I'm so pleased I signed up for ncis_tinsel; not only because I got another chance to write Tony, and not only because crimsonquills seems pleased with the fic (which are both excellent things :), but because the lovely dawnydiesel has signed up to create art for this story. My first fanfic illustration! Yay!
Title: Say When
Fandom: NAVY: NCIS
For: crimsonquills, who asked for: "Gibbs/DiNozzo slash. Domestic bliss. By "domestic" I mean very ordinary day-in-the-life type stuff. The boys doing laundry together, or waking up together, or making dinner together, or something similar. By "bliss" I mean that they are happy--with each other and with life. Any rating."
Disclaimers: Nope, don't own 'em. It's all made up.
Tony woke as the morning light touched his shoulder, slow and warm. The bed rocked beneath him with the unsteady swish-swash of deep water and the sheets smelled of salt and sleep and Gibbs. He reached out, eyes still closed, but was unsurprised to find the other side of the bed empty. When his hand closed on Gibbs' pillow he pulled it into his arms and buried his nose in it, just as a sound solved the mystery: in counterpoint to the creaking complaint of flexing wood came the buzz and snap of a creel on the deck overhead. Tony smiled. He rolled onto his back, shoving Gibbs' pillow under his head in preference to his own, and stretched, letting his body take all the time it wanted to wake up. His muscles seemed to sigh and come unkinked from a week of all-nighters, and poring over evidence chains, and chewing out his newest probie, Engells, who was so green and eager she made Tony feel every one of his forty-seven years.
For a long time he just lay there in the nested bedding, listening to Gibbs communing with the sea, and watching the wave-shadows shrink and whirl across the ceiling and down the wall. His mind drifted like flotsam from one topic to another, until, with a flash of astonishment--the kind that only ever hit when the familiar suddenly turned on its head and became new again--he thought, This is my life, and it sent such a sharp clutch of happiness through him that he felt compelled, finally, to roll out of bed and start the day.
While he'd slept, his suit had found its way onto a hanger and into the closet. It bulged on the right, where his tie was still a scrunched ball in the jacket's pocket, stuffed there during the drive to the wharf the night before. Tony pulled the tie out and smoothed it over the angled shoulder of the hanger; then he grabbed some sweats and a t-shirt and closed the closet door on the reminder of work.
In the galley, the coffee grinder methodically chewed through beans as Tony stood considering his breakfast options: not donuts, not cold Chinese food, not too much unsweetened coffee with no food at all. He didn't even notice that the noises from the deck had stopped until the quick slap, slap of feet sounded on the stairs. He turned just in time to be pressed back against the cupboards, and then Gibbs was kissing him, face still cold from the wind, his mouth a shock of heat by comparison. Tony's hands snagged in Gibbs' shirt, pulling him closer as he kissed back; Gibbs smelled of fresh-caught fish and sunshine and his own familiar pine-and-spice scent, and his body was thrumming with energy beneath Tony's hands.
"I thought you were busy plundering the fruits of the ocean," Tony murmured into the sweet spot on Gibbs' neck, before using his teeth there, just a little.
"I heard you moving around," said Gibbs, and turned his head quickly to steal another deep, hot-mouthed kiss.
Tony gave him a knowing look. "Heard the coffee grinder, you mean."
"Okay," said Gibbs, "I heard the coffee grinder," and he gave Tony the cheeky little-boy smile he really shouldn't still be able to pull off.
Tony's stomach growled, unamused at the delay. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll make you coffee now, if you'll give me a blow-job after breakfast."
"Lunch," said Gibbs, tapping the clock above the galley's tiny stove. Then, with a yearning glance at the coffee-grinder, "Deal."
"Breakfast, lunch." Tony shrugged as he reluctantly stepped away from Gibbs and turned off the grinder. "As long as I get to eat within the next thirty seconds, I don't care what you call it. Grab the pop-tarts, would you?" He poured the ground beans into the coffee filter.
"Those things'll kill you," said Gibbs, but as Tony added the water and turned on the percolator, Gibbs dug around in the pantry.
Job done, Tony propped himself against the bench and watched. Gibbs was leaning forward, all wiry muscle and clean lines, sleeves rolled up, showing off his forearms, jeans ratty and worn enough to reveal the occasional flash of skin. His feet were bare. Tony was pretty sure Gibbs wasn't wearing any underwear, although with the way his shirt was hanging it was hard to know for sure. Gibbs was kind of dirty too--covered in fish scales, like he'd been cleaning Moby Dick or something up there on the deck, and his hair was sticking up in wind-blown tufts, a little stiff with salt-spray.
On anyone else it would have just looked scruffy, but Tony thought Gibbs looked way too hot for a guy who'd already made peace with retirement.
With a sound of triumph, Gibbs pulled a box out of the pantry and shook it in Tony's face.
"Coco Pops!" said Tony, mouth watering with the sudden ghost-taste of chocolate, stomach growling loudly enough to be heard back on the mainland. "Where the hell did they come from?"
Gibbs just grinned, got out a bowl and started pouring. "Say when."
Tony looked at Gibbs; looked at the bowl filling with Coco Pops. "You bought me Coco Pops!" he said, and his voice sounded low and husky to his own ears.
Gibbs stopped pouring. "You like Coco Pops," he said. He picked one up out of the bowl and popped it onto his tongue. Then he pulled a face, his eyes narrowing with distaste. "For some unfathomable reason. Jesus. That's foul, DiNozzo. You have all the taste and discrimination of a frat boy at a kegger."
Then the box went flying and Coco Pops were cascading onto the floor and crunching underfoot as Tony attacked Gibbs, wrapping both hands around the back of Gibbs' neck and kissing him with extreme prejudice. "You bought me Coco Pops!" he repeated, and kissed him again. "You're the best sugar-daddy ever!"
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs said, but he wasn't fighting him off, wasn't resisting at all. "If you ever call me that again, I'm going to repress all future urges to buy you anything sucrose-related. Clear?"
"You don't mean it," said Tony, pushing Gibbs out of the galley and towards the bed. "You love me. You love me like crazy!"
With an easy grace, Gibbs reversed their positions, tripping Tony into the nest of unmade sheets. "Like crazy," he said, and kissed Tony hard, kissed him on the mouth and neck and above his eyebrow, kissed him with soft-mouthed passion, kissed him with a familiar desperate heat, kissed him the way Gibbs had always kissed him, right from day one; that rainy late-autumn day that Tony had driven Gibbs home, thinking it was Goodbye, it's been swell, the taste of retirement-party champagne faint on his tongue, and instead Gibbs had unhooked his seatbelt, leaned over the handbrake, and claimed Tony like he couldn't wait another minute.
The memory of that first kiss sent hot needles of want prickling all over Tony's skin, and he bucked up into Gibbs, frantic for more, harder, now, all other needs gone, all else forgotten...
"Shh, shh," said Gibbs into his hair, gentling him with a touch on the shoulder, slow and warm, and between one breath and the next the mood turned languorous, their movements echoing the rhythmic lull and tilt of the boat. They rocked together in the passion-wrecked sheets, tasting the salt of their combined sweat with every kiss.
As Tony shivered and pressed his mouth to the wave-shadows whirling across Gibbs passion-lit face, he thought, This is my life, This is my life, over and over, and he clutched at Gibbs with both hands, as tightly as he could.