Keryl Raist's Blog, page 37

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanficiton

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Image from: http://leticiahp16.tumblr.com/40. Texts From Afghanistan

He's lying on his cot, not sleeping. Sleeping would be a hell of a lot easier if he wasn't on a cot, two feet away from Gibbs, in fucking Afghanistan, where he most decidedly does not want to be.

His phone is on silent, but he feels it buzz.

Bedtime? It's a text from Abby.

About twenty minutes ago. You just getting up?

Yeah. Check your email.

He does. There are ten new emails from her. He opens the first one, and it's a picture she took of herself snuggled into his bed, on his pillow. He smiles a little at that, and then goes to the next one. The next one takes a second to open. It's got some sort of mild encryption on it. Same basic pose, her in bed, laying snuggled up with his pillow, but this time the comforter is back enough so he can see she's wearing the cobalt blue silk teddy with the white lace trim he got her a few days earlier.

He opens the third one, and this one takes a few seconds to open. A little more encryption. This one's a panties shot, and yes, she's wearing the panties that go with that teddy. Her hand is splayed open against her inner thigh, thumb on her mound, index finger just dipping under the hem at her leg, but what really gets his attention is the tiny, probably dime-sized, wet spot on the crotch.

He hasn't gotten that hard that fast without a girl actually touching him since he was fourteen.

He shuts down email really fast and finds another text from her.

Like what you saw?

You are evil. Gibbs is sleeping two feet away from me!

Then you'll just have to be really quite.

I'll have to just be really frustrated. I'm not jerking off with him right next to me.

Why not? You can be quiet.

Not that quiet.

So go to the head.

Communal showers, communal head.

No stalls?

No.

Yuck.

Yeah. No privacy, at all, until Germany, two days from now.

Poor baby. Did you look at all of them?

Just the first three.

There's some really good stuff in there.

He grits his teeth, wanting to groan, not wanting to wake up Gibbs as he images what really good stuff might be.

This is not helping with being frustrated.

How about this: I won't touch myself until you get back, and when you do, we'll tear each other's clothes off and fuck like bunnies.

I'm sensing you do not grasp the concept of how male sexual frustration works.

Maybe not. ;) But I certainly get teasing and anticipation. And it's not like four days of no sex is a record for you.

True enough.

So I'll be home, in your bed, wearing the frilly lacy things you've bought me, not touching myself, waiting for you to get home.

You are killing me.

:P So what is your record?

On my own or with a woman?

Both

Seven days on my own, eighteen months with a woman. You?

Six weeks on my own, ten months with a guy.

Six weeks?

Gave it up for Lent once.

Huh. I had the flu for the seven days.

LOL He can imagine the look on her face as she laughs at that. So, lack of sex aside, how is it going?

Hot, dry, people want to kill us, same old, same old. You?

Lot better than that. How's Dex?

He's a Labrador in a war zone with a job to do, and Gibbs is doting on him. He's happy as a clam.

You ever want another dog? German Shepherds live ten to twelve years, and Jethro was already six when he got him. He had died last year.

No. Loving something I was going to outlive by fifty years once was enough.

I get that.

How about you? The new place will let us have one, you want a pet?

A kitten?

I'm allergic to them.

Ferret?

Eat your computer wires.

Bunny?

See Ferret.

Chinchilla?

You can't get them wet.

Why would you want to get a chinchilla wet?

I wouldn't. But if they get wet they get sick.

That makes no sense. They're animals that live outdoors, in the jungle, where it rains.

Look, that's what my mom told us when my sister wanted one. They make bad pets because if you get them wet, they die. He waited, but no new words popped up. It occurs to him that just possibly his mom wasn't telling the truth about that. She wasn't exactly a pet person, and didn't want any sort of small furry thing living in their home. Are you laughing at that?

No. Just couldn't figure out what to say to it. Anyway, I don't think we're getting a pet.

Probably not.

So, Gibbs is sleeping?

He's laying down, his eyes are closed, and he's snoring. If he's not asleep, I don't know what asleep is.

What I'd give to see that. Take a picture?

No!

Come on. You know you want to.

Fine.

He rolled onto his side and aimed his phone, and without opening his eyes Gibbs said, "Take a picture and die, McGee. Tell Abby goodnight and go to sleep."

Apparently, I don't know what asleep is. I've been ordered to go to tell you goodnight and go to sleep.

Goodnight

Love you.

Love you, too.

A/N: Okay, I absolutely adored Seek. Best episode of the year. I loved the fact that we get confirmation that Tim still writes, and the look on his face when Gibbs says they're going to Afghanistan is priceless. And you can see Gibbs is enjoying taking him way too much. (More on that in a later chapter.) That's exactly the way I would have written that scene, but they did it for me! YAY!

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanfiction

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

39. A Husband's Job

"Okay, I've got four super large Caff-Pows, your tooth brush, toothpaste, enough junk food to last for the next three weeks, and No-Doze. You know you shouldn't take that with the Caff-Pow, right?" McGee asked as he walked into the lab carrying the box filled with the supplies Abby requested.

It looked like an explosion of evidence. "My God, you've got to get through all of this?"

An extraordinarily perky guy bopped up to him and grabbed the box from him. "Yep, all by tomorrow. Don't worry about the No-Doze CaffPow cocktails, Abby and I are pros." He put the box down and hugged McGee, who was standing there very stiffly. "You're McGee, right? Abby said you'd be here in a few minutes."

"And you are?" he asked the complete stranger hugging him.

"Ramsey Boone."

"Hey, McGee," Abby breezed back into the lab. "This is Ramsey." She explained who Ramsey is, how they know each other, and more or less tells him that tonight is about to be a cross between a BFF's sleepover party and evidence-palooza.

"So, there's no shot of you coming home tonight?"

She kissed him. "Nope."

"Okay, then I'll see you in the morning." Boone was standing there grinning at them. Tim wasn't used to having anyone staring at him while he's kissing Abby, so he gave her another quick kiss and then headed home.

"So, he was your roommate in college?" Tim asks as he slips into his shoes Friday after work. They're in her office getting changed to go out.

"Yeah." She's changing out of what she wore to work, into something a little less formal? More formal? It can be hard to tell with Goth clothing. It's black and lacy. He's getting more dressed up because they're celebrating nabbing the Dead Rose killer.

His eyes narrow a little. "What kind of roommate?"

"Are you jealous?" Abby asks with a smile.

"In ten years, have I ever not been jealous of your boyfriends?"

She nods; the only boyfriends that haven't bothered Tim are the ones he hasn't known about. "The kind that spent full nights studying with me, and after we'd both aced the test we were studying for, we'd go to a bar and pick up guys together."

Tim smiles. "The kind of roommate I like."

She laughs. "Yeah, the kind of guy you're perfectly happy to have hang out with me. I mean, don't get me wrong, we've had sex, but there was always another guy with us."

Tim winces. "I probably didn't need to know that."

"Just you know, if you might be interested in a threeway, Ramsey would be so into you." She grins, very pleased with that double entendre.

Tim's rubbing his eyes, shaking his head.

"Don't you ever think about a threeway?"

He looks up at her. "Okay, well, yes, but not with another guy."

"Double standard much?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Guys don't do anything for me. I have absolutely no desire to see another guy naked, and I really don't want another one watching me have sex, let alone touching me. And honestly, I don't care if it makes me a jerk, but I don't want to see another guy touching you, either."

"Fine." She straightens his tie. "So, who do you think about threewaying with?"

"Could we maybe do this after dinner?"

"Why?"

"Because either I'm going to end up with a hard-on from talking about it, or you'll hear who it is and be unhappy with me, and either way, I'm not interested in sharing that with Ramsey and... Is he bringing a date?"

"Yeah, Kevin. They've been together for two years now." She looks non-plussed. "Back on topic, have I ever been annoyed with one of your fantasies?"

"No."

"Think I'm about to start?"

"I really hope not."

"Tim, honestly, there's not another person on earth who would annoy me."

"Really?" That's pretty reassuring.

"You could tell me you want to share me with Gibbs and it'd be cool."

He winces again, a whole lot of mental images he could have happily spent the rest of his life without hitting him. "Oh God, that's so wrong. That's wrong on more levels than there are levels to be wrong on."

Abby laughs at that. "Every girl has a little bit of a daddy fetish."

"I needed to know that even less than I needed to know you've slept with Ramsey."

"The point is, I'm not going to freak out. Any woman you like enough to think about sleeping with, I'm probably going to like, too."

"You do like her."

Abby looked up, eyes bright.

"Really?"

He smiles, a little sheepish. "Yeah, really."

"Even better." She licked her lips, and Tim could feel his dick twitch a little at the idea of telling her about this.

"Okay, good. And that's where this conversation stops, because I'm not going to dinner with your ex-roommate, especially with your gay ex-roommate, with an erection. When we get back, I'll tell you all about it."

Dinner with Ramsey and Kevin was fun. Tim felt a little odd being the only straight guy in the mix, by which he's not thinking sexual orientation so much as the only person at their table wearing what most of the rest of society would refer to as "normal" clothing.

"Kevin" in real life:http://thisfellow.com/page/6He's in jeans, loafers, a dress shirt, tie, and navy blazer, more or less the poster boy for casually dressed up thirty-something male. Ramsey's got on a green blazer, pink shirt, rainbow bow tie, and corduroy trousers. Kevin's clothing isn't too far off of Tim's. He's got a vest instead of a blazer, his tie is... Hell, Tim has no idea what Kevin did to that tie, but he wants to google it when he gets home because it looks really cool, and his sleeves are rolled up to show off both arms covered in tatts from the wrists up.

Abby and Ramsey do a lot of the talking, finishing each other's sentences, filling in the blanks for the evidence hunt. Then moving backwards, talking about school and some of the things they used to get up to at LSU.

Eventually they get to the part of the night where the boyfriends talk about themselves. Kevin's a photographer. He's got work in a few galleries, but makes most of his living doing weddings. Tim finds the fact that Abby's basically showing him off like a trophy to her friend amusing. She's bragging about his writing and police work. Both of the guys are properly impressed by the fact that Tim manages to be a full time cop and write.

And eventually, things wrap up, and promises of getting together again are made, and they head on their way back to her place, which is closer to where they ate.

They'd gotten in the door, hadn't even closed it yet, when Abby was looking at him, "So, tell me?"

Tim's staring at the door. "Did you get a new lock on your door?"

"Yeah. Gibbs put it in on Monday."

"Why is he installing locks at your place?"

"Is the stress on he or locks?"

"He and your."

"He was doing it for the same reason why he was doing it."

He looks away from the door to her and says, "You lost me on that."

"Murdering psycho out there, and my very favorite gun-toting super special agent isn't always here. You were on all night, so he made sure I got home safe and took care of the door."

That was a deluge of information he hadn't known. He knew she was scared, but not that Gibbs had seen her home, let alone installed a lock for her. "Were you even going to ask me to do your lock?"

"Have you ever done one before?"

"Yes."

"Then next time I'll ask you to do it."

Tim's staring at the door. "Next time it'll be my house, too."

"True. I found some more places to check out on Sunday."

He's still staring at the door. Which is when Abby starts to get this might be a bit more serious than she thought.

She touches his shoulder. "Does it bother you that I asked Gibbs for help?"

"Yeah." He looks at her, and she can see he's really upset about this. "I'm here three nights a week. You're at my place just as often. The only nights we don't sleep together are the nights where one of the two of us doesn't get to sleep. If you don't feel safe here, go to my place, or ask me to secure your door! That's my job now, not his."

"And when you're working, and he's here, and sees the deadbolt I bought during lunch, and offers to put it in for me because he knows I'm scared, should I say, nope, that's McGee's job?"

"Yes."

The look she's giving him clearly says she thinks he's insane.

"Look, there are things that are my job now. Keeping you safe. That's number one on the list. That's what a husband does."

The you're insane look melts away. It's replaced by something a lot softer, and a lot sweeter. She steps in closer to him and touches his cheek.

He's staring into her eyes, looking determined and worried. "It's my job to be here. It's my job to be the man who keeps you safe."

"And when you aren't here?"

His eyes close, open slowly, and focus on hers. "I don't know. I should be here."

"But you aren't, not always. Keeping a lot of other people safe, that's you job, too."

"I know."

"And you love your job."

"I do."

He rests his head on her shoulder and sighs.

"If it's not going to be you, is there anyone else you'd rather I turned to than Gibbs?"

"No." But she can see he's thinking, hard, about this. The problem that, can't, won't go away.

So she tries to nudge it back into the background and help get them moving forward into the weekend, instead of back to work. "Tonight you are here, and I'm here, and the job isn't going to change or go away, so how about we go to bed, and you tell me about your fantasy threesome?"

They're brushing their teeth, and he's still on edge. Finally he puts the brush down, leans against the sink and pulls her to him, his hands on her hips, pelvis to pelvis and forehead to forehead. "You say the word, and I will be here every night."

"Tim?"

"I don't want you scared and alone. Ask me to, and I'll have a desk job with regular hours in ten minutes."

"I can't ask that."

"Why not?"

"It's not fair. It's not fair to you. I won't be home every night. It's not fair to rip you away from a job you love for the three nights a year I've got the willies. It's not fair to Gibbs or Tony or Ziva. It's not fair to Vance or, God, poor Dornaget; he'd end up being Tony's new Probie all the time. And it's not fair to the hundreds of people you'd save or avenge or give some peace by catching the bad guys. I'm a grown woman. I'm armed, and you know I can shoot. I've got a door you'd need a battering ram to break down. I can take a few nights a year on my own."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Go shooting with me tomorrow?"

"Okay."

They're in bed when she says, "So, come on, tell me."

"I'm not exactly feeling wildly sexy right now."

"But you will be if you start talking to me. Here," she sits up, "take off your jammies and roll onto your side."

He sits up and shucks off the sweat pants and MIT T-shirt he had on and rolls onto his side. "I'm starting to think pajamas are overrated. We put them on, and most nights take them off less than an hour later, and then put them back on again. Seems like a waste of energy."

"Facing away from me." He flips so his back is to her, and she settles in behind him, her hands brushing his neck. "It gets cold in here."

"We could get another comforter."

"That'd probably take care of chilly." She begins to rub his neck and shoulders. "Still, getting them off can be a whole lot of fun."

Okay, yeah that was true. "Then wearing them can be a signal that's the sort of fun one of us wants." Her thumbs press up into the top of his neck, just below his skull, and he sighs. "That's good."

"Yeah, you're really tense right now."

"The door thing freaked me out."

"I noticed." She's kneading his neck, rolling tight muscles under her fingers.

"My dad was gone three hundred days a year some years."

"Oh."

"For something like five years he would be on his ship for six months, have two with us, and then six months on board again.

"My mom's dad was great. He was always there for us. He would have installed a deadbolt if my mom wanted one. He was the one who brought my mom and Sarah home from the hospital when she was born, 'cause the Admiral wasn't anywhere around. He taught me how to drive. I loved my grandfather, and I miss him like crazy sometimes, but I don't want Gibbs to be that guy for you. I don't want him to have to be that guy for you."

"It's not the same thing." Her hands go still, just holding his neck, keeping it warm.

"Isn't it? You want or need something, and I'm not here for it."

"You want to be here, right?"

"Yes."

"Did your Dad?"

Tim has to think about that, and while he does she moves onto his shoulders. Trapezius, he thinks, feeling the sharp almost burn of too tight muscles fighting relaxing. He takes a deep breath and tries to make his shoulder let go of the tension.

Finally he feels the muscles start to melt, and finally he comes up with an answer. "No. He didn't. Not really. He was always on edge at home. He wanted to be on a ship."

"You planning on leaving for ten months a year?"

"No. I'd resign before I'd take afloat at this point."

She kisses the nape of his neck, not needing to say anything more to that. She spends a few more moments rubbing his back as he continues to relax into it. He's quiet while she does it.

"What are you thinking?"

"Latissimus dorsi, erector spinae," her hands move down his back, along his spine and cup his hip, thumbs pressing into the muscles, "illiac crest, gluetus medius, deep hip rotators. Ow. Don't Rolf me."

"Sorry. You're really tight. Body work wouldn't be a bad plan. So you're just naming the muscles I'm working on."

"Not really, I'm just aware of where your hands are."

"Okay."

She scoots a little closer, so she's pressed up against his back. He can feel she's still got her jammies on, boxers and a T-shirt, but off the top of his head, he can't remember which ones she's wearing. They're at her place, so they're probably not his, but that's about as well as he knows. Her arm snakes around him, and begins to rub his chest. It's not so much erotic as relaxing. More of what she had been doing to the back of him. He sighs.

"Feels good."

"You're shoulders get that tight, it'll affect your pecs as well."

"Yep. Physiology 101. Anything that gets side A will also affect side B."

She kisses his shoulder, and licks it lightly.

"That feels good, too."

"Good. Are you sleepy?"

"A little. Looking forward to sleeping in with you tomorrow morning. Really hoping we don't get a call out."

"I'm not feeling one."

"Your gut is telling you no call outs?"

"I call them psychic vibes, but gut works fine, too."

He laughs a little. Inhales deeply, and lets it out slowly. He's starting to feel a lot more relaxed and a bit on the playful side.

"So, you really want to know about my fantasy threesome?"

"Yes!" Suddenly that hand that had been massaging his pec was now gently stroking his nipple. "So, who are you thinking of?"

"Usually or most recently?"

She sounds a little surprised. "You think about it that often?"

"Probably number eight on the top ten fantasies."

"So, really, who, usually?"

"Breena."

"Breena? That's who you're so worried about? I'd do her." He can imagine the look she's giving him based on the way her voice sounds. She was right; this was very much not a big deal to her.

"Really?"

"Sure." She kisses his shoulder again. "She's not gonna do us. Especially not without Jimmy. The girl who waits twenty-seven years until her wedding day probably isn't interested in a threesome without her husband."

"Probably isn't interested in one with him, either."

Abby nods. "So, why did you think I'd be bothered?"

"We actually know her, for one."

"Rather you were interested in sleeping with friends than strangers."

He thinks about that for a moment. "Why?"

"Sex should at least be friendly. And if you like a beautiful woman, I'm gonna think there's something wrong with you if you aren't interested in having sex with her."

"Huh. I'm a jerk if that isn't a two way street, aren't I?"

"What? You don't want me wanting to have sex with all my guy friends?"

He nods.

He feels her shrug. "Not a jerk, you're just a guy. It's your biological imperative versus mine. You want to make sure the babies you're providing for are yours. You don't want to waste energy on kids that aren't yours. So you want to keep me away from other guys and get as many girls as you can. I'm designed to make sure those kids grow up, so forming relationships with whomever can help that is good for me. So, what's number two?"

"Number two?" He lost her somewhere on the biology bit. Not that he didn't understand the evolutionary stuff she was talking about, just that the number two thing didn't seem to go along with it.

"You said 'we know her, for one'... That suggests number two."

"Oh, yeah... She's just so..." He tries to think of a way to put this into words. "Wholesome?"

She presses up tight against his back and squeezes him. "Baby, if I hadn't figured out by now that you get off on forbidden fruit, I'm not paying attention. The perky, blond, virgin-until-her-wedding-day wife, of your best married friend couldn't get any less forbidden. Of course you're going to want her."

"Want you more."

"And you should. Tell me what you fantasize about the three of us doing?" The hand that had been playing with his nipple stroked down his body, and curled around his dick.

"We're on my sofa."

"Just hanging out?"

"Yeah, talking, maybe having a drink or something. You're in the middle. I'm on your right; she's on your left."

"Where's Jimmy?"

"Not with us. Beyond that, I have no idea. He's just not there. In my fantasy world, Jimmy basically doesn't exist."

She laughs at that. "So how do we know Breena?"

He turns to look at her. "Are your fantasies that detailed? Mine tend to get straight to the sex."

She kisses him, and then gently nudges him back to facing away from her. "Then by all means, let's get to the sex." He feels her giggling as she says that, and the hand on his dick releases, her fingers begin just ghosting along the head, soft, feather light touches that he can barely feel.

"She says something, and we're laughing, and no, I have no idea what she says, the laughing part is the important bit, because we're having fun. And we start to calm down, and I lean in and kiss you, and you kiss back, and for a moment that's all that's going on. But I have my arm around you, so I feel it when she strokes your arm.

"It's soft, tentative, like she can't believe she'd do this, but wants to anyway. Like she can't not touch you."

"So, in your fantasy, I'm the one in the middle?"

"Ish."

"Ish?" She sounds intrigued by that.

"Just let me tell it."

"Okay." She takes her fingers away, does something, sucks on them he guesses, because when she returns to petting his dick her fingers are wet and slippery.

"Mmmm..." That felt good. His eyes slip shut and he relaxes further, getting into a storytelling frame of mind. "You pull back from my lips when you realize my arm in on your shoulder, so the hand stroking down your arm isn't mine. You turn to her, and she's staring at you with wide eyes, just really looking at you, her hand on your wrist. She drags her fingers down your hand, really lightly, and I can see the goosebumps rise on your skin.

"You flip your hand over, and she traces along your palm, and then slowly up the inside of your arm."

"Am I wearing a short sleeve shirt?"

"Tank top. She's wearing a little, sleeveless blouse thing, with buttons, and you're both wearing skirts."

"What are you wearing?"

"It doesn't matter. By the time I'm naked in the fantasy, I'm just naked."

"We don't undress you?"

"You're busy."

"Jeans. You've got on jeans. Black belt. We're home, hanging out, it's probably a weekend, so, t-shirt, and if you've got on a t-shirt you're wearing sneakers."

"I don't wear my belts with t-shirts."

"No belt then."

"Okay, so we're all dressed and on the sofa. Do you want any other scene setting?"

"How's the lighting?"

"Night. Overhead light and kitchen light are on."

"Okay. I've got it in my mind."

"Good. What was happening?"

"Breena was feeling up my arm."

"She brushes her hand up your arm, and you squirm a little, because it's soft and tickly." He holds the arm that's wrapped around him out for a moment and trails his hand up the inside of her arm, tips of his nails causing sharp tickly, tingly sensations to race through her.

"She's got those long, pink fingernails, and I'm watching them slip up your skin. And as you squirm, the side of your breast rubs against the back of her knuckles. She blushes when that happens, and starts to pull back, but you stop her, you take her hand in yours, and use your other hand to stroke up the inside of her arm."

"You get off on arm petting?"

"It's character development. This is Breena. She's got to be coaxed, gently into this."

"So, Jimmy just doesn't exist, but there's an entire backstory for the seduction of Breena?"

"Yes."

Abby laughs.

"Anyway, you're trailing your hand up her arm, stroking it lightly, almost more brushing the hairs on her arm than the skin, and she's still just staring at you. Like you are the most beautiful, most desirable person ever. And as you reach her shoulder she's leaning toward you, wanting more, but there's still some fear in her eyes, she doesn't know if this is okay, if she's allowed to have you.

"You lay your hand on her shoulder, cupping it, and gently pull her toward you. She comes to you, easily, sitting right next to you, her leg pressed against yours.

"You reach out with your right hand, and stroke her face. She turns into your hand, opening her lips a little, eyes slipping shut, sighing at the touch.

"Your thumb drags across her bottom lip and she lightly, with just the tip of her tongue, licks across the pad of your thumb. You moan a little at that."

"Have I ever moaned when you've licked my thumb?"

"Okay, I moan a little at that."

"Better."

"Your fingers slip down her neck, and flick open the top button of her shirt. She feels you do it, and grabs both of your wrists, holding them in front of her, and then lowers your hands so they're lying on her lap. She leans in and kisses you.

"And it's really slow, and soft, and lots of lip and tongue action, and honestly I can run this part in my mind for a pretty long time."

"So, do you actually do anything in this fantasy, or do you just watch?"

"We'll get there." Her fingers lightly stroking his dick and the image of Abby and Breena kissing combine, start to make him hard.

"She starts to whimper, soft, breathy, needy sounds. She wants more than your lips. She lets go of your wrists, and her one hand's closing around you knee, and the other snaking around your back. She jumps a little when she does that, because by doing that she touches me, and for the first time she seems to notice I'm still in the room.

"She breaks the kiss, pulls back, looks at both of us, and asks, 'Is this okay?'

"You nod, and I manage to choke out, 'Yes!'

"I shift so I'm kneeling on the floor in front of both of you. She's still staring at us, and you're grinning at her, unbuttoning the top button on her blouse.

"I lean in and kiss you, quickly, mostly just showing you how turned on I am, making sure this really is cool with you. Then I turn to her, and gently touch her face, and stop, waiting for permission. She nods, and I lean in to kiss her. And again it's soft and wet and open mouths and lots of tongue and I can taste you on her, and smell her perfume mixed with yours.

"Her one hand closes around mine, and the other is still wrapped around your waist. You're nibbling my ear while you unbutton her blouse."

Abby's light petting and talking about kissing means he's good and hard now. She wraps her fingers around him and begins to slide her hand up and down. "This is what you do when you think about this, right?"

"That's awfully close."

"What do you do differently?"

"I'm usually in the shower, but if I'm not, I use some lube."

She lets go of him, and his back feels cold as she rolls over to the nightstand to grab the lube. But then her hand is wrapped around him, and it's slick and tight, and he's perfectly happy with that.

He sighs, hips slowly rocking. "That's really good."

"So, the shower, huh?"

He shrugs a little. "Easy clean up."

"Sometimes it's really nice to be a girl."

"You can get off as often as you like, don't have to worry about making a mess, and don't have to worry about everyone seeing when you're turned on. Yeah, I'd say that's nice."

"Wet panties aren't all that much fun if you've got to wear them for too long."

"I'll take your word for it."

"So... we're all kissing..."

"And you're unbuttoning her blouse. That's another really clear image, your long fingers slipping buttons through their holes, and each new inch of naked skin.

"I pull back to watch. One hand on her hip, one on yours, as you slip your hand into her blouse, fingers lightly stroking her chest and breast. She's got on this small, white, lace bra, and your fingers skim over it, lightly pulling it down, so I can see one of her breasts.

"You were kissing her, but you pull your head back, and lick down her neck to that breast, and I watch you roll your tongue over her nipple.

"She gasps at that, half-surprised you're doing it, half-surprised at how good it feels to have a soft, wet, female mouth on her.

"She's thinking about how pretty it looks, your mouth on her, the way your tongue just glides over her skin."

"She's thinking it?"

"Well, I am, really, but she is, too."

"And what are you doing while I'm licking Breena?"

"In the fantasy I'm just watching. In real life I'd probably have a hard-on so hard that lack of blood to my brain would have caused me to pass out."

Abby laughs at that, kissing the back of his neck, and stroking him a little faster.

"Does she do anything to me?"

"She will. She cups your neck in her hand, and pulls you up for another kiss, her hands finding the hem of your shirt, and pulling it up and off of you.

"You're not wearing a bra. For a moment she just watches you, then she tells you to stand up, so you do, and she tugs off your skirt. You've got on those little red lace panties. The ones I got you with the rose on the hip." She nods, knowing which ones he's talking about. "She stands up too, and she's shorter than you are, so she arches up on her tip toes, runs her fingers through your hair, and kisses you long and hard, pressing up against you.

"Your hands are slipping all over her, under her shirt, over the skirt, and I'm thinking she's wearing entirely too much clothing, so while you kiss, I slip her skirt off. She lets go of you long enough for me to get her shirt and bra off.

"I press up behind her, lifting her hair out of the way, kissing her neck and back, while you kiss her lips. I stroke my hands over yours, up your arms, skimming them over the sides of your breasts and down your sides to the panties, and then slip them off of you, kissing my way down Breena's back and leg while I do it."

"Nicely coordinated."

"Thank you." He grins for a moment at that, and she adds a very pleasant twist to what her hand is doing. "As I stand back up, licking my way up her leg, she stops standing on her toes, and begins kissing her way down your jaw and neck. Her tongue traces along your collarbone, and down to your breast. She's licking you all over, her hand cupping you, while her other hand drifts down your stomach and stops right above your pubic hair, not touching, yet."

Her hand, which had been slipping over him in a steady slow rhythm stopped, and just held him. "You really like girl on girl foreplay, don't you?"

"I wrote two lesbian erotic novels. What do you think? You want me to just skip ahead to the part where you put on the strap on and we both do Breena?"

He couldn't see if her eyes went wide when he said that, but her voice sounded like they might have when she asked, "You go there in this fantasy?"

"I could."

"Wait, how much of this is your usual fantasy, and how much of this is you telling me a sexy story?"

"About fifty-fifty by this point."

"How about you stick to the regular fantasy?"

"If you want me to."

"Yeah, I want to hear what you like, not what you think I like."

"Okay, I step behind you, kissing your neck and shoulders, and take her hand in mine, and lead it down, showing her how you like to be touched. Guiding her fingers with mine, making you moan and gasp. And you're so wet and slick; I can't not fuck you, so I nudge your foot, and you know that means I want you to spread your legs, so you do, and I slip inside you." Her hand tightens on him as he says that and speeds up.

"So, you're naked now?"

He doesn't answer for a second, just feeling her hand moving on him. "Yep, just like magic.

"I'm not moving too much, mostly just enjoying being inside you," and her hand slows down, but stays tight, "and keeping you and Breena from falling over. You're leaning into me, and she's pressed up tight against you, kissing you hard while her fingers go to work.

"She's a pretty quick study. You're hips are rolling, eyes half-closed, face and chest flushing."

"How can you see that?"

"Third person omniscient narration. I can tell you what Breena's thinking if you like."

She licks his ear and giggles a little, and then begins to slide her hand over him the same speed her hips move when they roll the way he's talking about.

He sighs. "Yeah, just like that... Mmmmmm... So she shifts over a little, straddling your leg, riding it, moaning gently. And you know what she wants, taking one of your hands, slipping it into her panties, and begin to finger her.

"She stops you, steps back, takes the panties off, and then crushes back up against you, fingers moving faster and faster as you thrust between us." Abby's hand matches his narration, moving faster, tighter, less coordinated, against him.

"She's kissing you, rubbing her breasts against yours, as her hand flies over your clit, and I grind into you, making sure to get that angle you love, and you're making that soft, breathy, I'm-gonna-climax-in-two-strokes sound. She sucks your bottom lip, hard, and you're gone, twitching and pulsing, hand clenched in her hair as you get off." She squeezes her hand as she stokes it up and down him fast, and then just holds him, giving him soft, easy, and non-rhythmic squeezes.

"We hold you for a few minutes, letting you come down." Her hand went soft and snug around him, not
moving.

"When you do, you slip off of me, and away from Breena, pushing her in towards me. I grab her hips, pulling her flush against me, grinding against her stomach, while you stand behind her and play with her breasts.

"The two of us kiss, hot and hard. I'm tongue fucking her while you start with your fingers, and after a minute, she breaks away from us, taking each of us by the hand, and says, 'Sofa.'

"She has me sit on the sofa, then straddles me, facing you, pulling your head down to kiss while she eases onto me." Abby's hand tightened and began to slip down him.

"And she's soft, and hot, and wet, and different. Not tighter, but just different. Really good. My hands are on her hips, not guiding her so much as just touching her, and she nudges you down, so you're kissing her breasts, and then you look at both of us, and smile, pure, happy, wicked, sexy joy in your eyes, and you lean further down, and being to lick her pussy.

"You're being careful about it, not touching me, just getting her clit, and she moans while you do it, thrusting into your mouth, trying to get more pressure from your tongue, but you pull back, kneel in front of us, and hug both of us, and then lean over her shoulder and kiss me.

"I'm licking her off your lips while she rocks on my cock... And it's almost too much... It's like being swallowed by sex." His hips are moving faster, meeting the firm and fast stroke of her hand. His breath is coming faster, and his balls are starting to pull up.

She stopped stroking. "This is a really long fantasy. How long does it take you to masturbate?"

That derailed his train of thought. His eyes snap open and he looks over his shoulder at her. "How long? I've never timed myself. Long enough to get it done. Usually though, I don't have someone interrupting me every...You're doing this on purpose!"

"You think I might be drawing this out, frustrating you, on purpose?" Her hand began slowly stroking over his dick.

"You are!"

"I wouldn't do that, would I?" She kisses the tip of his nose and grins.

"You're evil, you know that?"

She kissed his shoulder, nudged his head so he was looking forward again, tightened her hand and gave him a few fast pumps followed by a few soft, gentle, slow ones.

"And yet you love me anyway. Keep talking."

He closes his eyes and tries to get back to where they were. "Okay," he said with a sigh, bringing the image, scent, taste, and feel back into his mind. "You break the kiss, and I lean back on the sofa, Breena riding me. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, and begin to lick both of us. I can hear you lapping against her, and every few strokes, as I pull out, I feel your tongue drag down my dick, and then you go back to her, switching between us randomly enough that neither of us knows where you're going to go next." She's pumping him fast, and he's not having a hard time getting back into it. "I reach down, spread her lips farther apart, and begin to finger her, because I want to feel her come on me. You lick my balls for a minute, and I squirm happily while you do, then you move my finger out of the way and take over on her.

"Then she's crying out... Coming on my cock... Your tongue driving her mad."

He's thrusting fast against her hand, and realizes he's got to draw this back some if he doesn't want to get off before she gets into the action. He takes her hand in his and stops her.

For a few seconds he holds her hand, letting himself slide back from the edge. "Don't get me wrong, I love what you're doing, but if you don't back off, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."

She squeezed him a little tighter and pumped him fast. "Finish the story. Your fantasy, you get to get off. Tomorrow morning, we'll even up the score."

That sounded really good. "Okay, then grab some tissues for me. Mess on the bottom sheet is easy enough to deal with. Don't want to get cum all over the top sheet."

"Roll onto your back. I've got you for this."

He did, and she shifted, moving so she was kneeling between his legs. Then she bent and took just the
head between her lips, holding the base of the shaft in her fist.

"Ohhhhh..."

She stayed perfectly still, hand and mouth not moving.

That took a bit more of the edge off, toned down the need to climax. He waited for a few more breaths, to see what she was going to do, and just as he was about to ask she pulls back and says, "You keep talking, I keep moving. Stop talking and I go still."

"Okay. She slips off of me, and says, 'On the floor.' So I lie down on the floor.

"Each one of you is kneeling next to me, and you're both kissing each other, and your hands are twined around me, sliding up and down. I'm thrusting along with it, enjoying the feel of it, loving seeing you two do it together.

"Then Breena breaks the kiss. She bends down, licking me while you stroke. She lets go, but you keep jacking me while she laps at the tip." Abby started to mimic what he was saying. "Oh, God, yeah, like that..." His voice trailed off and as it did so her hand and mouth moved more slowly, coming to a stop.

He started talking again with a quick breath, "Yeah, licking. She's licking. The tip of her tongue rubbing against the underside. And your hand is moving nice and slow, driving me crazy." And once again she mimics what he's saying.

"I grab you, pull you up to my mouth, and roll onto my side. You get the idea, my head cradled on your leg as I lick and suck you. And Breena is still sucking me, but she hasn't quite gotten how this works, so you tell her to lie on her side and hitch her leg up. And she does, and you go down on her.

"And there's no middle, or we're all in the middle..." Abby's hands and mouth speed up and he's breathing hard enough it's making it difficult to talk.

"And I'm...licking you... pussy on my mouth... feeling... tasting... You're all over me... Taste so good...

"And she's...oh...fuck...yeah...sucking...just...like...shit...that. Oh fuck. God, baby... can't talk... please don't stop."

And Abby didn't. She kept up the suction, using her hands to stroke along with her tongue and lips, and in a few strokes he was shuddering, pleasure tingling through all of him. He felt her swallow, gently suck a few more times, swallow again, and release him.

"C'mere." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply. It's not that he's particularly fond of the taste of his semen, but he does love the taste of him on her. After a minute's kiss he said, sounding sleepy, "I so owe you tomorrow."

"Yeah, you do."

"You'll have to tell me yours."

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Your favorite one with another girl."

He can feel her smile at that idea.

Shards: Today It Wasn't Me

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

"Hey Breena."

"Hi Abby, what's up?"

"Could you come to the lab?"

"Sure. Why do you need me at the lab?"

"It's a surprise."

"Okay, I'll be there in half an hour."

Abby felt sick to her stomach as she hung up. But she wanted Breena driving happy, relaxed, alert, and paying attention to the traffic, not in a blind panic worrying about Jimmy.

Two minutes ago, the Team had headed out to go get Jimmy and Ducky, and she knew that if Jimmy did come back, Breena would want to see him right that second and he would want to see her. And if he didn't, she'd want someone to hold her and cry with her, and for that matter, so would Abby.

There was no way she was going to let Breena sit at home, wondering where Jimmy was, waiting for the knock on the door... Well, no, Breena wouldn't be worrying about that knock. Jimmy's a medical examiner, not a cop. But ME or not, that knock could be coming.

But it wouldn't, not like that at least, because Abby was going to make sure Breena was here, with her, with family, not having to face the wait alone.

Breena got there half an hour later, and Abby can tell by the way she's dressed, cute top, flirty skirt, heels, that she's thinking this is some sort of anniversary surprise Jimmy's come up with.

And she can see, just as clearly, that look of pleased curiosity fall apart as she lays eyes on Abby and sees the fear.

She wraps her arms around Breena and says, as carefully as she can, because she doesn't want to start crying, "Jimmy went missing a few hours ago. Gibbs and Tim and Tony and Ziva found him half an hour ago, and they're out getting him back."

She feels Breena stiffen, feels the shivers start, but she doesn't cry, she just asks, "Missing how?"

"Someone kidnapped him and Ducky."

Breena looked up at the ceiling, took a very deep breath, let it out slowly, and began to pray. And that didn't sound like a bad idea to Abby, so she joined in.

Two and a half of the longest hours in the history of time passed until her cell buzzed. Four words, from Tim, and they felt better than almost anything he'd ever told her.

Got them. Everyone's fine. She showed that to Breena who began to sob as soon as she saw them.

They headed up to the Bullpen to wait for them to come home. And it was another very slow two hours before the elevator pinged, and Breena ran to it, waiting right in front of the doors. Before they had opened all the way, she rushed into Jimmy's arms, clinging to him, and he was holding onto her for dear life, face pressed against her shoulder, babbling about missing their anniversary, and finally she pulled his face up, and kissed him soundly. Then stopped, looked at him for a long time, kissed him again and said, "It doesn't matter. You're alive." Everyone else filed out of the elevator, Gibbs providing an arm for Ducky to lean on, and the doors shut, giving them some privacy.

No one said anything when Tim walked straight up to her, wrapped his arms around her, while she rested her face against his chest, her hands rubbing his arms, and waist, the sort of touch that seemed to be testing, making sure he was really there.

They usually aren't any more affectionate at work than they were before they started dating. Mostly because it's work. But today no one looked, and no one snickered, when she kissed him hard and frantic, and then took his hand and led him to the stairs toward the parking lot less than a minute after they got back.

They didn't talk, because the best he could say to her was, "Today, it wasn't me," and that's not good enough for either of them.

If sex is a language, and she's fairly sure it is, what happened when they got home, barely in the door, was mostly an expression of fear, and reminding yourself that another day has passed without the worst happening.

They aren't strangers to the up against the wall quickie. Likewise, fast and hard isn't something new either. But today's terrified edge was new. She hadn't realized how scared she was until Tim had gotten back, and she hadn't realized the fear wasn't just for Ducky and Jimmy until he was walking across the Bullpen toward her.

And right now, the only thing easing that fear is touching all of him, as much and as quickly as possible, and feeling him touch her, knowing that hands and lips, cock and tongue, all on her, are real and alive and him.

In bed after, wrapped around each other, still awake, was in many ways more intense than the sex. Sex makes your body produce happy chemicals that help shut down fear and sorrow.

There's still nothing they can say to each other. No good reassurances that will mean anything, or even begin to approach true. Comforting lies aren't, not when both of you can do the math.

Palmer's nine months anniversary also means it's the nine month anniversary of the explosion. And especially with Palmer and Ducky going missing today, the danger of their jobs, his more than hers, but hers certainly isn't safe, is fresh in both of their minds.

She can feel the weight of all the people they've buried together over the years, and the fact that there is no magic protective shield that will keep any of them safe, and as that settles into her mind, she begins to tremble, and cry.

Tim holds her tighter, still not saying anything, but eventually she notices the tears she feels aren't hers alone.

In the morning they got up and forced fear into the background, because there's nothing that can be done besides pushing it aside and moving forward.

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanfiction

McGee centric character study/romance.  Mature Adult rating on this one, so skip if you don't like explicit sex. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.


36. The Hinky Thing



"You know, I kind of miss the coffin," Tim said as they got ready for bed.
"You miss the coffin?" Abby didn't look like she ever expected him to say that.
"Well, I miss what we did in the coffin. The... ummm... hinky thing we did in the coffin."  Tim blushes a little at that. They did the hinky thing once, and then never talked about it, or did it, again.
So, the hinky thing... Okay, now, if you were to ask him, Tim would totally blame the hinky thing on the booze. It was maybe two months after they started dating the first time, and it was also right after one of Tim's more intimidating first cases. He was pretty convinced that Gibbs was going to kill him, or worse, get him fired. So anyway, after work, looking to burn off some serious nervous tension, he got some sushi and sake, and went back to her place.
The thing about sake is that it tastes a lot milder than it actually is. By the time your brain has realized you've ingested something with some real alcohol in it, you're pretty much soused.
And kicking a three-quarters full bottle of Riesling after the Sake ran out didn't help.
Yeah, so, he was pretty drunk. At least by Tim standards.  And Abby has an even lower alcohol tolerance than he does, so she was completely gone.
Anyway, hard day at work, lots of alcohol, and sex was in the offing. They had gotten to the coffin (Box sofa she had called it, and he went along with it, but come on, he's not blind, and sure, the first time the lights were off, but he woke up in it the next morning, so the gig was kind of up at that point. But if she wanted to call it a box sofa, well, he wanted to have sex, so a box sofa it was.) and she said, "Do you want to play a game?"
Tim was always willing to play Abby's games, so he said yes.
"Okay, here, put on your jacket, get in, and stay really still."
That sounded like an odd request to Tim, but, sure, he did it. He lay in the coffin, dressed in a suit, because back then he still wore suits to work, and stayed still. Abby followed him in, also fully dressed, and he remembers this pretty clearly, she was wearing a plaid skirt, thigh high socks, no shoes, a black t-shirt with a skull on it, and a choker, but not one of the spikey ones.
It wasn't until she folded his hands over his chest that he figured out what was going on. Honestly, he was a little freaked out by it. But she unzipped him, took him in her mouth, and he decided he could deal with a little freaked out if it meant he was going to get a blow job.
It was good. It was insanely good. Maybe because he was a little freaked out. Maybe because he was still dealing with the emotions from the case. Maybe because it was only the third he'd ever had in his life. Anyway, he was insanely turned on when she put the condom on him, leaned up, pulled her panties to the side and slid down on him.
He kept his eyes open, which was probably out of character, but there was no way he wasn't going to watch her do him.
Now, there's pretty much one thing all guys want to do when they have sex, and that's move. It's not necessarily all about deeper, harder, faster, but still, thrusting, increasing the friction, that's the goal. Sure spinning things out is interesting and makes for a more intense climax, but spinning things out, and entirely surrendering to your partner are different things.
He got into it as a submission game. The struggle of doing exactly what your partner wants and trusting in her to make it worth his while.
And it was so worth his while. Not moving at all took a tremendous amount of concentration. He'd continually keep tensing up, getting closer and closer, feeling himself all but begging her to move faster or harder, and then he'd have to force himself to relax again.
Abby kept a steady, slow pace. The sort of stroke that gets her wet and ready, but can't get either of them off.
Each minute passed by, his tension increasing with each thrust, constantly forcing his muscles to relax again and again. She flipped the skirt up, so he could watch her finger herself. And, God, that was so hot, so impossibly hot. And it was the first time he'd ever seen a girl do that, which made it more intense. She kept moving slowly, up-down, back-forth, her body growing tighter on his as she got closer and closer.
It was the tightness that did it, that eased him over the edge. It was like falling slowly into an orgasm, or being eaten alive by one. It crept over his whole body, like, because he couldn't move, that every single muscle in his body decided to get in on the release.
And it was, at that time, the single most intense orgasm of his life.
And after it happened, they cleaned up, and never talked about it again.
Abby sits next to Tim on the bed. "The hinky thing? Which hinky thing?"
"The hinky thing."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"You want to do that again?"
"If you do. I mean, maybe not exactly the same way. I'd love it if you were naked and I could see all of you, but yeah, I really liked it."
"It didn't freak you out? 'Cause you never said anything about it again."
He gives her a telling look. "You didn't, either. I was a little freaked out at first, but... when it happened that was the best orgasm of my life, so I got over being freaked out."
Abby laughs at that. "You are such a guy."
Tim shrugs. "Not much I can do about that. So... ummmm... do you want to do that again?"
She smiles, stands up, and begins to brush her hair. "You're just feeling lazy today and want me to do all the work."
"Lazy? Do you have any idea how hard it is to not move at all?"
"I could find out." She's smiling again, and now it's his turn to think.
"That could be interesting." He'll admit that's not pressing any special buttons for him, but if she likes it, he's game.
He pats the bed next to him, and she lays down. He's nuzzling against her neck, enjoying the way she smells, and thinks about how if this isn't fun, if it does turn out that her playing dead is freaky, he can just tell her that, and they'll do something else.
He leans up on his arm, looking at her face. Her eyes are closed, and she's got a little smile on her lips.
"Abigail." That's his safe word. If he ever calls her that, play stops and they're out of the game. Most of the time something like that gets used to indicate too much pain or freaking out. But right now he wants to indicate something else. Because any game like this, anytime when they're actively playing, anything he says is in character, which means he's free to say anything, everything he wants. It's fun, but not real, and he wants this to be real.  
She opens her eyes and looks at him.
"McGee?" She's worried, he's almost never used his safeword. The last time it happened she was accidently grinding one of his toes into a bloody pulp under her boot and couldn't feel it through the platform heels.
He smiles, letting her know nothing bad is happening. "Just, I love you, so much. I love that this is fun. That it's not some sort of if-it-isn't-perfect-egos-get-shattered-and-we-walk-around-on-eggshells-pretending-we're-okay-so-we-don't-hurt-each-other sort of thing." He kisses her sweetly.
She kisses back, her fingers trailing down his arm, and he jerks back.
"Case in point. Ouch!" He shakes his right arm, hoping that'll ease the itching burn her fingers on his new tattoo just started.
"Sorry. It's easy to forget it's there." The tats are healing up nicely, but they're only four days old, so healing up is not nearly the same thing as healed.
He straddles her, taking both of her hands in his, stretches her arms up, over her head, and pins them to the bed. Then gently, slowly, keeping up eye contact, leans down, and blows on her new tattoo.
Abby squirms and shrieks. "Tim! You son of a bitch! That itches."
He lets her hands free and kneels back on his feet, laughing. She sits up, her legs still between his, smiling, very lightly rubbing the tat, trying to ease the itch.
"Distraction is good for itching." He leans in, kissing her. She kisses back, squirming in a much more encouraging sort of way.
"I like it when you do that," she says as she breaks the kiss.
"Which part?"
"Pin my hands like that."
"Why?" He knows why. It's part of any submission game they play where he's the dominant one, but he still loves hearing her say it.
"Because it makes me feel small, and safe, and completely in your hands. Because it's so male, and... I don't know... I just like that. Because of how your arms, and back, and thighs look when you do that. These," this time her one hand trails down his left arm, and while the other skips over the new tattoo on his right, "bunch up and look very strong, and my wrists both fit in one of your hands. And when you do it, a lot of your weight is on your legs or back, so they look incredible, too. When my legs are on the outside," because he's the one straddling her right now, "I like to hitch them up and just feel that strength and hardness against my inner thighs."
It's possible McGee made a small growling sound at that point, but he'd likely deny it if asked. It's also probably worth mentioning that at this point in their pre-bedtime routine he's wearing his boxers, and she's in a chemise and boyshorts panties.
What is certain is that within about two tents of a second Abby was flat on her back again, with her hands pinned above her head and McGee kissing the absolute daylights out of her.
He's kissing her, supporting his weight on his legs and right arm, realizing that they're both awfully dressed right now for where he'd like this to be going, and there's not a good way to keep holding her hands down and get them undressed.
It's time to get creative.
The fact is, Abby's less than three inches shorter than he is, so if he's holding her hands at full extension, he's not got a lot length to maneuver with, at least, that's true if they've gotten to the point where they're actually having sex. But right now he's straddling her, and they're both still dressed, so he can move up her body and keep her hands in his.
He does, nuzzling and kissing her arms, being careful to avoid the new tat. He switches holding her hands to his right hand, gently nibbling her fingers, and furiously searches his bedside table with his left.
Because, as per rule number nine, he always has a knife, though, granted when he's in bed, the knife in question is in his nightstand. His hand closes around it. It's just a simple folding knife. Short blade, about two and a half inches long, and to date the only thing he's ever used this one for is cutting off those obnoxious little plastic tie things that keep the tags on clothing.
Still, it's sharp, and he's never done anything like this, but he thinks she'll go for it.
And if not, they'll play a new game.
He shifts again, still pinning her hands, most of his body lying next to hers. He drops the knife to the pillow above and behind her head, where she can't see it.
"You know I love those panties, right?" he asks, using his free hand to stroke over them, white boyshorts, little black skulls wearing pink hair bows printed on the cotton, and tiny black ribbons on the hips. He traces the crest of her hipbones, and warms her pussy with his palm, pressing gently against her mound with the heel of his hand.
She hummed something that could have been a yes and arched into his touch.
"But right now," he tugs at them, demonstrating the fact that he doesn't have enough reach to get them much past her hips unless he lets go of her hands, "they're in the way."
He picks up the knife and holds it where she can see it. Abby looks intrigued.
"Trust me?"
She grins, anticipating where this is going. "Absolutely."
He flicks the knife open, and very carefully slips the blade, sharp side facing away from her skin, under the side seam of the shorts, pulling upwards quickly and slitting the one side of the panties, and then doing it again on the other. He closes the knife and tosses it away from the bed, wanting no chance of either of them accidentally cutting themselves, and then yanks the panties off.
"That's better. Those little shorts might be hot, but your naked skin is so much better."
His free hand settles back onto her mound and begins to tease, fingers slipping on hot, wet skin. He presses against her side, mouth on her breast, kissing and nipping gently around her nipple through her chemise while his fingers play.
She's rippling under him, hips undulating in a beautiful wave arc pattern. He's rubbing against her hip, well aware of the fact that if you're going to have sex without taking off your underwear, boxers with a fly is the best possible option. He's already sticking out of the fly, hot, hard flesh rubbing against her suede silk skin on one side and the somewhat nubby flannel cotton of his undies on the other.
He knows that nine out of ten times, he can't get Abby off with sex alone. Just penetration won't do it. And he also knows that stretched out like this he just doesn't have the manual dexterity to get her off while fucking.  But the other thing that he knows is that if he times this right, he can get her almost off the edge, slip into her, and then grind with his pelvis while he goes full out and get both of them off in a matter of a minute or two.
He can feel her getting close. Her body is tight and wet and she's making a soft, high-pitched breathy sound that indicated oncoming orgasm.
He sucks on the nipple in his mouth, hard, knowing she feels what he does to her nipples in her clit as well and moves his hand to her side, to take his weight while he shifts from her side to between her legs.
He uses his hand for a little help on the angle and then thrust in, hard, setting a breakneck pace. Her legs wrap around his hips, and she arching against him, a steady stream "God, Tim, yes, like that, fuck! Don't stop! FUCK!" ringing in his ears.
He finds her nipple with his free hand, rolling it between his fingers, pulling gently on it, working it like a less sensitive clit, while he kisses her feverishly.
All he can focus on is how she feels on him. Hot skin, wet sliding flesh, tight, soft grip, and then she starts to ripple and pulse around him and he's gone, orgasm ripping through him.
Several minutes later, when they were both breathing normally again, and he had let go of her arms, but not pulled away yet, Abby said, "I can't believe you cut them off me."
"Too much?"
"No, that was amazing." Her fingers trace over his arm, back, and thigh. She yawns, sniffing his skin, kissing his neck lightly. "Strong, very male, yes, I liked that a lot."
He smiles, kisses her forehead. "Good."
And, so they didn't end up playing the game he thought they would. And, yeah, no one was motionless, but they certainly had a good time. He thinks, a few days later, when his mind wanders back to this, that that's why they work so well. It doesn't matter what the game is, they're both happy to play it with each other.

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanfiction

Image by http://leticiahp16.tumblr.com/McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

35. Valentine's Day

Abby likes holidays. And Abby likes presents. So for the last nine years Tim has gotten her some sort of small, cute, often funny valentine. Like a little skeleton in a top hat with a tiny bouquet of flowers, or a Caff-Pow in the special Valentine's Edition pink cup. Stuff like that. Nothing big. Nothing expensive. Nothing romantic. Just something cute and small that she'd like.

And once again Valentine's is looming near, and he's thinking this is not the year for cute or small.

Vast, grand romantic gestures seem like the idea for this year.

He knows, ideally what he'd like to get.

He's just not finding it, or anything like it, at all.

"Palmer, what do you think of this one?"

He's standing next to Jimmy in autopsy, supposedly getting a report to bring back up to Gibbs. Jimmy looks at the image on his phone and says, yet again. "Tim, you know just as well as I do, there's not a diamond ring on earth that's right for Abby."

"Yeah." He shuts down the image of a princess cut diamond in platinum and tucks the phone back into his jacket.

"I've got six days and nothing."

"Then don't do it for Valentine's. Do something that is right for her, and keep looking for the ring in the meantime. Nothing says romance like proposing under the fireworks at Fourth of July."

"God, I hope it doesn't take that long to find the right ring."

"Tim, don't kid yourself, the right ring for her is something you're going to have to get made. There's not going to be anything on a shelf."

Tim sighs. "I think she'd like something vintage."

"You're going to be vintage by the time you find the right ring for her. Get one made."

Tim picks up the report and fires off a sardonic salute to Jimmy. Time to get back to work.

Something right. Something her. Something grand and expansive...

Something...

She's getting dressed, and he's lying in bed, staring at her back as he thinks this.

Oh... Um... Yeah... She might go for that.

He hops up and goes hunting for paper, a pen, and a ruler. Tim can't draw. He's terrible at it. But he can draft. He's handy with math, very good with spatial relationships, and he can imagine things in 3d space easily. And he likes knots. He likes knots a lot. And Abby likes knots, especially knots he's tying on her.

He returns to bed, sitting cross-legged, stack of printer paper in front of him.

"What are you doing?" She's staring at him as he starts plotting out two straight lines.

"Super-secret romance stuff." He looks up and grins. "Off to work with you."

Her eyes narrow and she stares at the paper. Just two long straight lines right now, but he's starting to add hashmarks at each quarter inch.

"Are you designing something?"

"Maybe." He grins again, putting down the pen. "Shoo..." He waves toward the door. "It doesn't get designed if you stand there hovering over me."

"Mysterious."

"Oh yeah." He winks, stands up, kisses her, and then pushes her out of his bedroom. "Bye!"

It takes him close to three hours to get it laid out, which means he was facing yet another day of driving like a maniac to get to work just fairly late instead of wildly late. But to work he got, three minutes before he had to vanish into the conference room to be deposed for a case.

The deposition went long, way long, he had to go over how he had known about Khan's MIT background several times, apparently, 'I was at the same school studying forensic computing while he was hacking the damn place" wasn't enough. Something about the defense lawyer might want to try and pin the hacking on him or something to attack his credibility.

Eye roll. Sigh. It'd be nice if someone in legal knew more about computers than how to send email.

So it was well after two when he got out, and Tony sidled on over to his desk.

"Another good morning?"

"Yes, but not the kind you're thinking of. I finally figured out a Valentine's day present for Abby."

"Ahhh... There's something I don't miss about having a girlfriend. The yearly hunt for a trinket to show affection."

"We're a bit past the trinket phase."

"That's even worse. Now you've got to get something that means something. And if you don't get it right, she pouts at you. I hate Valentine's day."

"Yeah. So..." He stares at Tony and debates. It's Monday. Valentine's is Thursday. Can Tony keep hold of the secret? Will the idea of it freak him out again? Will showing him what it is help to rebridge the trust between them?

"Just show him, McGee." He hears Gibbs say. Then Gibbs looks at Tony and says, "And if you wreck the surprise, I'll kill you myself."

Gibbs walks over, leans against his desk, and says, "Come on, she's likely to sense this and come up here any second, so show us."

"Oh, yeah."

He takes out the sketch and unfolds it. Gibbs squints at it, looking puzzled, it's not what he was expecting. Tony stares, too.

"You're getting her lines?" Tony says.

Tim folds it back up and tucks it into his pocket. Gibbs' 'she'll sense it and show up' comment has enough truth to it to make him nervous.

"No. It's a Celtic knot tattoo that I designed for her myself. And, when someone who can draw gets a hold of it, it'll be a lot more swoopy."

"Swoopy?" Tony asks.

"It'll look like ribbons woven in and on each other."

"Oh."

Tim points to just below his right deltoid. "It'll go here, on both of us."

Tony thinks about this, and he doesn't seem too freaked out. "So you're getting her matching tattoos for Valentine's day?"

"Yeah. That I designed for her myself."

Tony is nodding, looking like he doesn't really know what to think about that. Gibbs is still staring at him, and Tim thinks he knows what that look means.

"I couldn't find exactly what I was looking for, so I did this instead. I'm still looking though, for the first thing."

Gibbs nods. "She'll love it."

"That's the idea."

Abby is, by general accord, the best informed member of Team NCIS. People tell her things. Lots of things. And she has a secret weapon. Gibbs tells her things, if she asks, and he sees everything.

So when Thursday morning had rolled around, and she still didn't know what her Valentine's present was from Tim, she was feeling, well, nervous. Since she has no idea what he's getting her, she's not sure if her own gift, a collection of bootlegged improvisational jazz recordings from his five favorite musicians, live shows that were never supposed to be recorded, so Tim's never heard them before, is appropriate. She knows he'll love them, but with the way the guys keep smirking at her, or smiling, or just sort of glowing in her direction, she's not sure if it's big enough.

She was able to get from Tony that Gibbs had ordered a personal fatwa of death on anyone who spilled the beans, which explained her inability to get a hold of any details, but did not get her any closer to what the mystery object might be.

Tim was drawing it... Maybe... Could be some sort of strange poem? She knows back in his college days he did experimental writing where the shape of the poem was as important as the words. So...

But would that be enough to cause Gibbs to order silence? And bigger question, is that the kind of thing Tim would show anyone?

She walked into her office, turned on her computer, and saw a card on the keyboard. Her name in Tim's handwriting was on the envelope. He had to get one of the others to help with this, because they came into work together this morning, and he hasn't had time to get this down here.

Gibbs probably helped. He'd trust Gibbs with whatever was in that envelope and to make sure it got where it had to go. She sniffs the envelope, and there's the faint smell of Old Spice that anything that spends time in Gibbs jacket pocket acquires.

Sooo, Gibbs and Tim working together.

She slits open the envelope and takes out a thick piece of paper, thinking it's another poem. A business card falls out as she removes it, which makes her think twice about the poem idea. She lets it lie, wanting to see what's on the paper first. Unfolding it she finds a sketch of herself. It's a bust, her right arm across her chest, head turned away in quarter profile. Behind her is Tim, holding her, right arm cradled under hers, face mostly hidden behind hers. She's got on some sort of little tank top, but he's shirtless. Both right arms are prominent, the focus of the sketch, and it takes her a second to see what's different about the sketch.

Then her fingers fall to the cuff tattoos. It's a four strand knot, two black strands, two red. She can see at a glance this is something Tim would tie. He'd take an hour to weave something that all the way up her arm or leg and then take pictures.

Under the picture was one word in his handwriting: Yes?

She flipped over the card that fell out of the envelope. It was an appointment with a tattoo artist she knew for Saturday morning.

Tim is in the car with Gibbs, heading toward a dead sailor, when he gets a text. He looks at it, smiles, types quickly, and puts his phone back in his pocket.

Gibbs glances away from traffic toward him.

"She liked it. That was yes in all caps with about twenty exclamation points next to it."

Gibbs nods.

"You were expecting me to pull out a ring, right?"

Gibbs nods at that, too.

"Talking to Jimmy?"

This time the looks says, No. Why? Should I have been?

"I am looking for one, but I'm not buying until I can find one that needs to live on her finger. It can't just be some sort of generic diamond. It's got to be Abby's ring. If that takes a while, it takes a while."

Gibbs nods at that, too. Thinking about how much easier this was when he did it the first time. Go out, find the biggest rock you could afford, put it on the girl, and six months later, I Do. 'Course the pressure to move fast is probably somewhat less intense if you're already having sex and practically living together.

Tim doesn't have that glazed and frustrated look he suspects he had most of the time he was courting Shannon.

"You moving to her place, or is she moving to yours?"

"We're getting a new one all-together."

He nods at that, too.

"Next time you go ring shopping, take Ziva. She'd like it, and she can keep a secret."

"Am I taking her because she'll be useful to me, or because it'll get her thinking about possible long term life changes?"

Gibbs smiles, downshifts, and parks. "We're here."

"So, what'd she get you?" Tony is asking as they walk back into the bullpen.

"I don't know, yet." He saw a pink conversation heart on the escape key on his keyboard. Next to it was a package of Nutterbutters, with a bow and some sort of small card attached.

He sat down at his desk. The conversation heart said, 'I luv you.' He smiled a little at that and opened the card.

8:30 in the lab.
-Abby
(No snooping!)

"Nutterbutters?" Tony's looking at the cookies, astounded. "I mean, I know you like them, but... really? You design her a tattoo, and she gets you cookies?"

"Just part one." He held up the card.

"That looks promising."

"Yeah."

Gibbs walks to his desk, scowling at them. "And it's also not going to happen if you two don't find me something useful."

"On it, Boss."

"What do you have for me, Abbs?"

"Besides this?" She walked up and hugged him. "Thanks for delivering Tim's card."

Gibbs nods. "The case?"

"The single least talented killer, ever? I've got ballistics. I've got the gun. I've got fingerprints. I've got blood. I've got DNA. I've got gunshot residue. Either this guy is dumber than cement, or you've got someone who's been framed into oblivion."

Gibbs sighs. "Dumber than cement. Found his wife fooling around, killed her and the guy with her, and then ran." He looks at her secondary computer, seeing a few little black hearts on the keyboard, which he didn't think were there before, but no Tim. "Isn't this usually when McGee tells me he's got a trace on the guy's phone?"

"Probably. I'm making him work upstairs."

"Do I want to know what's going to happen down here?"

"I doubt it, but if you want to know, I'll tell you."

Gibbs sighs and shakes his head, turning to go back upstairs.

"So how is it, I try to get married, and NCIS gets blown up, terrorists come crawling out of the woodwork, and everything falls to pieces, meanwhile, for your Valentines Day treat, you get a case that's wrapped up by 6:00?" Palmer asks Tim as he's heading out.

"I don't know. Cupid likes me? Besides, you're out of here early tonight, too. Breena'll like that."

"Yes, she will. Though with my luck, the car'll blow up on the way home or something."

"You'll be fine. Go home and have some fun."

"I intend to. 'Night, Tony, Ziva."

"How about you two, any plans tonight?" Tim asks.

Ziva looks at him and raises one eyebrow. "Do you think we'd have plans with each other for Valentine's Day?"

"I was more thinking in general, but now that you've brought it up..." Tim smiles at them.

Tony glares at him. Ziva smiles. "I am going home, having some dinner, and getting a long hot bath with a good book."

"Sounds good. Tony?"

He's looking at Ziva, and Tim guesses he's imagining what a long hot bath with a book looks like. Then he jerks a little, and says, "No idea. I'll figure it out when I get home."

"Well, if neither of you have plans, I've got two hours to kill, so want to go grab a drink or something with me?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

8:27 and he's standing outside the door to Abby's lab.

That's the first hint that something interesting is up. The door is shut. The door is never shut when Abby's in there. She only closes that door when she leaves at the end of the day.

He's not sure if he should knock or just go in, and decides that either way, he can wait three minutes for it to actually be 8:30.

Long damn three minutes.

He can't hear anything going on in there. No music. And he can't see any light coming from the underside of the door, though he's not sure if he would, the hallway is pretty bright and he doesn't remember if the lab has one of those little sweeper things on the bottom of the door to make sure nothing gets out.

At exactly 8:30 the door opens. He knows it's 8:30:00 because he's looking at his watch. He looks up at her and smiles, realizing she had to be standing on the other side of the door, watching the clock.

He hasn't seen her since this morning. Hasn't texted since she sent him that extremely excited message saying YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! to the tattoo. And it's not like they never go a day without seeing each other, but it's rare.

She takes his hands and pulls him into the lab as he's saying, "Hi."

She steps behind him and locks the door, then looks up at him, very pleased with herself, very amused, and smiles.

He kisses her hello and looks around. The lab looks, well, exactly like it did when he was in there yesterday.

Almost. She's got paper taped up over the windows between the lab proper and her office.

"What's in there?"

"Your surprise."

"Am I gonna like it?"

"I certainly hope so." She tugged him gently toward her office, clicking the button that opened the door.

Candles, that's the first thing he noticed. Lots and lots of candles. Besides the floor and her computer every horizontal surface in her office had at least one of them.

Then the music hit him. He knew it, Instrumental No. 7, but it didn't quite sound the way he expected it to.

"Is this Henneger?"

"Yeah. Take off your shoes. Sit down." She pointed to the soft and fuzzy nest she had made on the floor. Four white sheepskin rugs were overlapping into a large circle, and a few plush satiny looking pillows in rich, violet-tinged red sat around the edges. There was a small table in the middle, maybe one and half feet by one and a half feet, and about a foot tall. On it he could see a selection of sushi and a bottle of sake. And next to the black lacquered chop sticks was an MP3 player.

He slipped off his shoes, and then his socks as well, soft fluffy rug would feel good on his feet. He pointed to the side with the MP3 player and she nodded. Then he sat.

She sat across from him. "Pick it up; look at what's on it."

It took him a minute to figure out what he was scrolling through. At first look it was a fairly standard catalogue of some of his favorite musicians doing their most famous songs, then as he got deeper into it, and noticed some very non-standard songs, and as the recording currently playing faded into applause, he realized he was looking at some extremely rare recordings of live shows.

His jaw dropped when the next song started. That was Eric Clapton's voice. He'd heard about it. Everyone who loved Henneger had heard about it. One night in Chicago back in '93, Clapton had been in the audience, but somehow he ended up on stage with Henneger, and the two of them had come up with a thirteen minute long version of Instrumental No. 13, with Clapton coming up with lyrics on the fly. Clapton played guitar. Henneger played sax. Both of them moving back and forth with the main theme, taking it places no one ever thought it could or would go. It wasn't supposed to have been recorded, but he was sitting in the lab, listening to it.

"How did you get this?"

"Friend of a friend is a really hardcore Jazz musician, and he was willing to let me make copies of some of the things he played backup on and some of the shows he had been to."

He wants to babble about how happy this is making him, and he wants to be silent and absorb it. Abby sees his look, and how he's torn. She grins, kisses him, and moves the table over.

"Lay down, listen to with me. We'll eat later."

He kisses her back, hand cupping her cheek, grinning widely, eyes warm and happy, and then lays back, closes his eyes, and lets the music wash over him.

She lays down next to him, holding his hand.

He had forgotten how much getting a tattoo hurt. It's not the end of the world or anything, but it certainly isn't comfortable, either. And this one is a lot bigger than the last one.

His first one had taken about half an hour to do. This one'll take four.

He'd enjoyed walking in with Abby. She, of course, looks like she belongs in a tattoo studio. He looks a little out of place. The girl working the counter, who hadn't been there when he went in to see about getting his idea made into a tat, stared at them in open wonder.

She got Abby. She didn't get him with Abby.

And being the guy who got Abby, even if he is kind of mild-mannered looking, wearing a pair of nice jeans, a casual button down, blazer over it, and loafers, while she's out in a short skirt, one of his button downs rolled up at the sleeves and top two buttons undone (one thing you don't want is a tight t-shirt rubbing against a new tat) over a tank top, and a pair of knee high boots, tickles him to no end.

He opened the door for her, arm around her waist, very clearly signaling MINE to anyone who might want to look. And the girl looked, and did a double take.

And Tim smirked.

Turns out Abby knew Sam, the artist. They chatted while Sam got Tim ready. Business was slow so the girl came back to see what they were getting done.

She looked at the knot, looked at Abby and said, "That's yours? Sam told me we had a custom piece coming in. It's beautiful."

Abby smiled. "It's mine in that I get to wear it. He's the one who designed it."

The girl looked at Tim, and he gave her a wide and happy smile, seeing her actually see past his clothing for the first time. He's got his shirt off, and Sam is smoothing the transfer onto his arm. She moves to his left side and says, "That's Python, right?"

"Yeah, that's my master's dissertation."

"Kind of old school."

"It was 2001." Less than a year after Python 2.0 had come out, and barely seconds behind the absolute bleeding edge of programming tech when he did it.

"Oh. Cool."

"Thanks. I just figured out the over under and where the strands went for this one. Sam's the one who made them art." Turned them into whorled swirls of ribbons. Sam was the one who spaced them out further, took advantage of the negative space, and ended up with a design that made the black strands look almost carved out of the arm, while the red ones wrapped around and through.

Sam nods, and begins to load up the black ink. He actually puts Tim in mind of Gibbs. Not a lot to say. Warms up significantly with Abby around. His portfolio is his main selling tool, though he took the time to really get what Tim wanted and sketch it out, and then draw the second sketch for Abby.

And then Tim sort of zoned out for the next four hours. A lot, maybe not most, but a decent percentage of people with tats like pain, they get off on it, or get off on getting through it. Abby gets off on getting through it. But he's not one of them. He wonders about that sometimes, because he knows that a lot of the things he enjoys do often go along with getting off on pain.

The knots he likes... In Japan they are tied in hemp, often on bare skin, and they leave abrasions and sometimes welts. Dom/sub stuff doesn't usually just end with 'do what I tell you to.' And those stories he told Abby about, he ended up exiting out of a lot of them when they took a turn for knives or burns, whips and flails.

Maybe it's like bungee jumping (which no, he doesn't even like to think too hard about, let alone do) he wants the feel of falling but not the splat at the end.

He looks at Abby, who knows he's checked out and is talking with the counter girl and Sam, and pulls his mind away from what feels like an avenging mini-sewing machine having its way with his arm.

He goes into plotting mode and spends the next four hours working out the main ideas for Tibbs' next adventure.

Watching Abby get hers is significantly more interesting to him than getting his own.

For the first minute she's clutching his hand going, "Ow ow owowowowowowowowowowowow owwwww. Damn, McGee! I always forget this part."

"Yeah, me too." It really is kind of a shock how much your memory dulls things like that. And he's got a suspicion that his mind has also dulled down how much they itch when they heal as well.

"Look at me."

So he does, and she holds his eyes with hers. He sees her take a deep breath, let it out slow, and her eyes slide shut. Two more deep breaths, and he feels her hand relax in his. Her shoulders go soft, and her head settles back.

"Okay, found it."

"Found what?"

"The spot in my mind where it can just all flow around me."

"So, it doesn't hurt?"

"It does, but it doesn't matter. It's just there. I'm here with you. I'm safe. Nothing bad is happening to me. So the pain doesn't matter."

And he understands why she gets so freaked out sometimes, when she can't find safe, everything stops flowing, it stops working properly and leaves her stuck in a river of too much so she curls into a little ball, trying to get away from it.

He holds her hand, watching Sam mark her with a knot he designed, something she'll wear on her skin until the day she dies and feels the sore burn of that exact same mark on his own skin.

A matched pair, even if, on the outside, they don't look it.

He kisses her cheek. "Happy Valentine's Day."

38 Weeks: Week 247

Week 247
There were certain things Michael Westen expected about having an enormously cute little girl. Dresses, he expected dresses. Tea parties with Nana and Gram, sure, he was ready for that. Princess costumes for Halloween, of course (though Elise's costumes always involve swords and guns as well. She's way more Princess Leia than Cinderella. And considerably more her mother's girl than any Hollywood princess, ever.)

He wasn't expecting repeated bouts of flower girl duty.
But, when you've got a ridiculously cute little girl, with big blue-gray eyes and brown-black curls, and none of your other buddies do, you get to go to a lot of weddings and spend a lot of time going over how it's the little girl's job to walk straight up that aisle and drop the flowers on the runner.
Elise is an expert at it now.
The first time she did it, three days after she turned two, the instructions were pretty simple. Hold the flowers, walk straight up the aisle to Daddy, and drop the flowers while you walk.
After all, Daddy was right at the front of the church, standing next to Uncle Sam, the groom, so it wasn't like he'd be hard to find.
But there were a whole lot of people at that wedding. Between Sam's unending list of buddies and Elsa's numerous connections, both personal and business, there were over 400 people in attendance, so Elise got to the end of the aisle, saw everyone watching her, stopped dead, clutching rose petals in her hands, and burst into tears.
Fi got her calmed down, and held her hand, walking her up the aisle. But the flowers stayed in the little basket.
The second time was three months later, on an island known only by GPS coordinates.
Nana Katie was getting married, and she wanted all of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren there for the affair. Getting the entire Glenanne Clan in one place was a challenge, but lucky for Katherine, Sam had some strings he could pull, and he and Fi knew some awfully good smugglers. And there was a guy with a very secluded island who owed Mike a favor.
And, though that wedding would have been an MI5 wet dream of anti-British operatives, no one found out about it until months after it had happened.
Not that Elise knew anything about that. She just knew that it was her job, along with her sixteen older cousins and two younger ones, to throw flowers at Nana Katie and Popa Jim when they walked back down the aisle.
And she was good at throwing things, the flowers, the basket the flowers were in, and her cousin Sarah's basket, too.
The third wedding was held shortly after her third birthday, and just about everyone there seemed surprised to be there, especially the groom.
But Evan's girlfriend wanted to be a wife before she was a mother, and his step-father just happened to know someone who possessed a little girl who had copious flower girl experience.
Evan looked awfully green in his dress whites that day (how much of that was jitters versus post-bachelor-party-hangover was known only to the groom), but his bride was lovely, and the wedding, flowers and all, went off without a hitch.
Mike, Fi, and Jesse proceeded to spend most of the reception teasing Sam about how he was on the verge of being a grandfather.
He responded with great dignity by sipping his mojito and flipping them off.
It was a fun night.
And the fourth wedding, well, come on, this one can't be a surprise, right?
After three years in Mumbai, Dani Pearce had had enough. She'd looked at faked prescriptions until her eyes had bled, and she was done with it, done with the agency, and done with stupid bloody politicking. She got into the CIA to make the world a better place, and she'd spent three years doing nothing even remotely like that.
She moved back to Miami and went in search of the people she knew were working on making the world a better place.
From there, she and Jesse more or less set the land speed record for first date to engaged to married at nine weeks.
As Jesse once said, "Women in our line of work are like ghosts. Sure everyone knows someone who's seen one, but they aren't exactly easy to find." As soon as he found a woman who got it and him, he didn't see any reason to wait, and neither did she.
For the fourth wedding, almost four-year-old Elise had the flower girl thing down pat. Stand at the end, walk in before the bride, scatter petals in an arc pattern, go to the far end of the aisle, and then sit with Mom. (Dad was once again on groomsman duty.)
And now, before the start of the fifth wedding, Michael's once again getting his daughter ready. This one is a little different. Usually, Elise walks up the aisle, drops her flowers and then goes and sits with whichever parent isn't standing up with the rest of the wedding party.
This time though, Mike's giving away the bride, and Fi is her matron of honor, and Nana Katie is the other bridesmaid, so Elise's instructions have been modified to go sit with Uncle Sam and Aunt Elsa.
For Mike, the idea of giving away the bride is a bit surreal, or at least doing it now is. He's hoping, God willing, he'll be able to do it in the future. (Though if Elise waits as long as her mom did to get married, he'll be 88 when he walks her down the aisle. The idea of which he finds both troubling and amusing.)
Two years ago, after an amazingly thorough background check, Maddie started dating Adam. And they kept dating. And really seemed to hit it off. So it wasn't exactly a surprise when he proposed and they decided to get hitched.
Which is why Mike's standing next to his mom, watching his mother-in-law, wife, and daughter walk down yet another white runner toward a pastor and a happy looking groom.
If you had told twenty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by women, he'd have grinned. And if you had told him the women in question would be his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have laughed in your face. The idea of a wife and daughter wasn't out of the question, but he was purposely seven thousands miles away from his mother, and had no intention of getting any closer.
If you had told thirty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have smiled and wondered at how he managed to pull it off. He certainly had the girl picked out, but getting things in order to build a life with her was something that had been weighing heavily on his mind. Plus, he wouldn't have been able to think of any way to keep his cover intact and somehow get his mother to move to Ireland. Among other things, Michael McBride's mother was dead, so having her somehow show up, alive and American, would be an issue.
If you had told forty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by women, and that those women would be his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have walked out of the room. The whole relationship thing, which he'd decided was something he couldn't make work, had gotten considerably more complicated because for the previous three weeks Fi had been back in his life.  He might in fact be a bastard for leaving her once, but only a complete asshole breaks the same woman's heart twice. And his mom was calling him thirty times a day driving him completely bonkers. The idea was to avoid her, not spend more time with her. Meanwhile the idea of a daughter or a mother-in-law was so alien that he'd have been unable to wrap his mind around it.
Fifty-year-old Michael, on the other hand, has settled into the idea pretty well.
Elise has finished strewing flowers and has sat next to Sam and Elsa.
"Ready, Ma?"
She smiles at him. "Yes."
"Then let's go."

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanfiction

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

35. Grandpa Scuito's Miracle Hair Pomade



"Did your grandpa ever explain how to get this stuff out of your hair?"
They're in his shower, and rapidly finding out that Grandpa Sciuto's pomade may have been a world beater when it came to proving stable hair that stayed in any position for as long as you wanted it there, but it was proving extremely stubborn when it came to removal. It's laughing at his organic, moisturizing, super gentle for dry hair shampoo.
"Will you hate me if I say lye soap?"
"You're not sleeping on my pillow cases tonight."
Abby turned and pouted at him.
Tim kissed the tip of her nose, and then pointed her face away from him, filled his hand with yet another dollop of shampoo, and worked it through her hair.
"I still think it smells better than burnt computer equipment and failure."
"You're absolutely right. That doesn't mean I want it on my sheets."
"Pretend it's lube. Getting that on the sheets never bothers you."
"Lube washes out. If I can't get this out of your hair, it's not going to get out my sheets, either."
"We could get new sheets."
"I like my sheets, they're soft and snuggly and..." That sentence trails off as it occurs to him that she said, "we" not "you."
His fingers stop rubbing the shampoo into her hair. His hands drop to her hips, and she turns toward him.
"We're not just talking about sheets are we?" he asks.
"I don't think so. I got my credit card statement today. You want to guess how much I spent in gas this month, driving from your place to my place to work and back again."
Tim nods. "I've got a pretty good idea." His own statement showed up two days ago, and let's put it this way, he can get some sheets made out of gold for what he's spending on gas.
Tim lives in Silver Springs, Maryland. This is located at the far north end of the Metro DC area. Abby lives in Alexandria, Virginia, at the far south end. And while a drive straight through town isn't horrendously long mileage wise, (about seventeen miles from his place to hers) no one in their right mind tries to drive directly through Washington DC.
So, by the time the somewhat less direct route's been worked into the equation, they live about an hour apart. The Navy Yard is somewhere in between, closer to Abby's than his place. So, say he wakes up at her place and wants to go to his place. He drives an hour to get from her place to his, then half an hour back to the Navy Yard.
Most people who work in DC and live in the metro region cope with this by using the Metro (public transportation) which would be fine, if it didn't close down at midnight, i.e. before they get done with work a lot of nights.
So they drive. A lot. But if they didn't have two homes, they wouldn't have to do quite so much driving.
Tim's thinking that's where she's going with this, and it certainly makes sense to him to go there. His fingers start rubbing the shampoo back into her hair again. "How long do you have on your lease?"
"Until August. You?"
"June. Can you sublet yours? Unless I'm willing to pay a pretty big fine, I can't break my lease."
"How big? I've got money, McGee." Abby runs the lab, and though it's easy to forget with her perky appearance and demeanor, she's equivalent in rank to Ducky, and makes about three times McGee's salary.
"I know. I've got money, too.  Just don't like wasting it. Rather buy nice sheets with you than pay three months' rent upfront."
"Okay. I can sublet, if I can find someone to take the lease. But my place is bigger and closer to work."
"True. And you've got a better kitchen." He's noticed that, when he's got someone to actually cook for, he enjoys it. This has resulted in both of them getting a bit plumper lately, but her less so than him.
"There's not really a good spot in my place for your computers."
He nods at that. "Or my typewriter. What are you paying in rent?"
"$1850."
"I'm paying $1675. You know, we could get a really nice two bedroom for less than $2500."
"We could. We could probably find a nice three bedroom for less than we're paying combined right now. Put the money we're not spending on gas and rent into savings for a down payment on a house."
"Do you want a house?" His fingers are stroking up and down the back of her neck as he asks.
"Eventually."
"I've got 400 thousand in the bank." Tim doesn't have a lot of secrets, but that was one of them. He almost never talks about money.
Abby turned to face him, eyes wide. "What? Last I heard your money vanished into a hedge fund, never to come out."
He shrugs a little. "Yep, vanished into thin air. Then I wrote four more books and made some more. They're paying me pretty well for the Deep Six books."
"How well?"
"Do you know how advances and book contracts work?"
"No." She's staring at him intently, and he's forgotten her hair for the moment.
"Okay. They pay me a chunk of cash when they get the first draft of the book, and another chunk when it's finished, and a third chunk when it goes live. That money represents slightly more than what they think my take of the total sales of the book will be over the next three years. So for the first Deep Six they paid me ten grand, and if Deep Six had sold like every other first mystery, ten thousand copies or so, they would have basically gotten complete ownership of the book at the end of those three years. But Deep Six earned out, which means it sold more copies than they paid me for, so every quarter they have to send me my percentage of the sales. So, for the sequel they offered me more money. Deep Six: Black Rock earned out, too. So once again, each quarter I get another check. But they don't want to pay me quarterly. They want to make sure that advance is so big that at the end of the three years they own the book and can do what they want with it. So the advance for Foreign and Domestic was three hundred thousand dollars, which they're pretty sure won't earn out, and so am I. Fairy Fire and Nymph Nights didn't earn out, so I made about fifteen grand on them. And, so, yeah, I've got some money."
She's shaking her head. "Yeah, some. Wow."
"So, anyway, if you wanted to get a house... I mean... I've got down payment money."
"You've got buy it outright money!"
He shrugs a little at that as well. "I'm contracted for two more Deep Six books after this one."
"How much will that work out to?"
"Five books in total. Call it a million one all said and done, with a steady sixish thousand dollars a quarter from the two that earned out. And there's an option for three more after the current five, that'll run at 750K if I take it."
"Remind me not to distract you from your writing."
He smiles. "So, you're okay with that?"
"What, I put up with you poor, but now I know you've got money, so you've got to go?"
"Something like that. Ten minutes ago I was a wage slave, and now I'm not."
"I can deal with you having money, McGee. Kind of like it actually. Though, really, freaking out over less than six thousand to get out of this place?"
"Okay, yeah, it's silly, but... I watched my net worth go from over 150 thousand to the two thousand dollars I had in my checking account in less than a week six years ago. So, I'm a little twitchy about my cash."
"I can understand that."
She's standing there, facing him, water beading off her hair like a duck's back, and Tim rests his arms on her shoulders. "So, do you want to get a house? Or find an apartment for us?"
"How about an apartment for now, and we'll get the house when we get serious about making some McSciutos."
He's grinning. "That sounds really good."
She looks up, kisses him soundly, and then sprints out of the shower, water droplets flying behind her. For a second he stands there looking confused, and then she's back with a bottle of dish soap.
"Dawn! They use it to get oil off the birds in an oil spill, so it should get the pomade out."
She hands him the bottle, and he squirts some into his hand.  A few minutes of sudsing seem to be making a difference. Her hair is still greasy, but much less so.
"So, it looks like your hair can be saved, and you will be granted permission to sleep on my pillowcases. Given that, do you still want to get some new sheets with me?"
"I like your sheets, McGee."
 

Shards To A Whole: For Abby: On Her Knees

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.


For Abby: On Her Knees


"Is that my favorite image of you?"
You ask me.
"One of them..."
"How does it look?"
You don't ask
But I wish you could have seen it from my eyes
You knelt before me
naked
face up, staring into my eyes
hands behind your back, left wrist in right hand.
Did you know, when you do that, the shape of your back is a perfect violin?
I kneel behind you, black ribbons trembling in shaking hands
every fantasy I'd ever dared to dream
about to come real in black silk on your white skin.
I dropped the ribbons.
Did you know that?
Scrambling to pick them up fast, so you didn't notice.
Your skin was so warm,
and your wrists so tiny in my hands
and I want to do this right.
So scared I'll screw it up and you'll leave
or worse
laugh.
I press your hands together
palm to back,
and you lace your fingers like you can read my mind.
I wove the ribbons between your fingers, and over your wrists,
tying everything into a tidy bundle,
and for a long time, I just looked,
finger's trembling, afraid to touch.
Afraid that like any dream, as soon as I tried to touch I'd wake.
I'd never seen anything that looked like that.
White skin crisscrossed into diamonds by black silk.
And then I stood in front of you.
You knelt there and smiled at me,
huge, wide smile.
I step forward, hand on my belt,
and you licked your lips.
And I almost died.
You stared up at me,
Smiling,
Lips wet,
and I realized it was okay.
You were happy to have me here.
This was just a game,
(and I'm good at games)
one you wanted to play with me.
(And God, I fell in love with you so hard right then.)
So I slipped the belt through its buckle,
playing up the slide of the leather through metal
really feeling the way it moved,
seeing in your eyes that you wanted this,
that you wanted me.
The button was snug moving through the fabric,
fighting me a little,
but the zipper was easy,
and your eyes dropped from mine to see what was under it.
That time I wasn't nervous.
Getting the shirt off was hard,
the pants, no problem.
You grinned and said, "Nice, McGee."
Then leaned forward and licked me.
Just the tip,
like a soft serve ice cream cone.
And then sucked me down, and my knees almost buckled.
My eyes wanted to roll back it felt so good,
and I couldn't let myself close them because you were the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.
How's the song go?
"I'm a bitch.
I'm a tease.
I'm a goddess on my knees?"
Well, you aren't a bitch,
and sometimes you tease,
but you are a goddess on your knees,
(and standing up and lying down, too.)
and if I was an atheist when I walked in that night,
I believed in the divine before I left.

Shards To A Whole: An NCIS Fanfiction

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Pillow Talk


He should be sleepy. He's usually sleepy after sex, unless it's morning sex, but that's a different story all together. But, even though that had been one amazingly, mind-blowingly intense orgasm, he was feeling mostly just relaxed and peaceful.
Tim checked the clock. The fact that it was nine thirty might have had something to do with the lack of sleepy.
He kissed Abby, got up, and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. He folded it neatly over the wet spot, and then snuggled back in next to her. She curled onto her side, facing him.
"What was your first time like, the real one?"
He smiles widely. "You remember, you were there."
For a second she stiffened and her eyes went wide. He kept grinning, and she poked him, hard, in the ribs. "Don't do that!"
"Apparently I'm a Horus. I've got an inexhaustible supply of virginity." He kissed her quickly, and then adjusted the pillow a bit. If they were going to talk, it'd be good to be comfortable. Then he took her hand in his, kissing it as well, and settled back down.
"So, really, how was it?"
"Amazing, the world stood still, time went backwards, and the angels wept." He shook his head. "I was nineteen and desperate to give it away. There was exactly one girl in my Cellular Bio-Chem class and she was my lab partner. I guess she sort of took pity on me. We went out three times, and on the third time, we got together. And, honestly, it was fast. I think I was more excited by the idea of having sex than the sex itself. I remember thinking, 'Oh, yeah, that's...' and we were done. It wasn't precisely the crowning glory of my sexual history." 
"Did you love her?"
"I think I had a crush on her. Or maybe I just really wanted to have one on her. Or it might have been she was a girl, kind of attractive, and willing to touch me. I was pretty disappointed when she wouldn't see me again."
"I'm sorry she didn't take you seriously."
Tim shrugged. "Long time ago. How about you? How was your first, I mean besides in a cab?"
She smiles, very pleased to see he remembered that. "I was kidding about the cab thing. Not nearly fast enough." Tim looked confused, when it comes to things women want, a real speedy ejaculator usually isn't on the list. "I was seventeen and had been dating this guy for about six months. Both of us college freshmen, and he was... Well, it felt like he was packing a cannon, but it probably wasn't that big. Just, first time and all. So I remember being extremely eager, very, very turned on and then OUCH. I was crying, but trying to be quiet because it was his first time, too. It took a minute or two before he noticed and stopped."
"That sounds horrible."
"I've had better times. And it did get better. We dated all of freshman year."
Tim really didn't know what to say to that, so he nudged the topic a bit. "I loved my first time with you."
She smiled. "That was a really good first time."
"I was so nervous; my hands were shaking when I began to unbutton my shirt. Afraid you'd get my clothing off, take one look at me and go, nope, too fat, too vanilla."
"Too vanilla? That was you, last week, who put the collar you had made specifically for me around my neck, bound my hands behind my back, had me kneel in front of you and get you off with my mouth alone, and then stood me up, freed my hands, supported my weight with your body, told me to get myself off while you pulled the collar tighter and tighter and tighter so that when I got off I saw stars, right?"
Tim smiled. That was a good memory. Not the kind of thing they did too often, but oh yeah, lots of fun.
"McGee, have you ever seen a vanilla bean?"
"In real life?"
She nodded.
"Nope."
"They're about this long," she held her hands about six inches apart, "and dark, dark brown or black. The really good ones have these tiny little crystals on them, so between the oils and those crystals they almost shimmer. McGee, if you're vanilla, you're one of those Tahitian vanilla beans, dark and shimmering, smelling sweet and perfumy with undertones of forbidden pleasures and desire. I like vanilla, real vanilla, not whatever it is they put in McDonald's ice cream, and you are real vanilla."   
"Dark and delicious?"
"In a pale and mostly blondish sort of way."
He ran his fingers through his hair. The longer he wears it and the more time he's in the sun, the lighter it gets, which is why it's pretty much entirely dark brown now. "I haven't been blond in years."
She stroked the hairs that began just below his navel and trailed down. "These still are."
"I hadn't really thought of that." He supposes those are sort of blondish, maybe, in the right light.
"Nope?"
"Nope. I don't spend too much time pondering my pubes. They're just sort of there."
She laughed at that, and he laughed with her.  
"The first time I saw you, I thought you were a vanilla bean. Still green, but there was a lot of potential there."
"Green?"
"They're the seed pods of orchids. They start out green, and then they do something to them, fermentation, drying, roasting, all three? I'm not sure, but somehow they turn black and delicious." Tim nodded. "I saw you and I just knew that under that suit and nervous exterior there was something tasty."
"I'm so glad you decided I was worth tasting."
"I am, too."
They lay there, holding hands, he's stroking her fingers, feeling the long slender taper of them, the slightly rough spot on her index fingernail where it broke recently, and the small callous she's got on her right thumb from capping the lids onto the specimen test tubes for Major Mass Spec.
"Which tattoo was your first?"
"You know the P on my wrist?"
"Yeah." His thumb slips down to touch it.
"I was fourteen, and my best friend and I hitchhiked to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. We went out to party and drink, and we both had fake ids. So, we're in the Quarter, having a blast and she said, 'Let's get tattoos.' It seemed like a really good idea, so off we went.  Her name was Paulette, so I got a P on my wrist, and she got an A on hers."
"That's so cute."
"The next year we got the smiley faces on our fingers."
"Awww..."
"And the year after that we got the angels. I'd be looking over her, and she'd be looking over me."
"Did you get all your tats with her?"
"No, that was the last year. The next Mardi Gras I was seventeen, in college at LSU and she had gone to Ole Miss. We lost track of each other over the years."
"You ever want to find her again?"
"Sometimes. I've looked a few times, but no dice."
"I bet I could find her for you. I am a cop, and kind of handy with a computer, you know?"
She smiled wryly, "Yeah, I noticed that. The badge was a tip off. But... If I can't find her because something happened to her, I'd rather not know.  I don't want to know that I live in a world that doesn't have her in it." 
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it. "I can understand that. One of my grade school buddies died three years ago. And it wasn't like we were close or anything. Not even Facebook friends. But I'd think about him every year or so, wonder how he was, and now... Now I know. I never thought I'd have to know he wasn't around any longer."
"Yeah. I don't exactly miss her, but I like to think of her as happy."
He kissed the tiny smiley face on her middle finger. "And getting new tats and new adventures."
"Yeah, maybe telling someone special about how she got hers." She's touching his fingers now, mapping them by feel. "So my vanilla bean, how did you get into this?"
"This?"
"You know. Most guys don't just wake up one day and think, 'Collars. I really like collars. And maybe, if you put one on someone, and tighten it during sex, that might result in a really intense orgasm.'"
"Gotcha. And no, it wasn't like I woke up two months ago and out of the blue thought, 'Abby needs another collar. One from me. Ohhh and some wrist cuffs to go with it.' Well, I mean, yeah, two months ago I was thinking that, but it wasn't out of the blue. So, do you want to know about how I got into"—Tim doesn't much like using the word kink to explain what they do. Firstly, because it's not quite right. It's a kink if you can't get off without it, so for him and Abby it's more of a hobby than a kink, but there's not a really good other word for this.—"all of this in general, or collars in specific?"
"I was thinking in general."
"You'll laugh."
"Maybe, if it's funny. But if it's funny, you'll laugh, too."
He smirked a little at that and flashed her a self-depreciating smile. "Okay, so, it's 1998, I'm a junior in college, and this internet thing is really starting to attract some attention. And I was really, really into the X-Files. I had just started writing then, and I was writing X-Files fanfic."
"Good place to start."
"I thought so. Anyway, generally if you write a fandom, you also read it, and that's when I noticed there were people out there who had a much wider definition of sex than I had imagined could exist. Sex-ed as taught by the Admiral was... functional, and that's it. I was reading, and I noticed that I really, really liked some of the things I was finding."
"Really?" She's teasing him a little, but he's enjoying it.
"Yeah, really. Imagine this: I didn't have my own computer yet—"
"There was a time you didn't have a computer?" She sounds genuinely surprised by that.
"Shocking, but yes, that's true. I didn't have my own until senior year. Anyway, I had to use the school's computer labs to get online. So, there were times I'd be in there late at night, reading away, and end up jerking off in the men's room, thinking about Mulder tying up Scully or Scully doing it to him."
She closes her eyes and does seem to imagine that for a moment. "You would have been, what twenty?"
"Yeah."
"Tall, kind of gangly?"
"Yeah. '98 means my hair was long, down to about my jaw, and pretty light. I really was blond back then. I was wearing a lot of flannel and denim those days."
She thinks about that for another minute. "I can just see it. You'd be nervous, and worried someone could come in, but that'd be part of the fun. Way in the back stall, trying to be quiet. Scully in your mind while your hand slides up and down." She closes her eyes, thinks about it, and smiles. "That's so hot."
He pulls her close and kisses her for a long time. "I love you." 
"I might just have to find a red wig."
"Ohhh... God, that is so hot!"
"Call you Mulder." He closes his eyes and sighs. "You wear a suit and tie. I think I've got something that'll pass for the sort of clothing Scully wore. I'll handcuff you to a chair, and explain in vivid detail why you need to ignore the search for the truth for at least one night."
"Yes, please!" He kisses her again, thinking his current lack of erection is a testament to how intense the last orgasm was, because in any other circumstance this conversation would make him hard as a rock. "You're the first person I got to do any of this with."
"Really? After that first time, you never seemed nervous. I thought it was just doing it with a new partner, not that it was all new."
"I had figured out that I liked it, but there wasn't a lot of opportunity to do anything about it."
"No steady girlfriend?"
"I had one at MIT, but I think it would have freaked her out, and not in a good way."
"There's a good way to be freaked out?"
"Oh yeah. That little bit of fear when you're doing something scary, but you really know you're safe. Like a roller coaster."
"Okay."
"So, I was with Tony, and I saw you and just about swallowed my tongue. You were so beautiful, and dark, and dangerous looking, and already wearing a collar, and just... I was thinking that if I could get up the nerve to really talk to you, that maybe you'd get to like me, and if maybe you'd get to like me, you might decide sleeping with me was an option, and if that happened, just possibly you wouldn't run screaming away if I suggested tying you up."
"And I didn't run away, did I?"
"No, I think your exact words were something like, 'I've got some ribbons in the top drawer.'"
"Something like that."
"They were black, and silk, and about as long as my arm."
"Yeah. I used them for tying bows around my pig tails."
"I almost lost it, seeing you kneeling in front of me, holding your hands behind your back, waiting for me to tie you."
"Is that your favorite image of me?"
"One of them."
"One of them? How many do you have?"
"A lot. But seeing you do that... It's the closest I've ever been to coming in my pants."
She smiles kindly, but he knows the next words will be teasing. "Control's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I've been enjoying it. Still, you've got to remember, I was barely twenty-four when we met, less than three months out of the academy, and you utterly rocked my world."
"God, I had forgotten how young you were. Now I'm feeling like a cradle robber."
He kisses her, grinning, and she knows the next thing he says will be teasing, as well. "My very favorite cougar."
"Hey, I'm not that old!"
"Just old enough."   
She smiles at that. "So... A Scully costume. I've got a black pencil skirt and a plain white blouse, think that'll work..."
***********************
Four days later, he's sitting in front of his computer, wearing a suit, jacket off, tie loose, top button undone, and sleeves rolled up, looking at a report on crop circles, and eating sunflower seeds.
"Mulder, it's after midnight."
He doesn't turn. He wants to turn. He's dying to see how she looks, but Mulder is obsessed, and not with Scully. Mulder stares at the screen. Mulder might indeed dream of sleeping with Scully, but he doesn't act on it, and he certainly doesn't think anything out of the ordinary is going to happen tonight.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead, Scully. Did you know..." and he's blathering on about cow mutilations occurring near crop circles in Oregon.
Abby walks up behind him, leans over his shoulder, turns off the monitor, and then turns his chair to face her. She's wearing a sensible business skirt, low heeled shoes, some sort of knit shirt, and a black jacket, she's even got Scully's little gold cross. But what rivets him, what he can't take his eyes away from is the chic red bob circa season six. Sure, it's a wig, but he's just staring.
"Who said anything about sleeping, Mulder?" She leans over him, pinning his wrist to the arm of the chair. 
God, he loves this woman!

Shards: Pillow Talk

McGee centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.



He should be sleepy. He's usually sleepy after sex, unless it's morning sex, but that's a different story all together. But, even though that had been one amazingly, mind-blowingly intense orgasm, he was feeling mostly just relaxed and peaceful.
Tim checked the clock. The fact that it was nine thirty might have had something to do with the lack of sleepy.
He kissed Abby, got up, and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. He folded it neatly over the wet spot, and then snuggled back in next to her. She curled onto her side, facing him.
"What was your first time like, the real one?"
He smiles widely. "You remember, you were there."
For a second she stiffened and her eyes went wide. He kept grinning, and she poked him, hard, in the ribs. "Don't do that!"
"Apparently I'm a Horus. I've got an inexhaustible supply of virginity." He kissed her quickly, and then adjusted the pillow a bit. If they were going to talk, it'd be good to be comfortable. Then he took her hand in his, kissing it as well, and settled back down.
"So, really, how was it?"
"Amazing, the world stood still, time went backwards, and the angels wept." He shook his head. "I was nineteen and desperate to give it away. There was exactly one girl in my Cellular Bio-Chem class and she was my lab partner. I guess she sort of took pity on me. We went out three times, and on the third time, we got together. And, honestly, it was fast. I think I was more excited by the idea of having sex than the sex itself. I remember thinking, 'Oh, yeah, that's...' and we were done. It wasn't precisely the crowning glory of my sexual history." 
"Did you love her?"
"I think I had a crush on her. Or maybe I just really wanted to have one on her. Or it might have been she was a girl, kind of attractive, and willing to touch me. I was pretty disappointed when she wouldn't see me again."
"I'm sorry she didn't take you seriously."
Tim shrugged. "Long time ago. How about you? How was your first, I mean besides in a cab?"
She smiles, very pleased to see he remembered that. "I was kidding about the cab thing. Not nearly fast enough." Tim looked confused, when it comes to things women want, a real speedy ejaculator usually isn't on the list. "I was seventeen and had been dating this guy for about six months. Both of us college freshmen, and he was... Well, it felt like he was packing a cannon, but it probably wasn't that big. Just, first time and all. So I remember being extremely eager, very, very turned on and then OUCH. I was crying, but trying to be quiet because it was his first time, too. It took a minute or two before he noticed and stopped."
"That sounds horrible."
"I've had better times. And it did get better. We dated all of freshman year."
Tim really didn't know what to say to that, so he nudged the topic a bit. "I loved my first time with you."
She smiled. "That was a really good first time."
"I was so nervous; my hands were shaking when I began to unbutton my shirt. Afraid you'd get my clothing off, take one look at me and go, nope, too fat, too vanilla."
"Too vanilla? That was you, last week, who put the collar you had made specifically for me around my neck, bound my hands behind my back, had me kneel in front of you and get you off with my mouth alone, and then stood me up, freed my hands, supported my weight with your body, told me to get myself off while you pulled the collar tighter and tighter and tighter so that when I got off I saw stars, right?"
Tim smiled. That was a good memory. Not the kind of thing they did too often, but oh yeah, lots of fun.
"McGee, have you ever seen a vanilla bean?"
"In real life?"
She nodded.
"Nope."
"They're about this long," she held her hands about six inches apart, "and dark, dark brown or black. The really good ones have these tiny little crystals on them, so between the oils and those crystals they almost shimmer. McGee, if you're vanilla, you're one of those Tahitian vanilla beans, dark and shimmering, smelling sweet and perfumy with undertones of forbidden pleasures and desire. I like vanilla, real vanilla, not whatever it is they put in McDonald's ice cream, and you are real vanilla."   
"Dark and delicious?"
"In a pale and mostly blondish sort of way."
He ran his fingers through his hair. The longer he wears it and the more time he's in the sun, the lighter it gets, which is why it's pretty much entirely dark brown now. "I haven't been blond in years."
She stroked the hairs that began just below his navel and trailed down. "These still are."
"I hadn't really thought of that." He supposes those are sort of blondish, maybe, in the right light.
"Nope?"
"Nope. I don't spend too much time pondering my pubes. They're just sort of there."
She laughed at that, and he laughed with her.  
"The first time I saw you, I thought you were a vanilla bean. Still green, but there was a lot of potential there."
"Green?"
"They're the seed pods of orchids. They start out green, and then they do something to them, fermentation, drying, roasting, all three? I'm not sure, but somehow they turn black and delicious." Tim nodded. "I saw you and I just knew that under that suit and nervous exterior there was something tasty."
"I'm so glad you decided I was worth tasting."
"I am, too."
They lay there, holding hands, he's stroking her fingers, feeling the long slender taper of them, the slightly rough spot on her index fingernail where it broke recently, and the small callous she's got on her right thumb from capping the lids onto the specimen test tubes for Major Mass Spec.
"Which tattoo was your first?"
"You know the P on my wrist?"
"Yeah." His thumb slips down to touch it.
"I was fourteen, and my best friend and I hitchhiked to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. We went out to party and drink, and we both had fake ids. So, we're in the Quarter, having a blast and she said, 'Let's get tattoos.' It seemed like a really good idea, so off we went.  Her name was Paulette, so I got a P on my wrist, and she got an A on hers."
"That's so cute."
"The next year we got the smiley faces on our fingers."
"Awww..."
"And the year after that we got the angels. I'd be looking over her, and she'd be looking over me."
"Did you get all your tats with her?"
"No, that was the last year. The next Mardi Gras I was seventeen, in college at LSU and she had gone to Ole Miss. We lost track of each other over the years."
"You ever want to find her again?"
"Sometimes. I've looked a few times, but no dice."
"I bet I could find her for you. I am a cop, and kind of handy with a computer, you know?"
She smiled wryly, "Yeah, I noticed that. The badge was a tip off. But... If I can't find her because something happened to her, I'd rather not know.  I don't want to know that I live in a world that doesn't have her in it." 
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it. "I can understand that. One of my grade school buddies died three years ago. And it wasn't like we were close or anything. Not even Facebook friends. But I'd think about him every year or so, wonder how he was, and now... Now I know. I never thought I'd have to know he wasn't around any longer."
"Yeah. I don't exactly miss her, but I like to think of her as happy."
He kissed the tiny smiley face on her middle finger. "And getting new tats and new adventures."
"Yeah, maybe telling someone special about how she got hers." She's touching his fingers now, mapping them by feel. "So my vanilla bean, how did you get into this?"
"This?"
"You know. Most guys don't just wake up one day and think, 'Collars. I really like collars. And maybe, if you put one on someone, and tighten it during sex, that might result in a really intense orgasm.'"
"Gotcha. And no, it wasn't like I woke up two months ago and out of the blue thought, 'Abby needs another collar. One from me. Ohhh and some wrist cuffs to go with it.' Well, I mean, yeah, two months ago I was thinking that, but it wasn't out of the blue. So, do you want to know about how I got into"—Tim doesn't much like using the word kink to explain what they do. Firstly, because it's not quite right. It's a kink if you can't get off without it, so for him and Abby it's more of a hobby than a kink, but there's not a really good other word for this.—"all of this in general, or collars in specific?"
"I was thinking in general."
"You'll laugh."
"Maybe, if it's funny. But if it's funny, you'll laugh, too."
He smirked a little at that and flashed her a self-depreciating smile. "Okay, so, it's 1998, I'm a junior in college, and this internet thing is really starting to attract some attention. And I was really, really into the X-Files. I had just started writing then, and I was writing X-Files fanfic."
"Good place to start."
"I thought so. Anyway, generally if you write a fandom, you also read it, and that's when I noticed there were people out there who had a much wider definition of sex than I had imagined could exist. Sex-ed as taught by the Admiral was... functional, and that's it. I was reading, and I noticed that I really, really liked some of the things I was finding."
"Really?" She's teasing him a little, but he's enjoying it.
"Yeah, really. Imagine this: I didn't have my own computer yet—"
"There was a time you didn't have a computer?" She sounds genuinely surprised by that.
"Shocking, but yes, that's true. I didn't have my own until senior year. Anyway, I had to use the school's computer labs to get online. So, there were times I'd be in there late at night, reading away, and end up jerking off in the men's room, thinking about Mulder tying up Scully or Scully doing it to him."
She closes her eyes and does seem to imagine that for a moment. "You would have been, what twenty?"
"Yeah."
"Tall, kind of gangly?"
"Yeah. '98 means my hair was long, down to about my jaw, and pretty light. I really was blond back then. I was wearing a lot of flannel and denim those days."
She thinks about that for another minute. "I can just see it. You'd be nervous, and worried someone could come in, but that'd be part of the fun. Way in the back stall, trying to be quiet. Scully in your mind while your hand slides up and down." She closes her eyes, thinks about it, and smiles. "That's so hot."
He pulls her close and kisses her for a long time. "I love you." 
"I might just have to find a red wig."
"Ohhh... God, that is so hot!"
"Call you Mulder." He closes his eyes and sighs. "You wear a suit and tie. I think I've got something that'll pass for the sort of clothing Scully wore. I'll handcuff you to a chair, and explain in vivid detail why you need to ignore the search for the truth for at least one night."
"Yes, please!" He kisses her again, thinking his current lack of erection is a testament to how intense the last orgasm was, because in any other circumstance this conversation would make him hard as a rock. "You're the first person I got to do any of this with."
"Really? After that first time, you never seemed nervous. I thought it was just doing it with a new partner, not that it was all new."
"I had figured out that I liked it, but there wasn't a lot of opportunity to do anything about it."
"No steady girlfriend?"
"I had one at MIT, but I think it would have freaked her out, and not in a good way."
"There's a good way to be freaked out?"
"Oh yeah. That little bit of fear when you're doing something scary, but you really know you're safe. Like a roller coaster."
"Okay."
"So, I was with Tony, and I saw you and just about swallowed my tongue. You were so beautiful, and dark, and dangerous looking, and already wearing a collar, and just... I was thinking that if I could get up the nerve to really talk to you, that maybe you'd get to like me, and if maybe you'd get to like me, you might decide sleeping with me was an option, and if that happened, just possibly you wouldn't run screaming away if I suggested tying you up."
"And I didn't run away, did I?"
"No, I think your exact words were something like, 'I've got some ribbons in the top drawer.'"
"Something like that."
"They were black, and silk, and about as long as my arm."
"Yeah. I used them for tying bows around my pig tails."
"I almost lost it, seeing you kneeling in front of me, holding your hands behind your back, waiting for me to tie you."
"Is that your favorite image of me?"
"One of them."
"One of them? How many do you have?"
"A lot. But seeing you do that... It's the closest I've ever been to coming in my pants."
She smiles kindly, but he knows the next words will be teasing. "Control's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I've been enjoying it. Still, you've got to remember, I was barely twenty-four when we met, less than three months out of the academy, and you utterly rocked my world."
"God, I had forgotten how young you were. Now I'm feeling like a cradle robber."
He kisses her, grinning, and she knows the next thing he says will be teasing, as well. "My very favorite cougar."
"Hey, I'm not that old!"
"Just old enough."   
She smiles at that. "So... A Scully costume. I've got a black pencil skirt and a plain white blouse, think that'll work..."
***********************
Four days later, he's sitting in front of his computer, wearing a suit, jacket off, tie loose, top button undone, and sleeves rolled up, looking at a report on crop circles, and eating sunflower seeds.
"Mulder, it's after midnight."
He doesn't turn. He wants to turn. He's dying to see how she looks, but Mulder is obsessed, and not with Scully. Mulder stares at the screen. Mulder might indeed dream of sleeping with Scully, but he doesn't act on it, and he certainly doesn't think anything out of the ordinary is going to happen tonight.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead, Scully. Did you know..." and he's blathering on about cow mutilations occurring near crop circles in Oregon.
Abby walks up behind him, leans over his shoulder, turns off the monitor, and then turns his chair to face her. She's wearing a sensible business skirt, low heeled shoes, some sort of knit shirt, and a black jacket, she's even got Scully's little gold cross. But what rivets him, what he can't take his eyes away from is the chic red bob circa season six. Sure, it's a wig, but he's just staring.
"Who said anything about sleeping, Mulder?" She leans over him, pinning his wrist to the arm of the chair. 
God, he loves this woman!