Gibbs turning up at his door is unexpected.

Gibbs arriving drunk enough that Tony notices it even before he inhales and gets a noseful of tequila (what? Why? Oh, Boss…) is unprecedented.

Except, maybe, just maybe, Tony's thought about it at least. How Gibbs would be, anyway. Violent, sentimental, horny, morose? He's seen all those reactions to alcohol and more. Been there himself, too, and he's got the scars to prove it, pale, fading, self-inflicted, across two knuckles.

"Hi, DiNozzo." Goofy, lopsided, slipping smile. Cute. Scary. Both.

"Hey, Boss."

He steps aside and lets Gibbs walk past him and gets to be the object Gibbs collides with when he stumbles (left foot, right, foot, left foot -- oops), which is good because Tony's softer than a wall. Hell, when it comes to Gibbs, Tony's pretty much mush, apart from one (slightly larger than average) part of him that's not (not that he's looked on purpose but you compare, right? Little bit of healthy competition, little bit of curiosity). He's used to inappropriately timed erections and a distracting low-level buzz of arousal now; occupational hazard. He doesn't let either slow him down.

Gibbs would notice that faster than the funny way he walks sometimes, and just the thought of Gibbs noticing is usually enough to take care of the problem.

You'd think it'd be the other way around; that his fantasies would kick up a gear at that point, but, no. Gibbs' eyes would turn icy, and the head slaps would stop. Hell, Gibbs would probably fire him, not out of prejudice; he's got them, sure, but Tony doesn't think that particular one's on the list, but because right now, with women squabbling over him like he's the last dick in the world that doesn't need a battery, one more admirer would be the final straw.

And recently, well, Tony's been distracted. Having your heart broken does that to a man. He's been looking at Gibbs and not going to the place in his head where Gibbs is stopping the elevator with an impatient slap of his hand and using his other hand to push Tony to his knees, an unkissed mouth already opening, just like the zipper on Gibbs' pants.

Looking at Gibbs and seeing the man, not the (monster, marvel, hey, Marvel, superhero Gibbs in cape and tights, and no, not going there, not -- eesh, no).

And now he's seeing Gibbs sprawled, loose and easy, on his couch and he's feeling a little pity, a little pang, but his dick's not tapping the Morse Code for 'let me out to play' against his pants.

Then Gibbs opens his eyes -- when had he closed them and why hadn't Tony noticed? He always notices the details like that, it's his thing -- and says clearly, "Want to fuck, DiNozzo?" and Tony's gone, lost, gasping for words.

Still not hard, though.

"Boss, you're in the wrong place. Got yourself a little turned around when you crawled out of the bottle. You're with Colonel Mann, remember?"

And don't they all know it.

The entertainment value of that particular freak show wore off pretty fast; Tony makes an effort to seem maliciously amused, but mostly he's just bored, anticipating the fallout no matter which way the cookie crumbles and the milk spills.

Regret and guilt flicker over Gibbs' face, but they're chased by a shrug and a quirk of a smile. "I wanted to be with a man, but not that one," Gibbs replies. "You came to mind."

"Well, gee, thanks, Boss. I think."

He drags an ottoman over and sits on it, close enough that he can feel the heat of Gibb's stare. "What happened?" he asks in as soft a voice as he dares.

"Stuff I don't wanna talk about, DiNozzo." And there's that snap, like a wet towel on bare, flinching skin, and Tony's in the game again, lost loves and really fucking shitty assignments and secrets shoved over to the side to be dealt with sometime later (never).

"Then we won't talk about it," he says easily, obligingly, obediently. "Want to watch the game?"

"What game?"

"I don't know," Tony admits. "A game. Any game. There's bound to be one." He reaches for the remote on the table and Gibbs' fingers wrap around his wrist and squeeze hard enough to hurt.

"Ow," Tony says deliberately, not moving, not struggling, not even tensing up. "If you want me able to use that hand in the near future, ease up, will you?"

Gibbs' version of easing up is to grip tighter and then let go. Figures.

"Do you want a drink, or maybe a sandwich? I could do a sandwich --"

"You know what I want."

"Really don't, Gibbs." He lets a spark of anger reach the words and feels them burn as they leave his mouth. "Fucking me or bending over for me -- not your style. I'd know if they were. And you're not the kind to play jokes. So, no, I don't know what you want, not really, but I can guess why you came here."

Gibbs' eyes slide shut. "So tell me."

Tony stares at him, not letting much show on his face, because Gibbs can see around corners, through walls, and an eyelid isn't going to be much of a challenge, now, is it?

"Comfort."

Gibbs' face twists in disgust and it's dagger-stare time. "DiNozzo, do I look like I want a fucking hug?"

"No, Boss."

Gibbs sits up, his jacket falling away from his side, and there's just space for Tony to slide his hand into the skin-warmed space and around to Gibbs' back. He runs his open palm along the bump-dip ridge of Gibbs' spine and back up, as far as he can, and Gibbs' lets him, his head dipping forward, his face blank as if by denying what he wants verbally, he's covered his ass and now he's free to take whatever Tony gives.

"It sucks, Boss," Tony tells him, edging closer and providing a shoulder for Gibbs' head to land on. He rubs his cheek against Gibbs' soft pale prickle of hair in lieu of a kiss Gibbs would never forgive, and multitasks a wastepaper bin closer with a deft bit of footwork, just in case. "Whatever it is. And, yeah, you picked the right man, but you knew that and I guess I knew you knew that… where was I?" Warm, even through a thin cotton shirt, Gibbs' skin is something he want to feel but he's got his code of honor and hell, Gibbs is practically asleep on his shoulder; it wouldn't be right.

He eases Gibbs' jacket off him and Gibbs kicks off his own shoes. Tony can't resist putting both arms around Gibbs just for a moment (not a hug, he's just holding him, it's not a hug) but Gibbs makes a soft, protesting grunt and he lets go.

Gibbs stares at him when he does that, a betrayed, confused look, and Tony sucks in a comprehending breath and puts his arms around Gibbs again and does some more of the back rubbing, some more of the breathing his air through the filter of Gibbs' hair because he can't keep from nuzzling into it and finding the sharp, strong shape of Gibbs' skull.

After a while, Gibbs' arms go around Tony and they're hugging, (sorry, boss, no other word will do, and hey, you do it to Abby, so why not me? (because you're a guy, duh) (Shut up, Abby)) their knees bumping, backs awkwardly arched, and Tony's trying hard not to start humming a lullaby or something because if he did he'd laugh out of nerves and fuck this fucked-up Hallmark moment the hell and back.

Gibbs sighs, a hiccupping sigh that has Tony squinting at the bin and working out the best route to the bathroom -- oh, God, did he flush? Is the bath ring-marked? Is his porn where not even a drunken man could miss it, all lush tits and wet lips because he's searched too many houses to know there's no such thing as a hiding place that works and he only keeps safe, expected, allowable vices around?

Shit, he's really not prepared for unexpected visitors, is he?

Still not hard.

This really isn't what he expected at all.

Then Gibbs does something with his thumbnail, skating it across Tony's ribs, blunt nail digging in, a slow, deliberate drag, and Tony hardens helplessly, an echo-beat later, and moans.

"Changed your mind yet, Tony?" Gibbs murmurs in his ear.

"You're drunk, Boss," Tony says, staring straight ahead at an admittedly uninteresting, but comparatively safe patch of wall. "Wouldn't be fair."

"What, you never seduced a drunk woman? Or got her drunk so she'd let you fuck her?"

Yes and yes, sadly, shamefully, but I was younger, Boss, desperate, wouldn't do it now…

"No, never, Boss."

The slap to the back of his head has lost some of its bite; bad angle, but it still does the trick. Tony freezes anxiously, waiting to drool.

"You're good at lying to women, and that makes you valuable to some people, but you don't ever lie to me." Gibbs can even whisper in scary; who knew. "You got that, DiNozzo, or do I have to do that again?"

"Got it, Boss."

"Good."

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "How drunk are you, Boss?"

"Less than I wish I was, less than you think."

"Ah." Gibbs' shirt collar is damp but his breath isn't smoky with alcohol and his hair smells clean. Tequila as cologne. Nice one, Boss. Should've known you wouldn't waste the good stuff.

"I lied to you," Gibbs said, and they're not holding each other now and Gibbs' gaze doesn't falter as he meets Tony's eyes. "I owe you an apology for that. It won't happen again. None of this will."

"Probably for the best if we pretend it didn't happen at all," Tony says quietly, the way you talk at funerals.

Gibbs considers that suggestion, his head tilted, his eyes thoughtful, and then nods. "Works for me, DiNozzo."

Shoes and jacket on, Gibbs heads toward the door. Tony trails after him, wondering at just what point exactly it all went wrong and only knows that it did and it must be his fault.

"You know," he says, as Gibbs' hand curves around the doorknob, "I only blew you off because you were drunk. If I'd known you were sober --"

"You should have known." Uncompromising, stern. Fuck, Tony's never been into those kind of games, really he hasn't, and he can't see Gibbs using cuffs on anyone but a criminal, but still… yeah. It works for him.

"If I'd said yes, what would you have done, Gibbs?"

Gibbs shakes his head impatiently and the door opens. Tony slams it closed with the flat of his hand. Bang. He's taller than Gibbs and usually that and three dollars plus change will get him a coffee, but now he uses it and crowds Gibbs into the wall.

Gibbs lets him, with a glint in his eyes that says his hold on his temper is slipping, counting down to boomtime, three, two --

"You owe me that," Tony says. "I gave you what you came for and I didn't say a word and I never would have, never will. Knowing you trusted me -- still trust me -- feels good, but --"

"You can think of something that would feel better? Is that it?"

Tony nods slowly and spells it out. "Any way you want it. Any time."

"Here and now? If I said that what would you do?" Gibbs demands and there's an edge of desperation there Tony wants to smooth away, the same way he took Gibbs away from needing to beg a little earlier by being generous, by knowing what Gibbs wanted. Gibbs doesn't need to beg, or wonder, or hope. Not when it comes to Tony.

He just has to take what Tony will give, which is just about everything but his heart, which is lucky, because Gibbs doesn't want that, not when his own is spoken for.

Tony has to wonder why none of the women in Gibbs' life ever get that. It's really not all that difficult to spot the signs even if you don't know the full story.

And as Gibbs leads the way to Tony's bedroom without looking back, he wonders if Gibbs is doing this to reward him for staying, or making sure he does.

When he falls asleep an hour later, his ass tender, his mouth bruised soft, he still doesn't know.

But his hands know the way Gibbs' skin feels, heated from sex, and he's got the taste of Gibbs in his throat and the smell of him rubbed into his fingers and one broken, groaned 'Tony' to play over in his head and make him smile.

And the next morning, after he's woken alone (of course) and got to the office just exactly on time (why not?), there's a coffee waiting on his desk (just the way Gibbs likes it), and Gibbs grins when Tony carries it over and gives it to him, after one sip and a grimace and tells him 'thank you' like it doesn't matter.

(But it does).



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