NCIS Anything

Title: Anything

Author: MindyHarmon

Rating: M, sexual overtones.

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.

Spoilers: "Dead Man Talking"

Summary: KIBBS. Set during and around the events of "Dead Man Talking".

* * *

She won't sleep tonight. She knows she won't.

She bets Gibbs is sleeping like a baby. She bets he's not bothered in the least. Wherever he is. She tries not to picture him. She tries so hard to blame him, to hate him for doing this to her.

But truthfully, she only wishes he would do it to her _more_ often, not less. Like, everyday perhaps – or every hour on the hour.

The spontaneity of it kills her. The scarcity of it kills her. The power of it kills her.

She rolls onto her back and sighs at the ceiling. Sleep just isn't going to happen. She pulls the covers up to her chin and folds her hands over her stomach.

It's not like they were dating or even sleeping together. Just every once in a while Gibbs feels the need to push her up against a wall and kiss the life out of her.

'Or into her,' her mind amends unhelpfully.

It was true though. No one had ever kissed her the way Gibbs had. No one had ever made her feel like that, made her feel so alive. Not Dwayne, not Tim or any of the boys she'd dated. There was no comparison.

The heat had always been there between her and Gibbs. It had surprised her at first – the way he looked at her that whole time on Air Force One had made her heart race. It confused her a little – he was so much older than her, she'd never been attracted to older guys. But she was starting to see the appeal. There was something so effortlessly masculine about him; such a confidence, such a reticence, and his inherent sexuality was at once both powerful and restrained.

Still, he'd waited till after she was at NCIS to pounce on her the first time. She hadn't known what had hit her. It had happened so fast and been so furious that she was left breathless, speechless, helpless.

And lying in bed _that_ night she'd wondered whether she'd imagined the whole thing.

But no, she'd decided; she'd never experienced the kind of rush that came from being worked over by Gibbs in the most thorough way, she'd _never _felt what he made her body feel. She'd never known that that kind of passion was possible so how _could _she invent it?

And besides, the fact was, she could still feel his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands holding her waist and cupping her head. She knew it was real; it was too real to be imagined.

For the next week, she'd waited, breathlessly, for a repeat performance, a second ravishing. She'd hoped for an invitation to his house, or out to dinner. She looked for signs from Gibbs that he wanted more than to simply feel her up and plunder her willing mouth in an anonymous hallway. No signs emerged, no invitation was extended, Gibbs remained exactly the same, and with a stab of pain and disappointment, she wrote off the kiss as an aberration, a crazy impulse, a senseless one-off.

And she tried not to think about it.

Till the next time it happened.

It was shortly after that incident on the sub, now she came to think of it.

Once again, he took her by surprise and while the second kiss was as encompassing and amazing as the first, _that _night in bed, she'd started to get angry. _What was he playing at?_ He couldn't do this to her – she was an agent in his command. She could report him for sexual harassment; she could have his badge for this crap.

She was no prude, she'd told herself; if two co-workers mutually decide to get it on, well, so be it, happens all the time, and it's not like she'd never indulged in office romances before. She'd been "dating" Tim at the time she met Gibbs.

Was that why he hired her? she'd asked herself -- briefly horrified that it was simply that she might look like an easy lay, that she would most likely sleep with him too.

But Gibbs didn't seem to want _anything_ from her, and a voice within shouted that she was being taken advantage of. She'd dismissed the melodramatic tone. She'd been wound up and rightly so, but she knew it wasn't true. She knew because she had distinct memories of holding his face between her palms as she kissed him right back with everything she had, of circling her arms around his neck and pressing her wanting body to his as he claimed everything that wasn't supposed to be his.

She'd been dating someone else then too. She couldn't recall his name but she remembers feeling unreasonably guilty the next time she saw him, kissed him, and she'd stumbled and blushed momentarily when she mentioned work.

The thing is – she never called him on it. She never told Gibbs his actions were unwanted or inappropriate. She could've put a stop to it and she didn't. She'd taken everything he wanted to give and hoped for more.

She'd never said a word. And neither had he.

Till tonight.

-xxxxxx-

"Driving me crazy!" he'd muttered, right before she felt him ambush her.

She squints in the darkness and tries to remember every detail.

She'd been so focused on reprimanding Tony that she wasn't paying attention to Gibbs. He was waiting for her in the dark hallway – waiting, wanting. How did he always manage to catch her off-balance? -- she didn't stand a chance.

"I'm warning you Dinozzo," she'd said on her way out: "Don't even go there."

She'd shut the door behind her, and before she knew what was happening, her back was against the wall, Gibbs had her pinned and his mouth took possession of hers. She panicked briefly, and gave a little squeal, before realizing it was him and giving in to his attentions. Her arms had snaked up around his shoulders as her knees gave way slightly and her mouth opened under him.

If it was possible, this kiss was even more frenzied than the others he'd planted on her, and it was certainly more sustained.

His lips broke from hers and began pressing hotly over her cheek, up to her ear. Her already flushed skin became hotter still and she had stretched her neck, offering more of herself for the taking. She'd clung to him, clawed at him, reached for him, and gasped when he started talking.

Every other time this had happened, not a word had passed between them about it, before, during or after. Perhaps it was the darkness that allowed him to speak, perhaps the heat of the moment, perhaps he didn't know he spoke his thoughts aloud:

"Driving me crazy," he'd muttered again, into her skin: "driving me nuts, being in that room with you…."

"It's your fault," she'd panted in return, trying not to cry out as he sucked at her skin. The last thing they wanted was to get McGee and Tony out here. "You could have had McGee," she continued on distractedly.

"Too nervous," he'd growled into her ear, then took the lobe into his warm mouth as one of his hands roamed down over her ass.

"Or Dinozzo," she whispered, her voice suddenly high and weak.

"Too annoying," he groaned, lowly, pulling back and watching his finger trace the neckline of her top. She looked down too, watching his fingertip dip beneath the material, and her own chest rise and fall deeply.

She lifted her eyes to his face: "So you got me," she said, her voice more composed.

Gibbs met her gaze, fire burning in within, and paused for a second: "Too tempting," he accused, his mouth coming down hard and hot again.

He swallowed her scream, lifting her higher up against the wall and his body. She pulled herself up further with her arms and wrapped her legs around him tightly, groaning long and low as she felt his arousal press insistently between her legs. She felt herself contract and liquefy in response, clinging as close to him as possible.

"You like torturing me," he told her breasts, leaning in to place a lingering kiss in the centre of her chest.

"Uh," she replied with a whimper, her eyes rolling closed. "I like…" she whispered as he continued to place soft wet kisses into the open 'v' of her shirt, his tongue sliding down between her breasts. "I like knowing the torture is mutual," she admitted limply as he smiled into her skin.

For hours upon hours in that sparse, hushed apartment, she'd been tormented by images, unbidden fantasies, surfacing and causing her to ache for him. They'd never been alone for such an extended period, and when all case-related talk dried up they sat separate and alone, a tense silence settling over them. It was so still, so quiet, so anonymous. It was neither her territory, nor his, and while they were on duty, it was certainly not the office.

_Anything could happen_, her wicked mind had observed.

Sitting restlessly at the camera, peering into someone else's private home, she could almost feel Gibbs come up behind her, his body pressing into her back, his hands rifling through her hair.

When she'd glanced over at him in the orange gold light flooding in from the sunset, he sat at the desk, turned away from her and staring at the computer screen. She'd wished to – she had very nearly risen from her seat, crossed the floor and eased herself down into his lap.

This was followed by wild imaginings of him making love to her up against the wall in various states of undress, or in the shower till her cries echoed off the tiles.

Finding herself in the position she'd fantasized about, entangled with Gibbs, both thrilled and shocked her -- and made her wonder if she'd been giving out some kind of psychic pheromone. Was she sending out the signals or picking up on his? How had they gotten here? And so fast?

They were dry-humping in a dark hallway with their colleagues in the next room. They were all over each other and loving every second of it. The boundary between professional and sexual was so far in the distance now and they'd never even had any intention of crossing it. Yet here they were.

It was incredible. It was irresistible. It was trouble.

They'd never gone this far. They'd never allowed themselves to. This was going to be difficult to walk away from, impossible to dismiss.

But she didn't care. She didn't care about anything – except what he was doing to her and how much more he might be capable of.

"Who's Dwayne?" he demanded abruptly, his words forceful against her sensitive skin. He buried his face in her neck and left it there, his breath scolding her skin with each exhale.

She hesitated momentarily at the possessive tone of his voice. How did he…? -- she'd kill Dinozzo one of these days, she swears it to herself.

"You know better than to listen to idle gossip, Gibbs," she breathed, scraping her cheek over his stubble.

"Who is he?" he insisted, his lower body moving slowly against hers.

She gasped and threw her head back. She couldn't carry on this level of conversation with her brain saturated in Gibbs-induced hormones. Who's _Dwayne_? Who _cares_? She could barely remember who _she_ was at this point. The only person that mattered, the only name she cared about right now was Gibbs.

"No one," she moaned, eventually.

He chuckled disbelievingly, nipping at her jaw: "Are you sleeping with him?"

Her brow crumpled and she pulled at his hair, making him face her: "He's no one," she repeated, firmly: "It's not what you think."

And it wasn't. Dwayne was a buddy from college, nothing more. He was in town for a while and sure, they'd shared a few kisses, but she wasn't dating him. She'd toyed with the idea of sleeping with him, no strings attached; but it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen – especially not after this. Gibbs ruined her for other men.

"It usually is," he retorted bitterly, his eyes narrowed accusingly even as his hand closed over her breast with a reverent touch. For a moment she just breathed against him, as they both enjoyed the circling of his hand over her enclosed flesh. She peered at his face in the darkness, his mouth lax with arousal, his eyes hard with distrust.

"Maybe," she said, her voice reclaiming its usual clarity: "maybe I'm not like every other woman you've known."

It was something she'd wanted to point out to him for a long time. He looked up from his hand on her breast, eyebrows raised, and eyes growing slowly warmer in the shadows.

She held them, looking down at him as he saw her for the woman she was and the person he knew her to be. She wasn't to be written off like that – she didn't care how many times she had to tell him, she'd make sure he wouldn't ever make that mistake.

"Maybe," he consented thoughtfully and slowly ran two fingers down her jaw to her chin. She dipped her head and placed a kiss on the tip of one finger.

Gibbs seemed to become uncomfortable at the affectionate gesture, pulling back. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her gently off and away from him, setting her back on her feet. Their bodies remained close, but not touching, although they thrummed softly for each other across the short distance despite their owners' restraint.

She watched as he began to close in on himself, regret and doubt clouding his face. He was about to apologize, call it a mistake, tell her it wouldn't happen again. She couldn't let him. She couldn't let him lie like that. She couldn't let him go.

She took a tiny step closer and put a tentative hand on his jacket.

"Anything, Gibbs," she promised, her voice quiet but certain: "I'll give you anything you want."

-xxxxxx-

"Anything," she whispers to herself in the darkness.

Lying in her bed, she is alarmed by her boldness. She's embarrassed by the implication of her words and marvels that she made the offer in the first place. She'd never promised a man "anything" in her life -- she'd never wanted to.

Yet even now, she knows, it wasn't a rash oath made in the heat of the moment – she meant it. She'd meant it then and not an iota of her being wished to take it back now. She would give him as much or as little as he deigned to claim of her and that scares her a bit…A lot…

She realizes cringingly that she's more than infatuated with this man. What she'd always suspected might occur is becoming a reality and she finds herself falling dangerously in love. She's not sure she can handle it. She's not sure she can handle _him. _

But she can't stop herself from wanting, from feeling, from wondering.

Despite her trepidation, she doesn't regret taking the risk, offering herself. She only regrets that she didn't get his answer.

She remembers how he had started to say something, started to reach for her, when McGee came out the door and interrupted them. She'd been unable to raise her face, sure that she would give away what had been happening just seconds before. Even Gibbs betrayed some nervousness in his voice when he asked McGee what he was up to. The younger man stumbled that the target had put out her trash and he was just going to collect it. They'd followed him out of the building and their little hallway scene had come to anti-climatic end.

No wonder she couldn't sleep.

She curses McGee for interjecting when he did. She could strangle him. It gave Gibbs an out and she'd watched in despair as he'd taken it.

He may never bring it up again. Or if he did – he'd have had time to think about it. And that's bad – very, very bad.

There are too many reasons for them not to be together and she knows how cautious and protected a man he is. She much prefers him when he's not – she much prefers him reckless and passionate. That's the man she longs for. That's the man she lies awake for. That's the man she dreams of.

She pictures him working on his boat and remembers the smell of sawdust from his skin.

She can still feel the way he touched her earlier; the way he'd held her and moved with her. The way he'd kissed and caressed, bit and suckled.

Alone in the darkness, she runs her hands over her own body, feeling the curves and ridges that he did, wondering whether her body pleased him, how she felt to him. She closes her eyes to better conjure his face, his eyes, to better imagine his body, his touch. Within minutes, she is gasping and moaning under her own ministrations, a testimony to his phantom presence.

She makes love to him without him there, without him knowing, then falls into a blank sleep.

-xxxxxx-

The next morning, Gibbs picks her up for the memorial service. At first, she can't quite meet his eyes, but tells herself that these events are hard enough without adding extra strain to proceedings. So she acts like nothing has happened, just as he does – the competitive part of her is determined to beat him at his own game. She can do denial; she can do it just as well as he can.

She sees his eyes are red-rimmed like hers and hopes for a moment that he too lost sleep over their latest hallway encounter. She knows it's wishful thinking – it's far more likely that the case is on his mind, he wants revenge for Potchi's murderer.

They don't say much in the car, they talk mostly about the case. When they reach the cemetery, the dirt road is already lined with cars. Gibbs cruises for a while and parks away from the crowd on some grass. He turns off the engine but doesn't get out.

"Kate," he says, studying the keys.

"Don't say it," she says and he looks over at her. "I know what you're going to say," she continues quietly, with no reproof: "and…I don't want to hear it."

The sound barrier had been broken. They could've continued on in silence, in denial, in secrecy. But once words left their mouths, their brains would have to kick in, and that meant rational thought would play a part. Now they were talking and Kate knew what had to be said.

Still – she'd rather skip the platitudes and guess at the details. She'd rather put the full-stop on the sentence herself.

Gibbs looks at her, but she can't look at him. She looks past him, out the window at a willow tree and feels herself betray her own heart with the words she quietly says:

"Let's just forget it ever happened. Agreed?" her voice is unnaturally calm and casual, and she hopes she spares him any pain. That's assuming he feels anything for her, which she's entirely dubious about anyway.

She glances at him and he nods slowly, thoughtfully.

Turning away, she steps out of the car and walks around to his side, looking at the flock of black figures making their way up the green hill toward the mourning place.

She watches Gibbs lift his suit jacket off the back of the car seat and put it on. She averts her eyes from his body and starts walking in the direction of everyone else – when she hears his voice behind her.

"I only wanted to ask if your offer was still open."

She stops and turns and looks at him, mouth open and speechless. Her eyes search his as he waits, apparently in no rush for her answer. His eyes sparkle with hope and desire, humor and untold warmth. He takes a step forward, tentatively and another, more certain, as she shifts on her spot, trying to reclaim her equilibrium.

She'd offered him anything, but she hopes he wants everything. He's going to call her on it and she knows she won't be able to deny him. She doesn't _want_ to deny him; she doesn't want to deny _herself._

'Anything' she thinks: 'anytime.'

She's about to say so, when Ducky arrives at Gibbs' side and greets them both somberly. Gibbs doesn't take his eyes from her face as he answers Ducky quite normally. The moment is gone, but she has no doubt that Gibbs will be back for his answer and as she smiles at him, she vows to be properly prepared.

-xxxxxx-

She thinks she goes into shock in the car.

At the crime scene she's able to maintain her composure, she performs the way she was trained to, her voice doesn't waver and her hands don't shake.

But in the car on the way back, her whole body begins to tremble slightly. She tells herself there's nothing to fear, but her senses don't believe her. Gibbs sits silent and still beside her, steering the car and perfectly in control.

She wants to talk to him, joke with him about backseat driving like they had earlier, reassure herself that she knows him, likes him. She wants_ him _to talk, she wants him to look like he feels something, _anything_, she wants him to appear human.

Back at NCIS headquarters, she heads straight for the ladies bathrooms to collect herself. She plants both hands on the sink and stares at her reflection. Her eyes are big and wet -- like a child's. She tries to breathe deeply and stop her hands from shaking. She grips the porcelain and the shaking moves down to her knees.

She hates feeling this weak. She tries to remind herself of her own strength but it doesn't take hold. She tries to remind herself that she's witnessed death before, but she doesn't feel better. She tries to remind herself that these are the facts of her job and his, but she still hates him a little.

She closes her eyes and sees Gibbs shoot that woman, sees his face, sees her fall. She touches her jacket and there are droplets of blood there.

And suddenly she slams into the stall behind her and looses the contents of her stomach.

Tears escape her eyes, as she retches into the bowl and hangs her head in defeat. She pulls herself up, closing the lid on the toilet and sliding onto it limply. She reaches behind her to flush and shoves the hair out of her eyes.

She sits for as long as she can, without feeling that the others will become suspicious, then she dries her eyes, rinses her mouth and straightens herself to face the world.

Returning to the bullpen, Gibbs is at Agent Potchi's desk. Somewhat dazed, she leans on the partition and watches him pack up the other agent's belongings. Again she looks for signs of sensitivity and again she is disappointed. She follows his every gesture, admires and enjoys the way he moves, even in this robotic state.

She's so engrossed by him and has been for so long that the nights events have shocked her out of a sort of delirium. Maybe he is not who she thought he was.

She loves him -- but she can't reconcile what she knows of him with how she feels about him. She admires him, looks up to him, but sometimes he scares her so much that she can't see why. She can barely like him, right now, let alone understand him.

She doesn't want to feel this way about him, and knows that if she allows it, her emotions will only lead her to further pain and anguish. She just can't do it. She can't.

She shakes herself out of her reverie and re-focuses on tormenting Tony. That always makes her feel better. She gets him good – it doesn't take much tonight – and no one can tell her heart's not in it.

He leaves hastily to go lick his wounds in private and she's just doing the same when Gibbs, now back at his own desk, stops her.

"Kate, I'd like to talk to you," he says to her back.

She closes her eyes, mourning her chance to escape, and turns reluctantly to face him. Her eyes meet his with regret as she fears what she's about to do.

"What about?" she asks, hoping he'll say it's about a report or something work related. She glances toward the other corner where McGee and Abby have their heads together whispering about something. She hopes their presence will deter him from bringing up the topic she dreads.

"Anything," he shrugs, but the word is not casual. With his eyes he searches down into her and she averts hers from his scrutiny. He scares her right now, she can't do this right now, she wants to run far, far away.

She just can't shake the image of him shooting that woman. Man, woman, whatever.

She can't shake the coldness she saw in his eyes, the look of satisfaction at revenge, and the accompanying guilt.

She can't shake the way he'd turned away from her, ignored her like he'd not heard her at all, she can't shake the methodical way in which he has behaved all night.

She can't shake the fear that however good she knows him to be essentially, that he has enough darkness in him to destroy her, to really do her in.

It took her tonight to know, not just see, all the reasons why this man was bad news. Self-preservation screams at her to escape while she still can.

She bites at her lip and looks at the floor for a long moment, knowing she can't give him what she promised the night before. When she looks up again, his face has changed; there is no more humor, there is no expectation, no faith and no desire. He sees her hesitation and knows what it means.

And even though she knows that saying 'no' tonight may mean saying 'no' forever, she can't bring herself to take the risk.

Gibbs may never ask again, he may never be open; she may never be allowed access after this, but with a sickening and sinking feeling, she shakes her head and says softly:

"Not tonight, Gibbs. Sorry."

Gibbs looks down at his desk and nods, his mouth a straight, grim line. She feels like a mouse who has wounded the biggest, baddest lion in the jungle. Despite his efforts, she can see his hurt and disappointment and humiliation. Her immediate impulse is to rush to comfort him, except that she fears the lethal swipe of his paw. The best thing she can do right now is to leave him to recover in peace and privacy.

She has no doubt, as she turns and walks slowly towards the elevator, that the next time she sees him, he'll show no signs that anything passed between them. His hurt will be masked, his manner will be professional, his eyes will be strong.

But she's pretty sure – she's _certain_ – she won't be on the receiving end of any impromptu kisses now.

She'll not be kept awake at night wondering and wishing.

She'll not ache for the day when Gibbs asks her for more.

Not now. Not after this. Not after she promised and then denied him Anything.

* * *


End file.
