Author's Note: Inspired by that momentary half hand squeeze Gibbs gives Ziva at the end of Kill Ari Part 2 when she admits he is her brother.
Who is "she"? Take your pick. Deliberately ambiguous, moments stolen from each of his ships to keep it open. (Except Gabby... I just can't get behind that one)
As always - enjoy!
Touch
Anyone who had met Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have been forgiven for assuming it was his eyes that women fell for. The women who had been lucky enough to get close to him knew better.
Very simply, it was his hands. Calloused and rough, yet capable of great tenderness, his hands said more than his words ever did. He might have perfected his poker face, eyes icy and jaw set, but his hands never lied. It wasn't anything so cliched as a spark when their hands brushed passing paperwork to one another, it was far more complex and deep. He could use touch in a multitude of ways, from the barest finger curled around hers, to his entire body covering her own, there was nuance, every contact deliberate, conveying strength, comfort, protection, warning, or possession. It was his hands she fell in love with first of all.
She found herself drawn to watching his hands, when he aimed a gun, signed to Abby, or clenched in anger. She quickly learned the calluses were from his woodwork, strong enough to make the rough smooth or bend a solid object to his will, but handling the wood with a finesse and gentleness she would expect from a lover. Many hours were spent in complete silence, simply watching him work on his boat. He never commented on her presence in the basement, but went about his business almost ignoring her, until she slipped away upstairs. But as much as she enjoyed watching him use his hands, she liked it better when he touched her.
Impassive and professional at first, he touched her as he would any of his team, to adjust her stance at the firing range or combat training in the gym. Still, his hands never landed anywhere she didn't expect or lingered for longer than necessary. When he reached his arms over to steady her hold on the gun, even as his hands curled around hers, he kept his body away from her, touching her only where it was warranted. He'd strapped her into a rock climbing harness quickly and efficiently, it wasn't till afterwards that she'd realised how close he'd been to her backside, without ever making her uncomfortable, and had shown no hesitation in ripping up her shirt, placing pressure on the freshly acquired stab wound, yelling for McGee to phone an ambulance and Tony to get the first aid kit. His face would be impartial, bored even, but his touch, or lack thereof always spoke of his respect for her body.
The longer they worked together, the more he began to communicate with her through his hands. A man of few words, he seemed to appreciate her ability to understand without him needing to speak. The grip on her wrist stilled her when he had sensed something she hadn't, telling her to be calm and wait. The hand placed on her shoulder when a suspect made a lewd and unsettling proposition eyeing her up and down, letting her know hell would freeze over before he let that happen, the heat of his wrath searing through her blouse. Even smaller moments, the time a loose rock had skittered out from under her boot, throwing her off balance and threatening to send her headlong down the hill, his hand had shot out seizing her belt until she had both feet firmly planted again, or opening a closet in an old abandoned house she'd jumped and clutched at his arm when a large spider took its leave abruptly. Tony had laughed till he wheezed at the look on her face, but Gibbs had reached across, patted the white knuckles around his bicep, returning the pressure reassuringly until she let go. She had known plenty of good men in her time, not to mention her fair share of bad, but no one had ever made her feel so safe as she did under his hands.
Of course, he wasn't always gentle. She discovered how hard he could be, his hands on her cheeks, forcing her to keep eye contact, and with the help of his words this time, carefully delivered and deliberately provocative designed to shake her confidence, and dissolve the calm professional facade she had tried to maintain. When she had finally given in, a mix of tears and fury, her curled fist slamming into her shoulder in time with the curses from her lips, his body language had become stony, almost taking her outburst as his due, letting the blows rain on his upper torso without reproach. His arms came around her, stoic, containing the rage she was finally releasing. As quickly as it had come, her anger dissipated and she broke down, sobbing hard and his arms became softer, an embrace rather than restraint, his hand on the back of her skull, almost trying to hold her scattered thoughts together.
He never hurt her but used his hands just as efficiently to express caution or displeasure, the subtlest tap of his finger on the back of her hand seemed to speak an entire sentence while a quick yank on her wrist spinning her to face him offered a longer but equally silent reprimand. She'd seen too, the fierce grip on a suspect's shirt, the slammed fist on the interrogation table demanding honesty, and of course, the swift, decisive head slaps he meted out, a few coming her way, sometimes in fun, sometimes as a reprimand.
Gradually his touch grew compassionate, affectionate even. Though never inappropriate, he used his hands far more often than his words when it came to letting her know what was going on. He cupped her cheek after a near miss, waiting for her to ground herself and realise that she had (however barely) made it out alive, then drawing her close enough to let their foreheads touch for a moment, breathing in each other's relief. His hand, riding in the small of her back as they'd walked to a disciplinary hearing with the Director, reminding her of his support. A fleeting squeeze of her fingers when she had had to shoot the suspect dead, justification for her action, but wordless acknowledgement at the same time that they had both wanted a different outcome. He'd reach across from the driver's seat to place an affectionate pat on her knee combined with a throaty chuckle when she made a joke or reiterate his confidence in her with a clap on her shoulder.
By the time his affectionate gestures included chaste but tender kisses on her forehead or tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she was completely in his thrall. She had never seen herself as the sort of woman who needed a man to be whole, yet the answering pulse in her soul every time he touched her felt like he was the piece of her puzzle she hadn't known she'd been missing. She couldn't find words for the connection she felt, it was more than lust and deeper than love, although both certainly were true. Instead, every brush of his fingers seemed to brand his name onto her skin. She carried this mark everywhere she went, the 'touch me not' air of a woman unavailable to anyone else that denied potential suitors before they even began. Gibbs meanwhile seemed blissfully unaware, she wasn't so infatuated as to giggle and bat her eyes and could quell the instinct to lift her hands and hold him there when he pressed his lips to her face. Still, she never understood how he hadn't noticed the way that she found excuses to touch him, or even simply stand close enough to feel his heat.
Despite the months it took for the affection in his touch to turn to desire, when it did it was almost instant. They were dancing at a work Christmas party, which Gibbs had only attended under strict orders. She had playfully, but insistently begged him for one dance, but when he had finally offered his consent, he was reluctant and stiff, the space between them greater than propriety dictated, his hand resting lightly just above her elbow, and they looked more like awkward teens at a school dance than good friends. By the end of the first verse, she was wishing she hadn't been so demanding when Tony had called out something to Gibbs, the words 'beautiful woman' and 'pretend to enjoy it' carrying over the slow strains of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. With a dry, almost self-conscious chuckle, Gibbs had complied, stepping closer and moving his arm to her back, a proper dance hold. He had begun to dance with her, leading instead of being a passive partner, and she found he was good at it. She knew how to dance well too, and despite his unwillingness to be at the party at all, he seemed to be enjoying a skilled partner, throwing a small smile her way, his arm snugly circling her ribs.
Tucked into the crook of his elbow the way she was, she felt like she was home. He was solid and warm and safe, all the things she'd come to love about his hands. When he offered her a twirl, she returned to him with a rush that had her almost-but-not-quite falling into his arms. As expected, he had reacted instinctively to steady her, but less carefully than before, his hand grazing lower, where the cutout of her dress revealed the gentle concave of her lower ribs and waist. His fingers splayed wide, startled at the sudden heat of bare skin before settling into the curve, his pinkie just brushing the top of her hip bone as it edged above the fabric.
She inhaled sharply, too taken by surprise with this new closeness to have the presence of mind to mask her response. She swallowed hard knowing he'd noticed; his thumb had stroked her skin, warming the goosebumps that bloomed immediately under his hand and her cheeks flushed beneath his questioning gaze. Somehow, she understood that as long as she tried to suppress how she'd felt if she didn't let it show now, the opportunity would not come again. She could feel his caution, the awareness of the danger of a schoolgirl crush from his subordinate, and realised that if the song ended before she'd made her point clear, he would not risk a repeat of this moment.
His hand slackened, prepared to let her return to their usual platonic comfort, but before he could retreat, she slid her hand from his shoulder up to the back of his neck, closing the gap between them as much as she dared for a work function. She moved the hand he still held in his grasp until his fingers fell to her wrist, letting him find her pulse fast but steady, and finally met his gaze, flushed cheeks and all. He looked down at her, obviously considering, reading her response, understanding exactly how deeply her reaction to his touch ran within her veins. The question in his eyes turned to understanding, and a moment later she had her answer in the increased pressure of his hands, drawing her ever so slightly closer, his fingers digging in at her waist.
When they parted at the end of the song, her skin was hot where he had touched her, and she wondered how no one else saw the blazing imprint of his hand. They'd stayed seated the rest of the night, and when his hand rested discreetly on her thigh beneath the tablecloth, tracing the hemline of her skirt, she could read the unspoken promise of all the ways he would touch her when they were alone.
After that, she quickly learned the multitude of ways Gibbs could use his hands outside the office. She discovered that he could massage away even the tightest of knots in her neck after a long day, or give her kisses so deep that she barely noticed the way her clothes fell off her body. He could find pressure points that made her melt into his touch, delivering his attention in the slowest of burns that went on for hours. He could stoke a heat within her that was almost unbearable, and finally release the same tension in radiating waves of bliss that seemed to roll into eternity. He could be primal and intense, the same strength she had felt in combat practice was now used so differently, pinning her to the wall and hefting her thigh up and around his hip, to lead her almost roughly to a shattering explosion that left her breathless in a matter of minutes.
His kisses were still tender but no longer chaste, and often left her forehead to trail down her neck and linger on her collarbone. The arm casually draped around her waist was still protective but now sent a message to anyone who looked, she was his, and when his body came to cover hers, it wasn't ducking for cover under a hail of bullets; it was passionate, possessive. His hand still rode in the small of her back, but now, whenever he got the chance, his fingers would skim under her shirt to trace his initials on her skin in a perfect cursive that he never used in his actual handwriting. The swats that had occasionally graced the back of her skull had found a new home on her backside, never hard enough to hurt, but just sharp enough to demand attention. He seemed to like dressing her as much as undressing her, quick to volunteer for the row of tiny buttons down the front of her blouse or to hook her bra. He taught her how to sand his boat, use the tools, and develop a style of woodworking less skilled than his own, but no less lovely in either of their minds.
In time, there were words too. He knew she needed to hear them, and though they came infrequently, he made sure to speak them with every brush of his fingers to make up for the silence.
The first, and only, time his hands shook when he touched her, she had been injured on the field. A stray bullet had found its home in her shoulder. It wasn't until everything was over, the suspect in custody, she safely in the ER that they'd heard the news from the nurse that neither of them had expected. He'd not been open to the idea, she'd been told long ago it would never happen for her, and they were both satisfied enough with that arrangement. When they were finally alone to digest the information, his hand had released hers, fluttering uncertainly down to the swelling beneath her navel, the one she'd assumed was from Tony's endless midnight pizza runs while they'd been on the case, curving over her skin with a mixture of awe and fear. She'd brought her hand down to cover his, and felt the way his fingers trembled beneath her own, but even as he shook, he'd tightened his grasp with the protection and strength she'd come to love so much.
She fell in love with his hands all over again the first time she saw him cradle their son. This time, his hands were steady as a rock.
A/N: Well there you have it. In case you couldn't tell I have a thing for Mark Harmon's hands. Go figure.
Much love, M xx