Title: Cabin Fever
Author: MindyH
Rating: T, for sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Spoilers: "Yankee White", "Enigma", "Bikini Wax", "Twilight", "Kill Ari I + II".
Summary: KIBBS PWP. Series of vignettes with alternate POVs. Sequel to "Our Time" (but it's not necessary to have read that one).
A/N: Please note, this is NOT the full version of this story. If you would like to read the full adult version, it can be found at the NCIS Fanfiction Archive. For this version there is only one chapter that I have cut altogether (hence there is one more 'Kate' chpater than 'Gibbs' chapter) , but I have tried to make it just as cohesive and meaningful and passionate. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter1: Arrival
I recall once saying to Gibbs that a little cabin in the woods was not my idea of a vacation. I'm not sure what I thought was.
I haven't actually had a vacation since, well, since Spring Break -- and I certainly have no desire to revisit that period of my life. After that last juvenile adventure, the upward spiral of my career engulfed all my time and energy and, apart from a day or two over Christmas or Thanksgiving, or a week now and then to catch up on laundry and taxes, I haven't ever had a true vacation.
As I step out of the car and gaze up at the facade of Gibbs' modest getaway spot, I realize that this might be just what I need, exactly the vacation I didn't know I wanted.
The cabin is somewhat like its owner, I note fondly. Quiet, concealed, sturdy and rather charming, in its own rough-around-the-edges kind of a way.
As I follow Gibbs up the narrow path, I notice that the front yard is very over-grown and look forward to putting it in some order. We mount the few steps and I see a two-seater swing lying in one corner of the narrow porch, its ropes frayed and mildewed.
"I'll fix that," says Gibbs, looking at me from under his brows as he pulls out the keys.
The fact that he even locks this place tells me that it is of far more value to him than anything he owns back in DC, which is never kept under lock and key.
"After you," he motions with one arm, giving me a tentative half-smile.
I return the smile, lifting my bag higher over my shoulder and stepping inside. It's dank and dark within, smelling of old wood and cinders, but it's clean and cosy. The small living room is decorated sparsely with a large tribal rug of faded greens and reds and an old brown couch that faces the little stone fireplace. There is a modest window seat facing the front of the house and a bookshelf against the adjacent wall.
Gibbs begins unloading our supplies, allowing me a moment to get acquainted with my surroundings. I meander about carefully, my eye drawn instantly to a black and white photo tucked into the second ledge of the bookshelf and showing a very young L.J., wearing a striped shirt and a bib with his initials. In his fat little fingers he grasps greedily a small toy boat, while his serious little baby face exhibits a familiar scowl. I smile quietly. Beside the photo is the same blue boat he holds, now much worse for wear.
I continue to wander, peering into the front bedroom that holds a desk and a single bed and a watercolor of another boat. Next door, there is a tiny bathroom, with a deep, claw-footed tub and fresh soap and towels already laid out.
I step into the larger bedroom, and take a look around, dropping my bag onto the large wooden bed. Its frame is bulky and rustic, thrown with a dark blue spread and fat pillows, dwarfing the rest of the room. There is a small robe on one side of the room and low dresser in the corner near the large window which looks, through lazy limbs of falling vines, out over the woods. I open up the heavy windows that show off the surrounding landscape in all its quiet glory and take a deep breath.
I hear Gibbs in the kitchen and make my way to the back of the house. He's putting away our groceries, with all the efficiency of the navy man that he still is. He's opened up the back door and I step out onto the porch to take a look at the lake. A slight breeze is stirring the late afternoon haze, as a few ducks glide about the velvety surface of the water. The sun has turned a brilliant orange and is lowering itself languidly towards the hills.
I lean against the railing and hear the screen door slap behind me. Gibbs sidles up close, standing with his front grazing my back, and puts an arm over my shoulder. He hands me a beer, I take it and the arm remains dangling about me lazily. He takes a sip of his own beer over my shoulder and I wait for him to say something.
I have become attuned to sensing Gibbs think something before he says it. He'll mull it over a few times, censor his thoughts, repress his words, while I wait patiently until it spills out in some form or another. It usually, but not always, does.
It's an odd habit, but one that I am familiar with having worked with the man for over two years. He's more inclined to censor his private thoughts than his professional ones though. I tend to do the opposite. I hardly ever stop talking – especially when I'm happy, which I am with Gibbs. But sometimes my mouth can get me into trouble.
He takes another sip and finally starts to say: "It's not exactly--"
I turn putting two fingers over his lips, this time stopping the thought before it takes flight. He immediately silences, his blue eyes sparkling gently at me. I leave my fingers where they are and slide up onto the railing, so we're of more equal height. Then I pull him closer and replace my fingers with my lips.
"Thank you for bringing me here," I murmur and kiss him again, soft and slow, so he grasps my full meaning. I don't want to hear him apologize for anything he thinks I might lack up here. I love it already.
He kisses me gently but thoroughly, his free hand tracing strange patterns on my back, before gliding down my spine and settling on the small of my back. Two fingers slip under the belt of my jeans and stroke the skin there. He hums and pulls away looking at me with a mildly bemused expression.
"It's beautiful here," I say quietly, looking about us at the cosy little cabin and its surrounds.
"Hmmm," Gibbs nods slowly in agreement, takes a sip of beer and glances round. His mouth turns up in a secret smile.
"What?" I ask him curiously and this time he doesn't hesitate before he speaks. "I had my first kiss on this porch, you know," he mutters wryly.
"Really?" I reply, putting my head to one side: "I'm surprised you can remember back that far, Gibbs."
He looks at me with raised eyebrows and assures me: "Oh, I remember."
"How old were you?" I ask, sipping my beer and letting one hand travel slowly over his chest, fingers touching the silver hair appearing at the opening of his shirt.
His eyes focus on the step where no doubt the monumental event took place. "Twelve. She was fourteen …" He chuckles lightly: "My first big crush."
I narrow my eyes at his expression: "Lemme guess -- a redhead?"
"Oh yeah," he muses, lost in the memory: "Jessica Tracey… I used to carve her name in tree-trunks."
I stifle a smile, pursing my lips in playful irritation. "Are you trying to make me jealous?" I demand scratchily.
He looks back at me and straightens slightly, obviously much intrigued by the idea: "Is it working?" he asks interestedly.
I scoff and roll my eyes, looking away. "So….you bring lots of girls here to make out, huh?" I tease mutinously.
"Nope," he shakes his head. He takes a big sip of his beer and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and places the bottle on the railing: "Since then…." His large hands land lightly on my hips and his head drops, looking at where they hold me through my jeans: "There's been…" his voice trails off, then he looks up and squeezes my hips: "You."
I gulp and stare into his eyes, taken aback by his sudden change of tone. This man has such a talent for throwing me completely off-balance with his quiet, honest devotion, always at the most unexpected moments. I'm shocked that I'm the first woman Gibbs has brought here and by all that that implies. And I'm flattered. But part of me can't believe it's possible; he's had three wives, after all.
"You never came here with--?" I question tentatively
"Nope," he shakes his head.
Surely a girlfriend, a fling, someone, at sometime, I think to myself. "Not even--?" I start, dubiously.
He shakes his head again: "No."
I feel a strong trembling in my gut and realize for perhaps the first time, how special this is, that he's sharing this with me. This enigmatic, jaded, guarded, wonderful man who I love so much and who is finally letting me in. Letting me love him.
I pull him closer and draw his face close to mine, kissing him with all the enthusiasm and commitment I possess for our union. I wrap my arms around his neck and feel his arms slide about my body, as he responds without restraint. His kiss is more insistent now, more passionate and within minutes we're pulling at each others clothes.
I press a random sequence of desperate kisses over his neck and down to his chest, where I'm unbuttoning his shirt as fast as I can. His hands are already inside my shirt, unhooking my bra.
"So…" I pant expectantly: "you've never made love here then?" I ask him, hoping to banish all memories of both Jessica Tracey and every lonely vacation he's ever spent here.
"What, here on this porch?" he asks vaguely.
"Mm hmm," I nod, wrapping both my legs around his lower body so my intent is blatantly clear. There can't possibly be anyone watching us way out here and I'm not sure I would care if they were.
Gibbs pulls back and looks at me funny: "You giving me ideas, Agent Todd?" he asks disapprovingly.
"Trying to, Agent Gibbs," I mumble impatiently, nipping at his lips: "Can I help it if you're getting slow in your old age?"
It's the second time I've played the age card, knowing fully that it pushes his buttons. Gibbs smirks dangerously, grasping the two halves of my shirt and ripping them apart, the buttons flying in every direction. I gasp out of shock, my mood for the moment abruptly stalled.
"Gibbs! That was a new shirt!" I look down at myself: "I can't believe you just did that."
Gibbs is completely unrepentant: "I'll get you another one," he mutters, kissing me urgently and cupping my breasts eagerly.
He slips the ruined shirt off and then the unhooked bra. The feeling of my skin against his, through his open shirt lessens my outrage somewhat. But I'm still distressed by the loss, looking around at the scattered buttons:
"Are you going to pick up all those buttons and sew them on?" I demand weakly.
"I have a far more important problem right now, Kate," he tells me thickly, his hands now tracing the same strange patterns on my naked skin.
His gravelly tone draws my eyes up to his. They are alight with deep blue fire and a need I recognize. I feel the familiar tightening and releasing of my whole body as it prepares to be loved by him again. It knows the signs better than my brain.
"What?" I ask him, instantly deciding that clothing is a much over-rated necessity. He looks pointedly down at where my legs are wrapped around him, gripping him with tenacity of a boa constrictor. I look down too, seeing no space to move between his bulging arousal and the open 'v' of my legs. He feels too good to let go.
"How the hell do you expect me to get your pants off?" he demands heatedly.
"That's your problem?" I ask breathily, looking into his eyes.
"Uh huh," he nods, standing helplessly in my trap.
All things come at a price, I think, loosening my hold and whispering against his lips: "I think I can help you out with that."
He releases me, all of a sudden, and takes two steps back, putting his hands out to the side in invitation. He waits and watches. I'm overly aware of my nakedness without him covering me, and self-conscious under his expectant stare.
"You're just going to stand there and watch?" I ask incredulously.
His eyes hold mine in a fiery gaze as he drops one hand to the button fly of his jeans: "No."
I follow his movements with eager eyes and mirror them with hurried hands. Both our jeans hit the floorboards at the same moment that the bright sun hits the hills behind us and begins to melt away. He's instantly against me again, lifting me onto the railing as I push the shirt from his shoulders.
This is exactly what I want, I think as Gibbs begins to press slowly inside me. To be made love to slow and sweet as the sun sets.
This is exactly what I need. This man. This extraordinary man and his love.
I feel an overwhelming sense of both excitement and contentment at the prospect of the next two weeks, being alone with him in this peaceful, beautiful place. I feel grateful that we've finally found the time to get to know each other in a deeper way. I feel honored that Gibbs has brought me here, to share his special place.
It's been a long time in coming, but THIS is my idea of a vacation.