Notes: Written for moppig for NCIS Tinsel. Brilliantly remixed by Celli here.
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Trust me, this is the guy you want.
Gibbs glanced down at the business card in his hand and frowned. He did trust Gabe�most of the time. And when it came to divorce lawyers, there were six ex-wives who could attest to the fact that he knew what he was talking about. But the office was not what he had been expecting, and as he sat uneasily down on one of the plush chairs, he debated standing again and just leaving. It really wasn�t worth all this, the legal hassles, the paperwork.
She had walked out on him, not the other way around, and now he was the one who had to spend his day off sitting here in this ridiculous office that seemed to represent everything he hated about this city.
He turned the card around in his hands, wishing that he had stopped for coffee on the way. Maybe caffeine wasn�t the best idea right now, but at least it would give him something to do with his hands, something to concentrate on other than the art on the walls that he was sure he was supposed to be appreciating. Really, though, all he saw were a bunch of multicolored blobs, and not very attractive ones at that.
Through the window into the receptionist�s area he saw a man emerge from a door behind her and come up to lean over her shoulder, peering at the computer on the desk. She didn�t look up at him, but there was something about the fixed way her eyes stared ahead as his arm brushed her shoulder that made Gibbs wonder how long it had been since the lawyer had broken off the affair.
He looked like that type, too, all slick clothes and slightly unruly hair, trying to project an image of success and youthfulness all at once. Maybe it even worked on some people. It just made Gibbs want to leave even more.
The lawyer whispered something to the receptionist, and she almost smiled but not quite. She waved him back towards his office, saying something in an undertone, and the lawyer laughed, louder than seemed necessary. When the door had closed behind him, the receptionist glanced up at Gibbs and told him that he could go into the office.
There was even something pretentious about the lettering on the door. Not the words, really, because Anthony DiNozzo, Attorney at Law couldn�t be pretentious on its own. But something about the size of the letters, their placement, the font, it all just set Gibbs on edge.
The office was much more cluttered than he would have expected from the appearance of the waiting room, and he felt DiNozzo�s eyes on him as he took in the disarray.
�First lawyer I ever worked for told me I had to have an impeccable waiting room, and I took his word for it,� he said. �First impressions and all that. But this�this is where the magic happens.� He leaned back in his chair and grinned, and Gibbs was reminded somewhat disconcertingly of a shark. �Doesn�t have to be pretty. Just has to work.� He shuffled some papers around on his desk and waited for Gibbs to say something. He didn�t. Eventually the lawyer continued, �So Gabe sent you.�
Gibbs raised an eyebrow. �That in my file there?�
DiNozzo nodded towards the door. �Kelsey mentioned it. Girl knows everything.�
�Women always do,� Gibbs agreed dryly, and DiNozzo chuckled.
�Got that right.� He shook his head. �This job, I swear, you hear it all. Every horror story you can imagine, it�s walked through my door. It�s almost enough to put a guy off women for life. But, you know�not quite. So how about you? What�s your story?�
�Not much of one,� he said with a shrug. �We were married, and then we weren�t anymore. Got pretty screwed over in my last divorce, so I figured I should get a good lawyer this time. I did some asking around, and yours was the name that came up.�
�Well what can I say? People know quality when they see it.�
�Nice to see you�ve retained some humility,� he said, remembering just why he didn�t like lawyers.
�Humility doesn�t win cases,� DiNozzo replied with a shrug.
�Fair enough,� Gibbs conceded.
�So what do you do?� DiNozzo asked, and Gibbs ran through a brief summary of his work, up until the present day at NCIS. By the time he finished, DiNozzo had an expression on his face that he almost might almost classify as wistful. �I was a cop, you know, years ago.�
�What happened?� Gibbs asked, and DiNozzo shrugged.
�Wasn�t cut out for it,� he said, and a shadow passed over his eyes, just briefly. �So I took out some loans, went back to school, and will spend the rest of my life paying back all the money I owe.�
�Why law?� Gibbs asked, curious despite himself.
DiNozzo frowned. �This job, you make a mistake and worst case scenario, people lose some money. Being a cop, you make a mistake and people lose lives.�
Gibbs nodded. �It�s not easy.�
�No,� DiNozzo agreed, and the haunted look returned to his eyes. �It�s not.�
There was a story there�more to this man than he had expected, more than he had picked up from the cluttered office and the few moments of observation in the waiting room.
Trust me, this is the guy you want, Gabe had said.
And for the first time since he had stepped into the office, he was beginning to believe it.
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I wasn�t even supposed to be in this city.
That�s what runs through your mind as you kneel on the cold tile floor and cradle his head in your lap, watching the blood slowly pooling around you both. He�s talking and you�re not really listening to the words, you�re listening through them for the sound of sirens.
There are always sirens in the city, but not now, not while he lies there with the life slowly draining from him, his voice becoming fainter by the second.
The wrong place at the wrong time�it seems to be the story of your life. One minute you�re standing there, bottle in your hand, debating. You�re alone in Baltimore, and what harm would it do, just a drink, maybe two, a way to relax from a stressful day. And there he is, two aisles over, trying to balance three bags of chips and two bottles of salsa and failing.
Then the door bursts open, and you know, even before you see the kid�s gun. You put the bottle down and your hands up, and when the kid turns away it�s easy enough for you to pull out your gun, except that two aisles over, two bottles and three bags hit the floor as he does the same thing.
The kid doesn�t see you, he sees him instead, eyes drawn by the crash. You and the kid fire at the same time, and now you�re sitting here on the floor with the man�s head in your lap and his blood on your hands and your clothes while the kid lies forgotten at the front of the store.
Your aim was better.
�Cop,� the guy mumbles as you lean over him, �I�m a cop,� and you pull out his badge and turn it over to read it.
�Hang in there, Anthony,� you say, not because it�s particularly helpful, but because it�s something to say, and behind you, you hear the store clerk calling 911. The cop lets out a choked laugh, wincing as he does, and says �No one calls me that but my mother.�
You frown down at him in mock severity. �Do I look like your mother to you?� you ask, and are rewarded with a weak smile.
�No, Mom,� he says, then grimaces in pain.
�So what do people call you?� you ask, and as you look down at him you see that there is blood in his hair. You wonder vaguely how it got there, until you realize that it�s from your hands.
�Tony,� he says, and his eyes flicker towards the door as if searching for help. �How about you?� he asks absently, and you almost consider telling him your name, just to get a laugh out of him, but laughing seems to hurt more than anything, so you don�t.
�Gibbs,� you say instead, and his eyes close briefly. You grasp his shoulder, afraid that he�s drifting off.
�Gibbs,� he repeats after a moment, and when he opens his eyes he seems to have lost twenty years somewhere. The face looking up at you is as helpless and pleading as a child�s. �Gibbs, you�re not going to leave me here, are you?�
You had begun to believe that after all these years there was nothing that could break your heart anymore. You were wrong.
�Wouldn�t do that, Tony,� you tell him, and he seems to get that you mean it. He starts to talk then, nonsense pretty much, and you let him, because the sound of his voice tells you that he�s still conscious, still with you.
You don�t know how much time passes, as you sit there on the cold tile and watch his face slowly get paler as his voice gets fainter. His hand is tight around yours, and you try to pull away to stretch your fingers, but he doesn�t loosen his grip for a second. You think he�s forgotten that he�s holding on at all.
Finally, after what seems like years, you hear the distant wail of a siren.
You don�t think you have ever heard more beautiful music.
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�What, him?� the bartender says, looking at me as if I�ve just grown an extra few heads. �Yeah, he�s a regular. Never talks to anyone, never leaves with anyone, just comes in here and has a few every once in a while. Watches pretty boys like you.� He leers. �Thinking of buying him a drink?�
I shrug, not because I was considering it, just because it seems like the right answer. �Maybe.�
Jack laughs. �Sure he�d love that. Tell you what, you get him to leave with you, I serve you free, a whole month.�
I raise my eyebrows. Hell of a wager. There isn�t a guy in this place who wouldn�t go home with me, and Jack knows it as well as anyone. �You got yourself a deal,� I tell him, and because I�ve got a reputation to protect, I slide down the bar and plant myself next to the guy. �Hey,� I say, and really, could there be a lamer opener?
�Not interested,� he says, not looking up from his drink.
Okay, so maybe he�s not just going to drop on the spot and do me. I can deal with that. �Sure about that?� I ask, and strike what I hope is a provocative pose.
�Yup, pretty sure,� he says to his glass.
Fine. He wants to play hard to get, I�ll just lay it all out for him. I�m good at that, you know. Laying it all out.
I lean over him, talking low, close to his ear. �See Jack over there, guy behind the bar?� I ask, and he does something that might be a nod. I take that as an encouraging sign. �He�s going to serve me free all month if I can get you to walk out that door with me. Now, say you do that, just take a little walk outside�wait a few minutes, come back in. Costs you nothing, and I�ll make sure that half those free drinks get sent your way.� I take in his cheap shoes, his clothes. �Guy like you, I figure you wouldn�t mind saving a few bucks, am I wrong?�
�Yes,� he says and I frown. Then he looks up from his drink and there�s a smile in his eyes that doesn�t show at all on his face. Next thing I know, his hand is in my hair and his lips are on mine, and I�m not thinking, not breathing, just kissing him back helplessly and feeling my hands connect with the solid warmth of his back.
Then he pulls away and while I�m still trying to figure out which direction is up and if my head is in fact pointing that way, he�s tossed a few bucks on the bar, grabbed my arm and all but dragged me out the back door of the bar, letting it slam behind us.
As we emerge into the cold air he�s chuckling, a thoroughly evil sound, and I find that I�m laughing along with him. �See Jack�s face?� he asks a little breathlessly, and I grin.
�You know, I think I might have been a little distracted,� I say, and the man doesn�t even have the decency to blush or anything. I lift a hand to my lip, where his teeth had caught, leaving a tiny raw mark on the skin. He peers at me and frowns, lifting a finger to gently touch the spot.
�Did I hurt you?� he asks, and I can�t tell if he�s actually concerned or just asking because he thinks I�m being a wuss for noticing it.
�It might be life threatening,� I tell him seriously, and he nods with equal gravity. �I might need someone to kiss it and make it better.�
He raises an eyebrow. �Hey, you got me outside, got us both free drinks for a month. What more do you want?�
That�s not the kind of question any self respecting guy would answer with words, so instead I plant my hands on his shoulders and drive him back against the wall, feeling my lips connect with his again. His breath catches in surprise, just for a minute, but then he�s kissing back, taking control, sliding his hands down over my shirt and then back up underneath it, calloused fingers stroking rough lines across my skin.
Then we�re turning, and it�s my back up against the wall, the bricks scraping along my skin where my shirt has ridden up. By the time his fingers work their way down to my belt buckle, my knees are shaking I want him so bad. It�s been a while, longer than I�d care to admit, and it takes every bit of effort I�ve got to hold back when I feel his hand around me. He�s got me pinned up against the wall, and his lips have moved down to my throat. I can tell he�s marking me and I don�t care, I can�t care.
He�s hard against my leg, and I want to reach down, want to take him in my hand the way he has me, but my body isn�t cooperating. Instead, my fingers grip his waist, sliding just beneath his belt, and I�m tugging him tighter to me when I come. My head slams back against the bricks and I don�t know if the flash I see is from the pleasure or the pain. I finally manage to get his pants undone, my hand inside, and he�s shoving against me, bracing himself on the wall with one hand while the other holds onto my hip, still slick and sliding a little against my bare skin.
He comes without a sound, burying his face against my neck, and we stand there for a few moments, learning how to breathe again.
Before he pulls away he refastens his pants and mine, and when he�s standing there in front of me again, it�s as if nothing happened, as if we had just walked out of the bar into this dark alley. His eyes are still sparkling with amusement, and something else that I can�t name, something dangerous and enticing, and I want to ask him his name, or if he�ll be back here anytime soon, but I�m still catching my breath when he walks away.
As he brushes past me, his fingers slide across my neck, across the spot where I can already feel a bruise appearing, and I shiver.
I know I�ll be back here tomorrow, and the night after that, and probably the night after that too, and it�s going to have nothing to do with the free drinks Jack owes me.
I think after this, I�m the one who owes him.