A/N: This fic has languished in my hard drive for more than a year now, and I've finally decided to set it free. dragonheart25 looked over an early draft of this, and dragged all my errant commas and semicolons firmly back into place—thank you for all your help, and I'm sorry for ruining all your work by essentially rewriting this thing after you saw it!

And so, so many thanks go to selenic76, who wrestled with the backstory and continuity and language of this until it was something we could be happy with; who loved this story in its shivering, terrified infancy and helped me to love it too; who is inspiring and uplifting and wonderful in all the best ways. I don't have words for how amazing you've been.

Tony has had countless fantasies, but when it finally happens it's nothing like any of them: for one thing he'd never imagined getting hit by a car as the precipitating event. He certainly hadn't imagined being in so much pain from bruising and sore muscles that it's all he can do to lie on his back, Gibbs' much-washed sheets soft against his bare skin, and watch as Gibbs strips slowly, maddeningly, out of his clothes. Gibbs is about as much of a bastard about it as you'd expect: he holds Tony's gaze the entire time, not so much as glancing down as he unbuttons and unzips with painful—and clearly deliberate—slowness until finally, finally, he skims his boxers off and stands there, hands on his hips, a small but nevertheless cocky smile playing about his mouth, and lets Tony look.

Tony licks his lips unconsciously. God, he's hoped, and imagined, and snuck no end of illicit looks in communal showers and hotel rooms and in the field, but this—he never in a million years thought he'd actually get this. He lets his gaze travel, slow and hot and lingering, up Gibbs' knobbly, furry knees; the taut, lean muscle of his thighs, clenching and unclenching just a little bit (so, not as unaffected as you pretend to be, huh, Boss?); up, up to the brush of curls framing—oh, yeah: Tony always just knew that Gibbs has a gorgeous dick, and he wasn't wrong. He lets his eyes caress the head, the flared lip, the shaft dark and mouth-wateringly thick.

Oh, yeah.

He smirks when his gaze elicits a little twitch, but doesn't comment, and makes himself move on, eyes climbing slowly up: the lean hips, the softness of age starting to show on his stomach; the broad chest with its brown-and-silver matting of curls (such a weird image, Gibbs with dark hair); up, up to Gibbs' familiar, beloved face, his lopsided smile and amused blue eyes.

"You done, DiNozzo?'

Tony grins. Oh, man, he could get used to hearing that tone in Gibbs' voice. He waves a hand in a non-committal gesture and then scratches lazily at his stomach, carefully avoiding his own pulsing, aching cock. "Depends," he drawls. "You just gonna stand there all night?"

The smile broadens into a full smirk. "Depends," Gibbs returns. He moves—god, it shouldn't be possible, but the way his muscles ripple under his skin makes Tony even harder—getting one knee up onto the bed, nudging Tony's legs apart and then kneeling between them. Tony smirks up at him, shifts his hips a little and then raises his knees, planting his feet flat on the bed. Gibbs leans forward and braces his hands on Tony's shoulders without actually putting his weight on them, which is a pretty neat trick. "You move, and this is over," he says, still smiling a little, but with a bite in his voice that Tony knows not to fuck with.

Not that it ever stopped him. "Aw, come on, Boss," he wheedles. "You don't—"

"DiNozzo."

Tony huffs out a breath and looks up at Gibbs for a moment. Gibbs looks back, gaze steady and hands warm on his shoulders. Tony can still remember how it had felt, earlier: still half-dazed from being thrown by the car; Gibbs yelling in his face; those same hands fisted in his collar and trembling.

He sighs. "I won't move," he promises with a slightly rueful smile, and Gibbs eyes him narrowly for a moment and then smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Okay," he says quietly, and moves forward and down. Tony's smile widens as Gibbs leans in, and then Gibbs is finally kissing him, lips warm, tongue sliding smooth and slick along Tony's lower lip. Tony murmurs in pleasure at the soft, wet warmth and the edge of teeth; running his hands up Gibbs' sides and around to his back. Muscles shift under his hands as Gibbs stretches out above him, holding himself up on his elbows to keep his weight of Tony's sore ribs. Gibbs' hips settle against his; their cocks are trapped between them, and drag deliciously against each other when Gibbs slowly rocks his hips. Tony groans, partly appreciative of the friction and partly frustrated that he can't haul Gibbs down and really feel the man's weight, like he's fantasised about for so long.

Later, he promises himself, catching Gibbs' lower lip between his teeth and tugging a little. Gibbs hums against his mouth, a low rumble that Tony feels as much as he hears. It makes his toes curl. He smoothes a hand up Gibbs' back and into his short hair, curling his fingers in it and using the grip to turn Gibbs' head so he can bite at the corner of his jaw. Gibbs actually shivers at that, and then rocks his hips against Tony's once, firmly, before twisting away and moving down to nibble and suck at Tony's neck. He smoothes a hand down Tony's side, careful of the bruises.

"No moving," he says, breath hot against Tony's throat.

"No moving," Tony agrees breathlessly. The next thing he knows, there's a warm, wet mouth on his nipple, and he almost arches off the bed. He can't help the noise he makes, half pleasure and half pain as his back and shoulders protest the movement.

Gibbs stops.

Tony whimpers, lifting his head to look pleadingly at Gibbs. Gibbs meets his gaze calmly.

"Oh, my god. You really would stop, wouldn't you?"

Gibbs raises an eyebrow. Right, of course he would. Ten years, ten years Tony's wanted this, and Gibbs would stop because of a couple of bruises.

Okay, a little more than a couple of bruises.

Tony releases his breath in an unsteady sigh, and licks his lips. "Okay. Just… lay off the nipples, all right?"

Gibbs raises both eyebrows at that, and Tony remembers too late that it's never a good idea to give this man extra ammunition. Gibbs grins at him. "Fine," he says. "I'll save that for when I can really make you squirm."

"Hey!" Tony protests, indignant. "I didn't squirm! I—" His voice breaks off abruptly when Gibbs bends down and sets his teeth in the pulse fluttering at the base of his neck. "Nng," he says instead, his whole body tightening up. Fuck, he needs to move, he really needs to—Gibbs' hand slides down his arm to circle his wrist; he squeezes once,and then lets go. Tony lets his breath out in a shaky sigh. Gibbs is being—gentle isn't the word. Careful. Intent. Tony's waited years to have Gibbs' attention on him like this. He can—he can be patient, he thinks. The bruises will heal eventually. He deliberately curls his hands in the sheet, and concentrates on not moving.

Gibbs moves downward, sucking wet, stinging kisses down Tony's stomach, nipping gently just below his bellybutton, stubble rasping against skin. Tony lets his eyes go unfocused and just feels. His heart is thudding in his ears, his skin is hot and tingling, and he's never been this turned on in his life—and every movement Gibbs makes reminds him whose hands, whose mouth he's feeling, and it makes a bolt of lust shoot through him, every time. He can't do a damn thing but lie there, can't do anything about the noises he's making, high-pitched embarrassing noises, but, god, he's wanted this for so long. He's still floating, drunk on sensation and on the heat of Gibbs' body between his legs and the warmth of his hands and his breath on Tony's skin, when Gibbs, kneeling between his spread legs, stops again. Tony lifts his head and opens his mouth to protest that he hadn't been moving, not this time, when he sees Gibbs' face—and remembers.

The tattoo. The stupid fucking tattoo.

Shit, shit, shit.

Tony screws his eyes shut. If he'd known—if he'd had any idea that one day he'd be here, that he had the smallest chance, he never would have… he fights the urge to moan. And that Gibbs had to find out like this—Tony wants nothing more than to scramble up and away, cover up, hide, get the hell out, but he's in so much fucking pain he can't move. All he can do is lie here, eyes squeezed shut, heart jackhammering in his chest, and wonder what the fuck Gibbs is thinking. Shame courses through him, hot and sour, as memories flash behind his closed eyes—

—pressing a hand to his thigh at work, chair pushed in against his desk so that no one can see—

—standing in the elevator next to Gibbs, hands tucked casually into his pockets, and so aware of the tattoo that his skin is tingling—

—standing in the shower with the smell of shampoo in his nose, cock thick and hot and hard in his right hand while his left brushes over and over the tattoo—

It hadn't been such a huge thing, he'd always told himself. It was just for him, it wouldn't hurt anyone, no one had to know, it didn't have to mean anything—but Tony can see what it means, now. He'd always pretended that it was just him, reaching out for a taste of something that would never be his, giving something of himself to someone who didn't want it, not like that—but. He hadn't been giving, all that time. He'd been taking. Taking from Gibbs, without his consent, without his even knowing. Now he can see it for what it is, and something that had felt like some small stolen illicit pleasure that wouldn't hurt anyone now feels perverted, obsessive, sick—like he's violated Gibbs somehow, cheapened him, used him in a way he never had the right to.

It feels like some twisted justice that he's lying here like this with his legs spread, with the depths of just how pathetic he is bared for Gibbs to see.

He's still hard. That's the worst thing.

Tony can't bring himself to open his eyes, can't bring himself to see how the humour and the pleasure and the—yes, the happiness—drain out of Gibbs' face, to be replaced by—by what, Tony doesn't know. Doesn't want to know, doesn't even want to think about. He clenches his jaw, feeling the way he's trembling against the mattress like a dying insect on a corkboard.

He can't bring himself to open his eyes, but he probably should have—at least that way he'd have been prepared for the feather-light touch to his inner thigh. As it is, it almost makes him shoot his load right there, and just how fucking desperate would that have made him look?

He doesn't come, but he lies there, shaking, legs splayed, his whole being centred on that soft, barely-there touch. He can hear his own breathing, loud and harsh and panicked—but from Gibbs, nothing. And that's what finally makes him open his eyes.

Gibbs is staring at the tattoo, high up on Tony's left inner thigh, tracing it lightly with the tips of two fingers. Tony has spent a lot of time in the last few months staring at that tattoo in mirrors, often enough and long enough that he knows exactly what Gibbs is seeing. He watches as Gibbs' eyes follow his fingers up and down the stark, unadorned lines of the tattoo, dark against the pale skin.

L. J. G.

After what feels like an eternity Gibbs raises his eyes. He leaves his hand where it is.

"When?"

Tony swallows noisily, trying to moisten his dry throat enough to speak. When he doesn't respond immediately, Gibbs repeats, "When?" this time accompanying the question with the slightest pressure against the tattoo.

Fuck, Gibbs has his hand on—

"A—a few months ago," Tony manages to rasp finally. He tries out a laugh: it comes out sounding wet and strangled. "It was—I was sort of—I was really drunk."

Gibbs doesn't respond, doesn't break their gaze—he barely even blinks. With nowhere else to escape to, Tony closes his eyes again, because as bad as the images are that live in the dark, it's much worse seeing the awful blankness on Gibbs' face.

Gibbs' fingers brush once more against the tattoo, and then they're gone. Despite everything—despite Gibbs' stone-faced, silent acceptance of Tony's half-assed explanation, despite Tony's own horror at himself—he can't hold back the tiny, near-imperceptible sound of protest at the loss of that touch.

The sound fades into cold, blank, horrible silence. Tony swallows hard in the unbearable quiet, and braces against the pain he will feel when he scrapes himself off the bed and into his clothes and out the door.

He still can't stand to open his eyes, and he almost jumps off the bed when he feels the soft breaths against the skin of the tattoo. What is—what is Gibbs doing? Is that—oh god, Gibbs' mouth?—the soft brush of lips at first, warm and dry, and then—Tony's breath stops in his throat. There's a warm, wet touch: a gentle, open-mouthed kiss, and then a hot gust of breath and the edge of teeth, and—sweet Jesus, his tongue?— *Tony makes a sound, a long, shaky, embarrassing whine, and that's it, bam, Gibbs shoulders his legs apart and really goes at the tattoo, hard sucking stinging relentless kisses and sharp bites, worrying the skin between his teeth, and his cheek is brushing against Tony's aching balls, stubble scraping the skin, and Tony can't—he fists the sheets and fucking keens, and then Gibbs is moving, taking Tony's cock in his mouth and sucking, lashing his tongue against the head, and Tony lets out a long, hoarse cry and he's coming, shaking and juddering and helpless, and even through that he can feel the heat of Gibbs' hand, thumb pressing hard against the tattoo, even as he swallows Tony down.

Tony stays where he is, panting loudly at the ceiling, his thighs and ass clenching, hands clawed painfully in the sheets, and waits till his heart stops feeling like it'll tear his way out of his chest, till he's actually taking air into his lungs, and then he pries his eyes open.

Gibbs is still kneeling between Tony's legs, eyes locked on the tattoo. He has one hand clamped vice-tight around Tony's ankle and the other fisted in the sheet. His mouth is open and he's breathing hard and fast. There's a dribble of come on his chin. Tony flexes his ankle under Gibbs' hand, and Gibbs finally looks up to meet Tony's gaze. His face is red, his pupils are blown and he's staring at Tony, open-mouthed, and he looks… wild, he looks…

Tony bites his lip once, hard, and then nudges Gibbs with his knee. "Come here," he says, hoarse, and Gibbs groans and surges up to take Tony's mouth in a deep kiss, hard and possessive and desperate. Tony gets his sore arms up around Gibbs as much as his shoulders will allow, and wraps his legs around him, encouraging the way Gibbs is grinding his hips against Tony's, his cock a hot weight against Tony's stomach, Tony's own softening, sensitive cock caught painfully against Gibbs' thigh. Gibbs wrenches his mouth off Tony's and pushes his face against Tony's neck, snarling; he makes a few more jerky, uncoordinated thrusts before he comes with a long, deep groan that sounds like he's in pain.

Tony stares up at the ceiling as Gibbs pants hotly against his neck. His eyelashes flutter against Tony's skin; his arms are trembling from the strain of holding himself away from Tony's bruised ribs. Tony manages to get his legs down from around Gibbs' waist and lets them fall onto the mattress. He runs his hands up and down Gibbs' back until his breathing steadies. Gibbs takes one long breath, then another, and heaves himself off Tony, flopping down on his side next to him. Tony, still staring at the ceiling, opens his mouth to say god knows what, and then closes it again. Gibbs shifts beside him and Tony has a wild moment of wondering whether Gibbs is actually going to be the one to initiate conversation here—but when Gibbs moves, it's to curl in closer and gently massage Tony's arms. Tony's never seen that look on his face before, soft and intensely focused at the same time: he thinks he likes it.

Finally Gibbs meets his eyes, and Tony gives him a sheepish grin. "I thought you'd hate it," he says, almost gleefully, as if he's not thinking of all the times Gibbs snarls at people who stand too close to Tony, and every pissy face Gibbs ever gave him for his flirting, and Gibbs' obvious, instant, visceral dislike of EJ, and how Tony used to think, back when he first joined NCIS, that Gibbs would love to stamp 'Property of Gibbs' on his forehead to remind people that Tony was his agent.

Really, he should have known.

Gibbs, meanwhile, seems to be back on a more or less even keel; he just gives Tony his standard non-expression. "I don't hate it," he says, deadpan.

Tony snorts. "Yeah, Boss, I figured," he says, and Gibbs' face breaks into a grin, and Tony pulls him down into a kiss that's sloppy and breathy and kind of awkward, because they're both laughing, and Tony spares a brain cell to marvel that he's here, lying in this particular tangle of limbs, and feeling Leroy Jethro Gibbs laughing against his mouth.

Eventually Gibbs pulls away and rolls out of bed, ignoring Tony's protests, and pads into the bathroom. Tony stays where he is, stretching out his legs as far as he can and grinning like an idiot at nothing in particular. He hears the water run in the bathroom, and then Gibbs is out again, bringing a damp washcloth over to the bed and cleaning Tony up. Tony beams at him. Gibbs chuckles and says, "Guess your painkillers are kickin' in, DiNozzo," and Tony laughs and says, "Painkillers, huh? That's what they're calling it these days?" and goes on about endorphins until Gibbs chucks the washcloth at his face.

Later, after Gibbs does whatever he does in place of locking up for the night, comes back to bed, and arranges himself and Tony under the covers, Tony flexes his leg against Gibbs' and smiles when he feels the bitten, tender skin of the tattoo stretch and sting. "My pants are gonna chafe like hell tomorrow," he mumbles into Gibbs's shoulder.

Gibbs snorts. "You complaining?"

"Are you crazy?"

Gibbs laughs softly at Tony's vehemence and then falls silent. He puts a hand on Tony's hip, thumb stroking gently up and down. "Must've been painful," he says quietly.

"It really, really was," Tony chuckles tiredly. "They had to have someone hold me down."

Gibbs' other arm, wrapped loosely around Tony's shoulders, tightens painfully for a moment before he takes a deep breath and relaxes.

Tony sighs again and tucks his face against Gibbs' shoulder. "It was after the Swanson case," he says softly.

For a moment Gibbs is silent, and then he says, "That one bugged you."

Tony snorts. "One way of putting it." He shrugs minutely. It doesn't hurt as much to move his shoulders any more. Gibbs was probably right about the painkillers, he reflects.

Gibbs doesn't say anything, and finally Tony huffs a sigh. "It just… some of the things he said," he says at last. "They were kind of true, you know?"

Gibbs starts. "What?" he says loudly, and turns to glare at Tony. "Harry Swanson was a murderer," he says fiercely. "You're nothing like him."

"Really?" Tony knows he sounds bitter and angry but he can't help it. "His mother died when he was ten; he grew up in a series of boarding schools because his family didn't know what to do with him; his father didn't even know he was in the Navy. You're telling me none of that sounds familiar to you?" His hands curl into fists against the way they're shaking. His breath gusts fast and hot against Gibbs' skin and reflects back at his face.

Gibbs says nothing for a moment, and then he turns his head to press a gentle kiss to Tony's temple. Tony freezes in shock, breath catching in his throat. A warm hand rubs small circles on his back until his muscles slowly, slowly unclench, until he feels himself starting to melt into the warmth of Gibbs' body against his. He closes his eyes and carefully evens out his breathing to match Gibbs'.

"Familiar?" Gibbs says at last, contemplative. "Don't know about familiar. Couple of things in common maybe." A finger taps sharply under his chin. "Doesn't mean you're anything like him."

Somehow, faced with Gibbs' matter-of-fact assessment, it's difficult to hold on to the miserable certainty of all those months ago. "I know," Tony admits, muffled. "It's just… that stuff he said, about his unit and the tattoos and about belonging to something—" he has to stop before he can force the rest of the words out. Shame rises again, thick and choking; his eyes burn with it. "I just… I just wanted to believe that I—that you—"

That I belonged to you. That you belonged—but he can't finish that sentence, not even to himself.

"I know."

Tony stiffens in momentary horror—had he said that aloud? Does Gibbs really know—and then he sighs and relaxes, because—he's Gibbs. Of course he does.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice soft and a little high and horribly needy.

"Yeah," Gibbs says. Then, uncharacteristically, he hesitates, before adding, "You can. You do. If you want."

You can. You do.

Tony swallows hard and presses his face into Gibbs' shoulder. "I want," he croaks around the lump in his throat.

Gibbs hums gently and cards his fingers through Tony's hair. "Yeah," he says. "Me too," and his voice is low and rough and soft and relieved and sure, and Tony lets it settle into his bones, into his skin, deep and indelible.

fin