On a normal day, the journey from HQ to home was a short interruption in Gibbs' day. This time it felt like an eternity before he brought the Charger to a halt in his driveway. And well before that point, he was beginning to suspect that taking Tony home with him - tonight of all nights - might not have been one of his better ideas.

There had been an incident, numerous years ago, when a wife – Steph, if he remembered rightly - had finally lost it, for some reason he couldn't remember. The result was memorable though. She'd unleashed a tirade that put his drill sergeant to shame.

She'd opened with"You selfish, bull-headed, thoughtless, jackass!" It had been a good point then, and the passage of time hadn't knocked any of those edges off his personality.

Obviously.

Because the smart thing to do would have been to send Tony off with Abby or McGee as assistance, then take himself home to look for his equilibrium in a bottle of bourbon and a plane and chisel. Better for everyone.

But no. That wasn't the Jethro Gibbs way of doing things. Fact was, if Tony was in need of a bed for the night, or someone to act as a spare pair of hands, Gibbs took him in. That had been the way of things right from the start.

So now, even though most of his common sense knew that following the usual pattern under these… circumstances… might be a very bad idea, he couldn't not do so. Because after all, he didn't want to raise a flag that anything was off here, did he? Not when it was so easy to stick with their usual habits. Carry on as normal and everything would be fine.

No questions, no pointed looks, no explanations. Just business as usual.

That illusion lasted just until he got the pair of them in the car.

Then things turned awkward. More awkward, that was. Just as soon as they were back in the car, the ghost of that triple be-damned stakeout firmly settled in there with them.

Apparently, the car now rewired his brain to link Tony to a hardcore soundtrack. Simple as anything – he got in the driver's seat, Tony in the passenger seat, and – yep, there goes his brain, sailing off on a sea of X rated images and previously undreamed of fantasies.

The result? For once, Gibbs found he didn't quite trust in his usual demeanour. He was aware he was overcompensating, but frustratingly didn't know how to stop. He hadn't quite known where to look – so he didn't. Or what to say – so he didn't. Or what to do with his hands – so he settled for gripping on to the wheel a little too hard.

Tony, for his part, had been uncharacteristically quiet, tucked carefully into the seat instead of in his usual sprawl. And every time Gibbs spoke, Tony jumped, ever so slightly.

It might have been nothing. It was clear that he was feeling the effects of the injuries, even though he'd point blank refused to take the painkillers that Ducky had offered. He looked wan, and a little pinched - enough so that Gibbs was using his brakes more often and more carefully.

That didn't help the careful projection of normality either.

Thing was, Tony was an investigator by nature, and a damned good one. Especially when it came to people. He had an inbuilt instinct for seeing through people's secrets and lies.

Gibbs was beginning to wonder if he was on the brink of seeing through his own.

If he was? It could be a shortcut to the end of everything. Not in a major way – generally, DiNozzo was a broad-minded kind of guy. But that kind of truth was bound to put their working relationship under strain, regardless of anyone's best intentions. Rule 12 was there for a reason.

Rule 12 was there for every double edged snarky comment the morning after. For every glaring match conducted through a car mirror. For every unexpected pang of jealousy, or desire, that hit at the wrong moment. For all the times you thanked God that it was time to do your job and you could leave all the crazy emotional crap behind.

Rule 12 was there to keep minds on jobs, and working relationships working.

And there was the trouble. Because this little sleepover wasn't just about making a real effort for normality. It was also driven by some primal part of him that was determined that if anyone was going to be moving DiNozzo in to keep an eye on him, it was going to be himself.

There was a poetry to this. How many rules had he deliberately broken in his time, because they didn't suit him? Where else did Rule 18 come from?

Of course in this case, forgiveness wasn't likely to be any more forthcoming than permission. And he hadn't actually broken Rule 12.

A technicality. If Tony had been aware, and receptive, he would have done.

Not that any of that mattered. Because when he'd walked into autopsy, it was to see a DiNozzo who looked dazed, weary, and thoroughly banged up. And it was Gibbs' job to do something about that, whatever his base motivation for doing so.

So the fact was, he hadn't broken Rule 12, and his mind was still not properly on the job, and his working relationship was still not working. It was possible said rule was due a revision, of some sort.

Why? So he could date DiNozzo? Hell, he couldn't even manage to sit in a car with the man.

This had gone far enough. Time to bury it, now, before he caused irrevocable harm.

He cut the engine, and jumped out in one smooth movement, glad to be out of the oppressive confines of the Charger and moving again.

Now he could be useful. He'd helped an injured Tony out of a car on numerous occasions before. It was easy. Open door. Apply leverage. Provide ballast.

But this time, he was a little too bullish, and Tony was a little too hesitant. It was all wrong, no matter what he did, and it was only when they took their first step - when Tony put some pressure on the injured knee, and his leg gave a little and he swore - that they clicked into normality. Gibbs suddenly felt Tony shift his weight properly onto the support he offered, and it felt right again.

Very right. Tony was always so damn warm, and heat suited the man down to the ground. Touch him right and he would burn so beautifully.

That heat was addictive. Every time Gibbs came into contact with it, he came away wanting to never give it up. To hold the heat and shape it into something more. Like taking raw wood and finding the boat it concealed.

Damn, damn, damn. If he was thinking of Tony in terms of boats, he really was... well, sunk, whether he liked the pun or not.

What would Tony do if he gave in to pure instinct and carried him the rest of the way? The thought sat there for a moment, taunting him, before it was abruptly dispelled.

"Tony!" Abby's cry of delight was just the wake up call he needed, and he firmly pushed away any ideas that he may have had about a fireman's carry.

"Wait 'till we get inside before you launch, Abs."

He heard a muttered "Aw." from behind them, and then the clatter of her returning to her car.

Refusing to let his thoughts drift any further into dangerous waters, he concentrated on the job at hand. Wasn't that difficult – he just had to focus on the feel of Tony under his hands, and against his side. On their movement together like they were one and the same.

It felt comfortable, and right, and it always had.

Now they'd found their rhythm it was a matter of minutes to get Tony in through the door and deposited on the sofa with his foot up.

And if Gibbs spent those few precious minutes happily enjoying warmth, solidity and male musk, then neither Abby nor Tony was psychic.

Probably.