A/N: Well, it's a week away or so, but Happy Thanksgiving whether you celebrate or not. This isn't my favorite holiday, really, but gratitude is one of my favorite things. I am grateful for you all, your presence and impact on our global culture and my life, readers and writers alike. I am grateful to the people in your lives who support your reading and writing and know that however odd to outsiders fanfiction might seem in conception, it is often powerful and moving in execution. I know we are a force for good, for tolerance and critical thinking, and am proud to be a fanfiction writer and reader. Your Squares
Tony couldn't stop thinking about it. And that just wasn't like him. He had initiated the kiss last night. He shouldn't be the one who felt like he had lost a bet or a game of chicken. Blinked. Jethro...who was he kidding? It was Gibbs, not Jethro. He had kissed Gibbs. He wanted to and he thought that Gibbs wanted him to. Could that be true? Had Gibbs really wanted him to? It only took that thought for the taste and heat of the other man's mouth to come rushing back.
Last night, the distraction of the bowling tournament and drinks afterwards allowed him to roll into bed and sleep almost immediately. But Tony hadn't actually drank very much at all and he woke, lucid and worried, at around three in the morning. The nap on the way back from Lonnie's had contributed to his sleeplessness.
Now Tony sat at the kitchen counter, every light in the apartment on against the dark outside, and felt like he was going out crawl out of his skin. If Gibbs had really wanted him—Tony—to kiss him, what the hell did that mean? Tony had been comfortable with his bisexuality for years but had only been with men on and off since adulthood. He's mostly stuck with women since coming to NCIS. He was pleased with, no seriously, who was he kidding? —he fucking loved his conventional life. First, he was someone's probie, someone who actually paid attention to him and kicked his ass when he acted up. And then he was part partner, part Senior Agent to Cate. Then he had a probie to train in McGee. He owned a piano that he was allowed to play. Anytime he liked. He bought the clothes he wanted, wore what he wanted. He had an apartment that had a lock, that no one could come into without his approval. He had friends.
Somewhere along the way though, these things stopped being unusual and precious, stopped needing constant, vigilant care and safeguarding. They stopped being something he earned every day, and just were. They were his. Because this was who he was. He wasn't going to lose them. He had dinner parties and his friends came into his home. He slept alone, but had a spare room. Abby slept over a few times. McGee stayed over too, when his sister and her friends took over his apartment for a week. He even played the piano that week, late the way he liked, even though Tim was in his guest room. Even though he didn't know if Tim was asleep or awake. He thought about getting a bigger bed.
He was a strong senior agent to Gibbs. He pushed back, and could hold his own. Hell, he'd kept the team together when Gibbs' left, and weathered the clusterfuck that had followed. Knew when Gibbs needed him and he had during the whole Reynosa thing. Gibbs' silence and stillness at that time were markers of indecision and fear, Tony could see, even if no one else could. So Tony went to him, touched him despite his fear—entirely well-founded, it turned out—that it would be impossible to forget what Gibbs felt like under his fingers. Impossible, also, to forget how Gibbs tasted.
He wasn't confused about that. He knew he was attracted to Gibbs. And he always knew that Gibbs wouldn't care about crap like gay or straight, man or woman. The other man's moral code was so inflexible and clearly stated that all anyone ever saw was the rigidity, and the purpose. What they didn't see was that when only one thing matters, nothing else does. Gibbs was as color-blind, age-blind, hell just blind, as anyone Tony met. The man hadn't met a rule he wouldn't break in pursuit of justice, and that included all the usual assumptions of society.
So to say that Tony had thought, even known, that if Gibbs was attracted to a man, it wouldn't stop him from pursuing him, was an understatement. He had thought a lot about it. Wondered if there would ever come a time when Gibbs would invite him over, or crawl into bed with him, or stand pressed against him at a bar.
He had never thought that it would be he, Tony, who made the first move. Why had he done it? What was he thinking? He hadn't ruined anything, he didn't think. Gibbs had kissed him back, had let Tony press him back against the truck. Oh he'd held his own Tony could still feel the rough pads of the older man's fingertips against the skin of his waist, his back but the fact remained that Gibbs had let him. Let him crowd him against the cool metal of the truck, let him dip down and press his lips against his own, let his hand come up to hold his face and—Jesus. Tony swiped a hand across his face and downed the last of the glass of water he had poured himself. If he couldn't sleep, he wasn't going to sit here like some girl agonizing over a boy. His hand came up to touch the back of his head. Ziva would smack him, hard, for that last thought.
Run. He'd run. Movement always helped to clarify things. By the time he got back, what was left would be what was important.
It was still early when he returned, just turned 5:30, but Tony felt better, a lot better, and it was all so clear all of a sudden. He showered and shaved carefully, winking at himself in the mirror as he dressed in one of his most beautiful—there was really no other word for it— suits and ties, his shiniest shoes. He'd do this right, have Gibbs' six like he always did.
Gibbs wasn't going to break a rule on his watch.
The only thing was to make sure that Gibbs didn't stop him, didn't even see him. This was Tony's decision and as the first of many decisions made on his own, it was essential that it be made on his own. Now he hurried, despite the early hour. Gibbs didn't usually get in until 7. Tony'd hide out in an upstairs conference room, spread out his notes and write a report. If anyone came by, he could say he needed to spread out.
And it worked like a dream, like he choreographed the whole thing. He hit all the lights between his apartment and the Yard. Every light, no shit. If that wasn't a sign, he didn't know what was. He parked several stories up in the garage so Gibbs wouldn't see his car. He breezed through security just before the shift change and into the still darkened bullpen where no one had yet arrived. He pulled the five inch thick McMannis file from his drawer, grabbed a legal pad and one of the Pilot Precise V7 Rollerball Black medium point pens he kept stocked in the back of his drawer, and headed up to the conference room.
Once there—6:43 am—he set up his things, leaned back in one of the comfortable tall-backed roller chairs, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long before hearing Cynthia come down and open the Director's office for the day. She walked to the kitchen mid-way down the hall and got water, put on coffee. Tony envied her the coffee but he was too hyped up for it. He needed to be on his game for this.
He needed to quit his job.
Well, not really quit, but let the director know he was ready for the next step, whether it was his own team, or to act as co-lead or lead a task force or special project. He had to do it and he had to do it now, before anything else happened between them. Tony knew this was up to him, to give them space to decide, and to protect Gibbs.
Gibbs.
In the early years of his career at NCIS, hell those first years with Vance, it would've been strange, probably out of line, for him to go right to the director, but it was a measure of how right this decision was that he really could do so. Tony's credibility with Vance had grown and he had filled in for Gibbs both as team leader and in MCRT in the last year. Just in case this thing with Gibbs turned into something—
Shit. Now was not the time to get a hard-on. Tony shifted and stood, adjusting.
—Just in case this thing with Gibbs turned into something, he didn't want there to be any question of where the promotion came from. Tony walked to the door and listened. He could definitely hear distant voices from the bullpen. Checked his watch. 7:18. Gibbs was almost certainly at his desk by now. Director was usually in at 7:30.
Tony took a deep breath. Why was he nervous? He was ready for this, ready to take on a new challenge. And it was not like the director was going to have a promotion in his pocket to hand out. Tony knew there weren't any team leader positions open right now. At least not in D.C. This was just to get things started.
And not going to Gibbs first, that was what he needed to do in this situation, right? Have his back professionally, and do the right thing, personally, to give them a shot.
Now, instead of drifting to sex again, Tony's mind turned to the intimacy of the massage in the basement, of the kiss last night, and of all things, Gibbs' disembodied voice in the dark as they floated in the frigid eel-infested lake. His fingers curled, not into a fist, but as if loosening. He remembered massaging Gibbs, trying to make it possible for the older man to come back to center, to see his way forward. Tony felt, that night, selfless and clean. Doing for Gibbs what he knew how to do, knowing there might be a cost. But now…
Now he wondered if he had been truly prepared for the cost. You can't touch without being touched. And that night had loosened things for him too. He hadn't known he was stuck. Maybe he wasn't, but where Gibbs' led, Tony followed.
That's it, right there, though. If he was going to be a partner to Gibbs, professionally or personally, he needed to lead as well. Resolved, he straightened his tie, smoothed back his hair, cleared his throat, and strode through the door and down the corridor to the Director's office.
And the man looked up in surprise at Tony's sudden appearance. Vance had his hand on the door to the Director's suite, but straightened and turned toward the younger man.
"Agent DiNozzo."
"Director Vance." Tony suppressed the urge to clear his throat.
"You're here early. What can I do for you?"
"I—"
Vance waited patiently for all of three seconds and then asked again. "Agent DiNozzo?"
"I—" Vance's open expression started to look irritated, "I would like to make an appointment to meet with you. At your convenience." This wasn't like him. He felt like Probie McGee, in the early days. He wasn't conflicted, but his gut was twisting. Something wasn't right.
At that thought, Tony was calm again. Okay, he'd do this the other way.
Vance was speaking, "You can come in now, DiNozzo, if you have time."
"How about half an hour, Director?"
"You sure you don't want to come in now, DiNozzo? You seem like you have something on your mind."
"No, Director, I'm sure. Just wanted to make an appointment. Do you want me to come in and tell Cynthia?"
Vance waved Tony away and opened the door. "I'll tell her. See you in half an hour."
Tony took another deep breath, feeling the last of the dread leave him only to be replaced with nervous anticipation. He needed to talk to Gibbs before he did anything. He started walking slowly toward the stairs, and the bullpen, thinking about how he could get Gibbs alone. An invitation to get coffee maybe?
He came around the corner. And stopped.
Leaning against the wall, in jeans and a t-shirt, cap, zipper sweatshirt hanging loose and open, was Gibbs.
His presence and his appearance both were so startling that Tony didn't know what to say.
As was always the way, though, Gibbs didn't need Tony to speak.
"How'd it go?"
"How'd what go?" He must have heard wrong. How would Gibbs know what he was doing this morning?
Gibbs just waited, the expression on his face so familiar that Tony smiled in response. Don't give me that shit, DiNozzo, I know what you are going to do before you know what you are going to do. Tell me the truth or you'll be sorry.
And also familiar, the flare of rebellion in his own belly. You don't know everything, Gibbs. Tony walked a little further into the small side corridor so that he could lean against the wall across from the other man, body language deliberately challenging.
One side of Gibbs' mouth curled in approval and amusement, and Tony couldn't help but smile in response.
"It didn't."
"Why?"
"Decided to talk to you first."
Tony watched the breath leave Gibbs in a little rush, the smile widen. The older man nodded once, in acknowledgment and approval. "Good."
"How'd you know what I was going to do?"
And then Gibbs did something shocking, something that some part of Tony registered as a declaration of his commitment, on a personal level. He explained.
"I was stuck." He shrugged. "So were you. I didn't know it til I wasn't anymore, but then I knew you were. You had to figure it out for yourself." Looked a little sheepish, a new look for Gibbs. "I thought I'd help a bit."
"You knew? Is that..." Tony knew his mouth was hanging open, "is that why you invited me along last weekend? To help me get unstuck?"
Gibbs shrugged. "Didn't really think about it. Just seemed right. Felt right." He glanced down and again a smile curved along his lips as he glanced at Tony from below half lowered lids. "Felt good."
Tony had a sudden vision of stalking the two steps forward to press Gibbs against the wall of their workplace, the fine wool of his trousers sliding against the worn denim; of taking Gibbs' mouth from above, the rare relaxed curve of the other man's back sexy and open; of sliding to his knees and pressing his face into Gibbs' groin, smelling laundry detergent and the faintest hint of skin and salt.
He blinked.
And now Gibbs laughed. "Damn, you're easy." Gibbs growl was pitched low enough to keep it private and the playful edge was as thrilling as it was shocking.
Tony cleared his throat and because he didn't know what to say in response to that, kept going from before. "So...I was thinking of talking to Vance about considering me for team lead, when something comes up."
Gibbs nodded, seemed unsurprised, and his voice was steady. "You're ready."
"You think?" Tony could have kicked himself for asking.
Gibbs didn't answer, which was answer enough. "Tell him you talked with me."
Now Tony nodded, a little dazed. He was really doing this. With Gibbs' approval. And, it seemed, with Jethro's too.
"So."
"So."
Tony nodded toward Gibbs' attire. "You are dressed down today, even for you, Boss."
"Taking the day off."
Tony wanted to ask if he had come in just for this, for this conversation, but he didn't. Something else was on his mind.
"So, rule 12."
Several people passed by just then, greeting both Gibbs and Tony.
"What about it?"
"Well, I try to follow your rules, Gibbs—" Gibbs snorted, "I do! Mostly. But probably we should follow this one for a while longer—" Tony's voice rose a little at the end, leaving the statement sounding more like a question.
Gibbs' smile was back to normal at least, reassuringly enigmatic. The older man straightened and he held out his hand. The handshake was firm and Gibbs' hand was calloused and warm. "Get it done, Tony." And then he turned and walked down the catwalk to the stairs, moving with characteristic swiftness and easy military posture away and down to the bullpen.
A/N: Will Rule 12 survive? Stay tuned for the fourth and final chapter. I'm shooting for this time next week, Friday. By the way, isn't Friday the very best day of the week? Sigh. Everything looks okay from the perspective of Friday night. In the meantime, another chapter of Match will be posted this weekend too. Love, Squares
