"You're no use to me like this, Tony." Gibbs' gaze travels over him appraisingly, and Tony sucks in a shiver of a breath that doesn't dare be a word of protest or excuse. "I don't know what you expect --"
"Nothing, Boss," he interrupts. "Nothing, nada, zero --"
"I get it." Gibbs' eyes turn cooler. "Well, that's where we're different."
He's too drunk to be careful but jut drunk enough for that to set off sirens in his head, wailing 'emergency' to an uncaring world. In this case, the only blood about to be spilled is his, but isn't that always the way?
"Different?" he echoes.
Gibbs breathes in his ear and it's a shock -- wasn't he over there, hair pale against the shadows that Tony's been cultivating in his apartment; how did he get to be here, his exhaled air warm and whisky-sweet against Tony's face? The breath carries words with it as well as heat and Tony sorts them out, letter by letter, until they make sense.
"I expect a lot from the men I fuck, Tony. Maybe more than you've got to give."
Drunk or sober, they're fighting words to a man who prides himself on being the compleat lover, par excellence, but he knows Gibbs will win the war -- always does -- so Tony settles for skipping to the surrender part and slipping to his knees, which works as a response in a lot of different ways and really, standing up had become… problematic.
"Maybe not…" Gibbs murmurs from the clouds, far, far away, up high. A hand's stroking the back of Tony's neck, a slow, gentle caress, and it's so fucking weird because it's found the exact place Gibbs' little finger strikes when he slaps the back of Tony's head and it's passing over it again and again and…
"Throw up on my shoes and you'll regret it," Gibbs warns, and that's really not fair because Tony's just sleepy, that's all, and he's hoping he'll remember this, all of this, in the morning, but if he does decorate Gibbs' shoes with pizza and too much beer he'll change that wish to amnesia, permanent and safe. Maybe move to Alaska, too.
"Won't, Boss," he promises. "Gonna suck you, make you happy."
God laughs from on high and no wonder; he can't get offered blow jobs often, which is a pity, because Tony gives really good ones.
"You know, you probably would, but not tonight." Strong fingers curl in his hair and the "Up, DiNozzo" does as much as the yank to get him to his feet.
"Bed," Gibbs says succinctly. "Just you in it, before you offer me something else from the DiNozzo menu."
He stumbles through an abbreviated version of his nighttime ritual with Gibbs watching over him (Matthew, Mark, Luke and Jethro… no, something's wrong there…) and ends up in bed, naked, the wastepaper bin handy, water and aspirin on the night table.
"You staying?" he mumbles. "Stay, Boss, huh?"
"You'll be fine," Gibbs says, as if he can wipe the incipient hangover from Tony's future (he can't; Tony knows he's going to wake in hell). "And I think I got what I came for."
"Like you didn't already know."
"Oh, I knew. I just wasn't sure you did."
"When I'm sober," Tony says, achieving clarity of articulation for a miraculous moment, "I'm going to know that makes no sense."
Gibbs sighs, and in another miracle, his hand returns, moving over Tony's back as if Gibbs just can't help touching him when he's there, naked, close, but he doesn't reply.
"Why wasn't I -- no, why wouldn't I be -- have been -- God! -- any use to you?" Tony asks, as drowsy as if he's fucked, been fucked, come, and confused again.
"You were drunk." Gibbs' voice is uncompromising and his fingers sweep down beneath the sheet and Tony feels his ass rise and his legs part, just an inch or two, no more, but it's involuntary, and he wishes it had been an invitation, not a wordless plea. Inviting someone to fuck you to a moaning quiver is way more dignified than a whimper and a beg, and that twitch of his hips had been no invitation.
"Drowning my sorrows. All that unrequited lusting makes a guy thirsty."
The sheet's swept aside and Gibb's hand lands in a sting and a smart that's familiar, even if the location's a couple feet south of normal. "Yeah? Well, I need you sober, the first time, at least. Remember that next time you make me an offer, DiNozzo. Sober."
"There's going to be a next time?" He twists his head to peer up at Gibbs, who's on his way, going, gone. "Boss?"
"Hell, yes, there's going to be a next time," Gibbs calls back from wherever he is between the bed and the front door.
God's laughing at him, but Tony doesn't care.
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