbs having kicked his chair over.
Callen doesn't bother to get up.
He never does.
Because he knows Gibbs would have him flat again in an instant and his pride could only take being thrown down like a bitch so many times.
What he does do is watch.
Gibbs finishing off his Zed-something glass of their old friend as he contemplates whether he wants to go through with this again.
He could only attempt to put Callen in his place so many times and head-slaps had stopped working years ago.
"What in the world are they teaching you out there in California? That you're an individual or some crap like that?"
That's how it starts.
With Gibbs bad-mouthing OSP and everything Callen is (pretends to be) and somehow ends with Callen's lips wrapped around Gibbs cock.
How they get from Point A to Point B is a mystery to both of them and continues to be, no matter how many times they've done this.
Gibbs makes a mental note to not drink as much the next time he goes to Russia. He might remember it more. Or forget it.
Might be able to keep from coming in Callen's mouth the minute he tries to deep-throat him.
Because he knew it would happen and because Rule #22 was "Always know your limits", he grabs Callen by the collar of his shirt and hauls him into his lap in that rickety fucking chair in that rickety fucking hotel room in that rickety fucking country.
He searches in his coat pockets (Rule number #6 Always be prepared) and unearths a small vial of lube and a condom (or 5)
He doesn't take time to warn Callen before he's slicked up two fingers and has them knuckle deep in Callen's ass.
He ignores the way his body immediately tenses, the gasp, the tightness around the digits trying to impede his progress and the blunt, wide fingernails scoring into his shirt as he drags his nails into Gibbs' shoulders, piercing even through his shirt. He ignores until he feels blood being drawn and slowly draws his fingers out, giving the other a bit of rest before shoving them back in roughly.
He ignores the breathlessness and the whine in Callen's voice as he swears and thrusts his fingers in and out.
"Fucking hell, Gibbs! You couldn't have waited three damn seconds?"
Predictably, Gibbs doesn't respond. Just gives him a look.
Rule #47 was "Don't talk when someone has their fingers shoved up your ass."
A third finger and few insistent brushes against his prostate are enough to shut Callen up.
Enough so that the only noises he makes can't technically be classified as words in any language.
He takes one of the condoms that Gibbs had tossed on the table with shaking hands. He has to resort to ripping it open with his teeth.
Gibbs snorted. It might have actually been sexy if Callen didn't look like he was about to be castrated.
Leaning down to roll the thin layer of plastic down Gibbs cock, Callen swears a few more times. In a few more languages, before he gets the thing rolled on all the way, adding a generous slathering of lube for good measure.
He doesn't complain when Gibbs lifts him up to straddle him more efficiently. He doesn't have to be told what to do when he starts to position himself on his knees in the space where Gibbs wasn't filling the arm chair. Doesn't even think twice when he grabs his former partners dick in his hand, exhaling through his nose as he positions it at his entrance, sitting down achingly slowly, barely moving, eyes squeezing shut, nails digging into Gibbs shoulders again and his breath coming out thin and whining.
Gibbs is reciting his list of rules in his head. A distraction mechanism. Anything to keep from breaking control and grabbing Callen by the hips and fucking him bloody.
For all his vaulted will power and self-control, with his dick in a vice-grip, Gibbs is anything but calm collected.
It takes forever for Callen to start moving again. About damn time too. Gibbs was seconds away from resorting to the every effective head slap method again. It may not have been good for intimidation anymore, but it would sure as hell work to spur the other on. Like a stubborn fucking horse or something.
It's slow at first.
So much so that Callen is pretty sure that Gibbs has fallen asleep a few times by the way he's reacting (deep breathing, eyes shut, muscles spasming).
So he picks up the pace.
Drastically.
And by the time he's gotten to the point where he might as well be riding a fucking pogo stick, Gibbs finally deigns to participate again, thrusting his hips up to meet Callen's on their way down.
It's the only concession Gibbs makes, however. Callen can do his own work.
It's just as well, Callen is still wearing his holster and would have probably shot him in the head if he tried to help, doesn't matter which way. Either by helping to lift him up or grabbing his dick to jerk him off, Callen is way too proud to accept that sort of aid from someone he despises.
The only reason their doing this after all is to prove a point.
What that point is, means different things to both of them and neither would ever admit to the other just what that point was. Whether it was an effort to prove himself alive or one to prove to the world that he was still himself and no one else, no matter who or what he pretended to be.
It's not about love or like or for that matter, it's not even about hate and they wouldn't do this if they didn't hate each other so damn much just on principle.
Callen doesn't protest when Gibbs yanks him down to press a rough kiss against his lips after they've both come and have started the process of getting cleaned and dressed. Brown rusty water from the tap in the en suite bathroom was better than walking the hallways with come on your clothes.
"So…who is she?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're engaged again, right? Someone from your team? Another redhead?"
"…" Another look and Callen smirks, can predict the response. " You're a piss poor investigator, Callen. Always were."