Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS New Orleans or its character… (But if I did they wouldn't go to such horrible waste… Just saying…)

Author's Note: Chris LaSalle was portrayed as a womanizer from the very beginning. So one just can't help but wonder that if he's sworn off 'women' and found a hobby as Pride suggested, then how well is the whole celibacy thing working out for him?

WARNING: CONTAINS SMUT (of a possible pointless nature…) ALSO SOME COARSE LANGUAGE.

Restless Leg Syndrome.

It was a real medical issue, wasn't it? After the past couple of days, the past few hours in particular, Merri Brody could safely say -even with no medical training beyond emergency first aid- that her partner suffered from this condition. Well, some form of it.

It was starting to drive her completely insane. Perhaps, it was a little bit amusing, as part of a larger portrait of Chris LaSalle's current mental state. Although, Merri believed that his unsettled mood was linked partially, if not wholly, to his current physical state.

But whatever the cause, the ceaseless vibrating of his left leg, the drumming of his boot heel on the decaying wooden floor... It was driving her completely insane. She couldn't concentrate on the computer screen, the video feed of the neighboring house's backyard, the figures doing something there. Maybe just barbequing. Maybe illegal sales of stolen merchandize.

Oh dear, god, make it stop.

She grabbed her partner's knee, and she could feel him scowling at her despite not looking in his direction. He squirmed in the chair sat beside hers, the muscles and tendons of his leg shifting beneath skin, jeans and her hand. The man undeniably retained a vast reservoir of energy, but his personality had always been a laid back sort of one... Until the past few weeks. Merri had noticed the anxious tendencies building. They'd started off small. He used to prefer sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair while they ran down a case. Now he always stood, had begun to pace even. He had always seemed to prefer to keep his hands busy, but now it seemed downright compulsive. If he didn't have a pen or a set of keys to play with, he was tugging at his ear or his clothes. Sometimes, it looked like he was uncomfortable in his own skin, as if it were crawling with spiders or something.

But maybe he hadn't got used to the bulk of muscle he'd put back on (and some). For a while, she'd been a little concerned about how he'd thinned down, after Savannah's death. She knew he hadn't been going home most nights (and not always because he'd found another bed to rest his head, well, not rest). And she'd begun to wonder if he was bothering to eat at all. Maybe those bags of chips and other junk food they always saw him nibbling on at work were the only things he was eating. She'd thought to mention it to Pride, but the older man likely would've known before she had whether his best friend was taking care of himself. Although, Pride had seemed to take a hands-off approach to LaSalle's issues for the most part. He'd finally had a 'talk' with the troubled agent after quite some time had passed. Merri knew about it. Chris had told her... eventually.

Merri did not agree with Pride's approach. Valuing his approval above all else, Chris LaSalle had appeared to quit 'women' cold turkey. Had she worried about his intensive sleeping around? Yes. That sort of risky behavior was dangerous. Mainly to a person's health. But at the same time, Pride had always been a 'one woman' man, and Merri wasn't sure he understood Chris'... um... effusive nature. The guy had been a womanizer when she met him, before he'd tried to get serious with Savannah. He'd probably been a charmer all his life, and a ladies' man since at least college (if not high school). It hadn't seemed self-destructive, his casually working his way through a string of women, dating them in a non-serious fashion until he met the next girl. But using one-night stands to avoid going home to the scene of his serious girlfriend's murder? Definitely a different thing.

Only, Merri had seen men mourn relationships before... When she dumped her college boyfriend sophomore year (and 'broken his heart'), he'd proceeded to sleep his way through the entire female population of her dorm. And when an agent she'd worked with in the Great Lakes office had lost his wife... He'd done much the same thing as LaSalle, a string of meaningless hook-ups. She'd thought it was stupid and futile. Surely, one couldn't fill the void left by the death of a person one loved with meaningless sex. But after a few months, he'd seemed to come to terms with the pain of his loss. He'd stopped sleeping around, and it was another year before he tried seriously dating again. He hadn't been himself for a little while. But then he was. Still sad sometimes, but otherwise himself.

And so Merri had been more or less content to let her friend screw his way through his grief (keeping an eye on him to make sure he wasn't avoiding other issues). Pride had not been willing to let Chris figure it out for himself (or hit 'rock bottom' as the senior agent seemed to think would happen, and Merri herself feared on some level). And so he'd more or less made Chris swear off women. And now, six months later, he was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock.

He was not a loner. He didn't like being alone. He thrived in the midst of a crowd, loved the city for all of Percy's calling him 'country mouse'. And he needed human contact. And from what she'd seen over the past few days, he needed to get laid.

His leg was still jittering even beneath her staying hand. She slid it up a few inches, giving his (wow- very muscular thigh) a harder squeeze.

"Ow! Wha' th' Hell, Mere?" He'd grabbed her wrist with strong fingers, the muscle tensing in his forearm. Jesus. He'd been hitting the gym hard the past month. But apparently, it hadn't been enough to burn off his extra energy, or give him the release he needed.

"Your restless leg syndrome is making me nauseas," she said. And it was. He huffed a sigh. This was probably the twentieth time in the past 24 hours she'd complained about his fidgeting. And he seemed to be as irritated at her nitpicking as she was over his inability to be still. He stopped twitching his leg, which probably meant it wasn't really Restless Leg Syndrome because a person couldn't control it, by definition.

She didn't remove her hand, however, because she was sick of this. It was time to just say it, get it out there. And the contact ensured she had his undivided attention.

"So, how's the whole celibacy thing working out for you?" she asked in a casual tone. His cheeks instantly went pink. Did he really think she hadn't noticed he had the worst case of blue balls she'd ever witnessed... Well, metaphorically. She obviously hadn't looked.

He pursed his lips, clenching his jaw. And crossed his arms in front of his chest. Defensive, much?

"Because from where I'm sitting..." She probably shouldn't do it... but she needed to send the message home, convince him to take care of his... um... problem before it became any more obvious to the world at large, or compromised his work performance (or made her snap entirely). She slid her hand higher and slightly to the inside of his thigh until something brushed against the edge of her pinky finger. "It doesn't seem to be working at all."

Oh god. She shouldn't've done it. She really shouldn't have done it. She'd expected him to yank her hand away, flee out of embarrassment. Embarrassment that was supposed to convince him to go find a woman and see to his needs already because the tension in him was so pronounced that it was driving her crazy.

But instead, he sucked in a sharp breath, his hands going to grip the wicker seat of the ladder back chair, his large biceps bulging in the process. He'd closed his eyes and was breathing determinedly through his nose. Merri thought she'd heard him whimper.

Just remove your hand from his thigh. Carefully. Don't look.

She looked. Fuck her. He was visibly aroused, the bulge in his jeans looked painfully restricted by the thick denim. In that state she could probably get him off with just a few rubs of his crotch, make him moan or beg for the release he needed so badly, drawl out her name like it were pure sex.

Merri tore her eyes and hand away, jumping to her feet.

"I'm going to get a drink," she said, her voice husky with her own arousal (damn it). She barely managed to restrict herself to a brisk walk rather than a run as she left the room. So much for composure.

Well, that plan had back-fired. She needed a drink alright. An alcoholic one. And not wine. Wine was just not going to cut it. If she wasn't on the job, if they weren't staking out the house next door for theft, transport and sale of government property... A fifth of whiskey might be enough to obliterate that embarrassing display from her mind. And quell the tight knot of need that had formed low in her belly.

Fuck.

It was his fault. If he hadn't been walking around the place, his stupid toned body twitching with pent up energy, giving off too much testosterone and suppressed sexual virility, invading her space, letting her catch him shirtless and yum... Making her have ridiculous sex dreams and wake up with her underwear soaked and her hand... Well, she'd never woken up like that before.

Maybe she should just call Pride and tell him she wasn't feeling well, that he needed to trade off with her on the surveillance. They could figure out a way to excuse it, make it work with their cover of a poor couple just moved into the rundown house.

But that would be the easy way out. She had to figure out how to work with this different (yet still entirely the same old) LaSalle. Because she liked working with him, liked New Orleans and its quirky band of NCIS agents. She didn't want to have to leave again. (She'd actually unpacked a few boxes.)

Fuck it.

She knew there had to be alcohol in the house somewhere. There was always some liquor hidden in any house. Even in Southern Baptist homes. Even in houses abandoned and boarded up and procured by NCIS for a stakeout. She checked the upper cupboards to no avail... A swollen old box of kosher salt, a jar of dubious pickled peppers, a couple chipped glasses... She began to open the lower kitchen cupboards, getting down on her hands and knees to peer into the dark recesses... Because that's where the illicit, forgotten bottle would be hiding, wouldn't it? Was that a glint of light off some glass? Yes!

It was Ew! Sticky! and covered with dust. Oh, and rum! For once, all the rum wasn't gone. There was about a third of the decent sized bottle left. Score! She crawled back out of the cupboard, got to her feet, turned to grab a glass and- jesus!

Chris had snuck up on her, taken her thoroughly by surprise. How long had he been there, watching her crawl around in the moldering kitchen cupboards?

He was so close she could smell the lust on him, sweat and heat and musky male. His eyes fixed on her face, so dark a blue they looked black. He yanked the bottle of rum out of her hand, set it on the counter, grabbed her arms and kissed her.

His whole body collided with hers sending them stumbling backwards until her ass hit a cupboard door slamming it shut as he pushed her up against the countertop, the sharp, broken edge of the linoleum counter digging into her lower spine. But she didn't care. Heat was blistering over her in waves as he pressed himself up against her, everywhere. He was everywhere. His hands tangling in her hair, rubbing her shoulders and back. His mouth was on hers, his tongue thrusting into her before his lips were torn away to be reapplied to her throat. His muscular arms encircled her. His body, firm and warm was pressed against her in more places than she could even consider. His arousal eagerly pushed against her belly, and when he grabbed her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge of the counter, it settled so perfectly against her own sex that her eyes rolled back into her head and she had a damp pair of panties for the second time that day. Although, she had a feeling she might be discarding them in a hurry very shortly. Very, very short-Mm..

He was kissing her mouth again, sloppy and greedily, his hands finding their way up under her t-shirt to caress her belly before moving higher to cup and squeeze her breasts contained in her simple satin bra. The sensation of his strong, rough hands dipping into the silky cups to run calloused thumbs over her nipples had her arching her back and grinding against him, which in turn caused him to collapse against her, burying his face in her neck, a low growling string of profanity the likes of which she'd never heard from the well-mannered man rumbling softly against her ear.

And then he was pulling away, leaving her quite bereft, whimpering even.

"We shouldn'." His voice was low and husky, but also desperate, desperate for her to tell him he was wrong, that they could do this. That it was okay to do this.

God, she wanted it to be okay, too.

Why couldn't they? Why shouldn't they? They wanted it. They needed it.

Things couldn't become any stranger between them than it already had. And oh, fuck, how she-

She grabbed the front of the t-shirt stretched deliciously across his toned chest and tugged him back to her.

"I want you," she said before kissing him. This time she was the one being greedy as she parted his lips with her tongue and thrust it inside to taste him. Oh, yum. More. More! More!

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her hips instinctively thrusting against him. And then he was pulling away again.

Maybe she was wrong about his wanting it. Part of him most definitely did. Neither of them could pretend otherwise. But that had little to do with what the rest of him wanted, did it?

"I ain't gotta condom," he said. Oh. She nearly sighed in relief. Because she was admittedly a little disappointed by the idea that he didn't want her, that she'd have to lock herself in the bedroom and take care of her own problem. By the sounds of it, she may still have to... Or they could probably just finish up with their clothes on. Judging by his state, as well as her own feeling of teetering just on the edge, they certainly would be capable of getting off without getting naked.

"You clean?" she asked, panting since she hadn't recovered her breathing at all.

He blushed. How the man blushed even though he was flush with arousal, Merri didn't know. But it was sort of adorable. Talking about sex embarrassed him even when they were about to do it?

"Yup." His boyish grin began to light up his face. "Why? Ya don't wanna…"

"There's no problem on my side of things," Merri said, dragging him in for another kiss.

"Mebbe it ain't... a good idea… anyway..." His words devolved into a pleased moan as she nipped as his jaw line and earlobe, began to suck a mark onto his neck.

"If you don't want to, we won't," she said, pulling back to look into his dark, dark blue eyes. It damned well looked like he wanted to, but 'no' was 'no' in whichever form it came.

"I just thought..." she reached for his crotch and he collapsed against her again, his hands seeking out the countertop on either side of her ass to hold himself up. "You might need a little relief."

"Darlin'..." His voice was a husky growl. "Do I ever."

He cupped her face, gave her a quick peck on the lips. She wanted more. Fuck. Her whole body was vibrating with need, so close already.

"But it wouldn' be fair ta ya," He blushed a little more. "I ain't gonna last long."

Was that the only reason he was hesitating?

"Don't care," she said, reaching for his belt and smashing her lips against his once more. It seemed to be all the encouragement he needed, for he kissed her back, his tongue thrusting eagerly into her mouth with promise of what was to come. His hands fell to her waist, beneath her shirt and the feel of his calloused fingers and palms against her sensitive skin sent shivers of pleasure up her spine.

Then he was unfastening her jeans, she was lifting her bottom and they were a pile in the corner of the dusty kitchen. Another item for the dirty laundry pile. Her panties shortly followed. As for her own eagerness, well, she'd gone straight for his fly herself. This wasn't going to be a slow exploration of one another, however nice it would be to worship every inch of her partner's nicely built yummy body. It was probably lucky they got in as much kissing and touching and rubbing up against one another as they had.

They both knew what it was about. That euphoric release of all the pent up, wound up, maddening sexual tension.

So he didn't ask, just met her gaze with his lusty blue one and then was plunging inside of her, setting a pounding rhythm. She clung to him because she was afraid of reaching for the flimsy kitchen cupboards to steady herself against the ride.

And he'd been right. It was a brief one. But she'd also been telling the truth. She didn't care. He'd had her so worked up that her need was a tightly coiled spring deep inside of her, and yet also fully exposed. Because it had sprung on her with the friction of his initial penetration. She hadn't come that quickly or hard in a long, long time. She could only dig her fingers into the soft fabric of the shirt covering his solid shoulders and ride it out as he grabbed her hips with bruising force and chased his own release.

It was a brief chase, but long enough to push her deeper into her own orgasm, and she was seeing stars and panting for air when it was over and they clung to one another in light-headed, whimpering, giggling bliss.

After about a minute or so, when the world settled back into focus a little, he kissed her once more. This time gently, with more affection than lust. And then he touched his forehead to hers, rubbed his nose against hers in an Eskimo Kiss that was so sweet she couldn't help but giggle like a silly school girl.

"That cel'bacy thing," he said. "It wa'n't workin' out."

A/N: Perhaps another part to this story? Chris' side of his struggle with celibacy whilst being stuck on the stake out with Merri, living and working in close quarters?