Ashleigh Anpilova


McGee is thinking about Gibbs and how many things remind him of Gibbs.

Written: November 2010. Word count: 2,500.




L. J. Tibbs gazed at Agent McGregor as if he was seeing him for the first time. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but no one was, not even the object of his attention. He looked back at his agent, letting his eyes travel -


"What the -" McGee muttered, tearing the paper from his typewriter and screwing it up into a tight ball. He was about to toss it into the trashcan, when he realized that wouldn't be enough. He had to destroy it.


Taking the paper with him, he hurried into his bedroom and searched through the stuff he'd dumped on his dresser when he'd gotten home from work to find his lighter. Not being a smoker, he had never carried a lighter until he'd joined Team Gibbs. He hadn't seen any point. But Gibbs carried a lighter, even though he also didn't smoke. Gibbs saw it as part of the 'uniform' in the way his Sig and cap were, so McGee had begun to carry one as well.


He'd never mentioned it to anyone, not to Ziva and certainly not to Tony, and if he was asked for a light he always said 'sorry, I don't smoke'. But every day as he collected his things together before leaving for the office, he'd drop it into his pocket, fingering it just for a second before letting it fall.


He'd considered, had even gone so far as to look at them, carrying a Zippo like Gibbs did. But upon reflection he'd decided that might be taking things too far. If anything happened to him and he was shot (or worse) and someone had to go through his pockets, what would they think if they found what was traditionally a Marine lighter? So he'd settled for something non-descript, which would mean nothing to anyone. But even though it wasn't a Zippo, it still made him think of Gibbs.


He unscrewed the paper, flipped the lighter on and prepared to burn the incriminating evidence. But he couldn't; he simply couldn't just destroy the words; the words he'd wished for so long were, would be, could be true. He sighed, threw the lighter back down onto the dresser and slumped down on his bed, flattening the paper out even more and reading the words his sub-conscious mind had written.


They couldn't come true; no matter how much he wanted them to. Putting aside the fact that Gibbs was completely straight - four marriages, affairs with Madam Director and Colonel Mann, plus various other women, told him that. And even if there was the remotest chance Gibbs did look at men, McGee would be way down the list of men he'd look at. Ducky, Fornell, Tony, then him - he guessed he was lucky to rate above Palmer!


And yet, he mused, something had made him write the words. It wasn't just his desire for Gibbs, because surely if it were, he'd have written it the other way around? Written about Agent McGregor gazing at L. J. Tibbs with desire in his eyes. But he hadn't; it had been L. J. Tibbs gazing at Agent McGregor. So what had made his mind write that?


And then it came back to him as clear as day. It had been earlier that afternoon; Gibbs had sent Tony and Ziva out to interview a potential witness (although at the time part of McGee had thought Gibbs had sent them out so they could carry on bickering at one another out of his hearing). McGee had been following a paper trail and basically getting nowhere. He'd hit wall after wall after wall and had been close to admitting defeat when he'd looked away from his computer screen straight into Gibbs's eyes. Gibbs had been looking at him; had been staring at him, and the look in Gibbs's eyes wasn't one McGee had seen him cast in the direction of anyone else.


The look hadn't lasted long. A nanosecond after McGee had met Gibbs's eyes, Gibbs had glanced back down at his desk; a second later he'd looked back at McGee, but it was his 'normal' look, nothing special.


McGee sighed, folded the paper in half and half again, went to his dresser and pulled out the top drawer. Then he slipped the paper, to join other things he valued, behind the drawer into the box he kept there. Without taking the drawer out, or at least opening it a fair way, no one would know that it was half the size it should be. Maybe Gibbs had looked at him in a special way; but maybe it had all been McGee's wishful imagination.


He headed back to the living area, pausing long enough to open a bottle of beer, sat down at his typewriter and began to write the beginning of chapter five again. But he couldn't concentrate; instead all he could think about were the words his sub-conscious mind had written. All he could think about was Gibbs.


He had to find a way to stop this obsession. It wasn't that it was a conscious one, at least not most of the time. But all he had to do was to smell a hint of Old Spice and he'd think of Gibbs; he'd remember Gibbs asking Tony 'Why are you touching his face'? That was what Gibbs had said to Tony one time, when he'd arrived in the squad room to see Tony stroking McGee's chin. Gibbs had sounded pissed, really pissed, almost as if Tony had been violating McGee - violating something that was Gibbs's. And he'd also remember how Gibbs had tossed him his own shaving foam to use.


And if that wasn't enough, if he saw a man with a Marine haircut or in uniform, again he'd think of Gibbs. Not on the job, he was thankful that he could do his job, work with, investigate and talk to Marines without being totally distracted by thoughts of the man he loved. But if he saw one outside of the job, then his mind instantly turned to thoughts of Gibbs.


Sawdust was another thing that set him off, another thing that brought Gibbs to mind; also coffee, strong, black, sugarless coffee. Tall, grey haired men; long overcoats; a turn of phrase; wood; boats; dark blue eyes, the list was endless.


He had to stop this; he had to stop fantasizing about Gibbs, he had to stop things, perfectly ordinary, every day things, from bringing Gibbs to mind. He had to stop imagining his boss, his very heterosexual boss, his 'never date a coworker' boss looked at him in any way other than the normal way.


He put his head in his hands and groaned; if this carried on, he'd have to find a way to leave Gibbs's team, because if he didn't he was sure one day he would act. One of the times Gibbs leaned over him, touching his shoulder, brushing against his cheek, leaning nearer to look at McGee's computer screen, his scent tantalizing McGee, then McGee would act, act without thinking, just react to Gibbs's nearness, to his scent, to his tone, to the way he looked and felt as he was leaning over McGee.


McGee was positive that would happen, one day it would happen; he was sure of it. And that couldn't happen. It could never happen. He reminded himself yet again that Gibbs saw him as he saw the other 'kids' no more, no less. He had to find a way to stop the feelings. He didn't want to leave Gibbs's team, but he couldn't see any way to prevent it if he couldn't stop his feelings and couldn’t stop being reminded of Gibbs in so many ways.


He stood up, maybe a shower would help him take his mind of Gibbs; take his mind off - The sound of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He frowned; he wasn't expecting anyone and people didn't tend to drop by unannounced.


He hurried to the front door. "Who is it?"


"Gibbs." The voice somewhat muffled came through the door.


McGee's mouth fell open and he stood frozen to the spot. Gibbs? Gibbs was outside his apartment? But why? What did he want? McGee shook his head; of course it wasn't Gibbs. He'd just imagined the person had said 'Gibbs' because his mind was on Gibbs. What on earth would Gibbs be doing outside his door. It was just his ears playing tricks on him.


"Hey, McGee, you going to open the door?" Gibbs's voice was clearer now; it left McGee in no doubt at all as to who stood outside his door.


Was he? He knew he had to, but he didn't want to. What if Gibbs found what he'd written? What if somehow Gibbs knew he'd written it? After all, the boss did seem to be omniscient; he did always seem to know what had been said or done. Could that all knowingness stretch beyond the office? What if he came in and headed straight for McGee's bedroom and -




"Yes, boss. Just coming, boss."



"Thought I told you not to call me 'boss' at home." Jethro's voice seemed to come from a long way away.


"Huh?" Tim opened his eyes to see Jethro, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting on the edge of the bed a faint smile on his face as he gazed down at Tim.


"Jethro?" Tim managed, still fuzzy from the dream he'd been having.


"Who else were you expecting?"


"No one." Tim put his hand on Jethro's cheek and stroked it. "You've shaved," he said, now inhaling and catching the scents of Old Spice, sawdust and coffee - Jethro had clearly been up for some time.


Jethro lips twitched and Tim half expected a witty comeback. Instead, Jethro just ruffled his hair. "Take it you were dreaming?"


Tim nodded. "Yes."




Tim felt his face flush slightly and saw Jethro smile. "Oh, it was before we got together."


Jethro raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Dream about me a lot, did you?"


Tim's felt his flush deepen. "Now and then," he lied.


"Only now and then, eh? I must have been doing something wrong. Although not that wrong, given you seduced me."


"I did not," Tim said, far too quickly. Jethro simply started down at him; Tim saw a mixture of humor, fondness, desire and love on Jethro's face.


Jethro cupped Tim's face, his finger stroking Tim's cheek. "Told Ziva once."


Tim leaned into the caress. "You told Ziva what?"


"That you don't know how to lie." Jethro's tone was soft with just a hint of gruffness; the kind Tim always noticed whenever Jethro came close to emotion.


Tim frowned. "Hey, come on, Jethro," he said, a little bit annoyed at Jethro's words. "Of course I know how to lie."


But Jethro just shook his head. "No, Tim," he said, his tone serious. "You don't. Don't get me wrong," he hastened to add, "you can lie when you have to, for the job. But other than that . . ." he trailed off and shrugged. "And in case you're wondering, it's not a bad thing."


"Isn't it?"


"Nah. Not to me." Jethro leaned down and lightly brushed his lips over Tim's. "You going to stay there all day or . . ."


"Or?" Tim asked, stretching and licking his lips as he gazed up at his lover.


"Or, you want to join me in the shower?" Without waiting for Tim to answer, Jethro stood up and tugged the sweatshirt over his head, followed by his undershirt and tossed them onto the floor. His hands moved to the zipper on his jeans and seconds later he'd pushed his jeans and undershorts down his legs and was stepping out of them.


"I thought you'd already showered?" Tim pushed back the bedclothes and stood up. He was naked and he didn't miss the way Jethro's gaze traveled up and down his body, coming to rest on his groin.


"Did. But I've been working. So you coming?" Tim cocked an eyebrow and Jethro rolled his eyes. "After all," Jethro added, "that's what you were promising, just before you woke up." And without waiting for Tim to answer, Jethro turned and headed towards the bathroom door.


Tim stood for a moment or two, just watching his lover. He shook his head as his mind flashed back to his dream. "I wonder what I did with that box?" he muttered, suddenly remembering he hadn't seen it since he'd moved into Jethro's house and Jethro had 'claimed' his dresser for the basement.


Shrugging, he'd think about it later, he hurried after Jethro who was already in the shower. Pausing only long enough to pee and brush his teeth, Tim joined Jethro whose hands reached for him the minute he stepped under the highly powered flowing water. Jethro's mouth found Tim's and Tim opened his mouth for his lover, inviting his tongue inside, while he began to return the caresses Jethro was bestowing over him.


His pushed his body against Jethro's, feeling his growing erection rub against his lover's as his hands began to chart Jethro's back, moving down to cup his buttocks, his touches mirroring Jethro's own. With a half growl, Jethro spun him around and pressed him against the wall, took his mouth away from Tim's and began to suck and nibble Tim's neck.


"Jethro!" Tim gasped, as Jethro's teeth marked him. He felt his erection increase as Jethro slipped one hand between them to fondle one of Tim's nipples, rubbing it between his finger and thumb until it hardened, before sliding his hand across Tim's chest and attending to his other nipple.


Tim moaned with pleasure and his hands fell to his side; he couldn't cope any longer with the multiple assaults of Jethro's hands, mouth and lower body. He couldn't focus on touching Jethro, he couldn't concentrate on returning the loving, all he could do was press himself against the wall, letting it support him keep him on his feet, as Jethro made love to him.


It didn't take long; Jethro knew how to push everyone of Tim's buttons and far too soon for Tim's liking, he found himself crying out Jethro's name as his climax hit him.


"Seems like you did after all," Tim heard Jethro say, as the water continued to pound over his body. His lover sounded pleased with himself, very pleased with himself.


Tim realized he'd closed his eyes and was still pressed against the wall, still letting it support him. He opened them and gazed into Jethro's dark blue, heavy with lust and love stare. He looked like he'd sound: very pleased with himself.


Tim licked his lips. "Seem like I did," he said, putting his hands on Jethro's upper arms. The next second, he's flipped them around, pressing himself against Jethro who gasped slightly as his body hit the cool tiles. Tim put his lips to Jethro's ear and murmured, his tone husky, "And I'm not going to be the only one."



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