Tony DiNozzo leaned back against the motel room door and closed his eyes. The beer he'd bonged roiled a little in his stomach, but last night's leftover pizza still sounded good. Not really drunk. Just a little buzzed. As he opened the box to retrieve a desiccated slice, Tony chuckled a little, thinking about the scan of Kate's wet t-shirt picture he had tucked safely in his PDA.

He flopped on the bed, kicked off his sandals, and chewed pizza while he rummaged for the remote. Flipping past the in-house porn and video game channels, he landed on SNN. It was the tail end of a story about spring break debauchery right here in Panama Beach. He glanced at the clock on the bottom of the screen - 10:28. What was he doing back in his room, alone, at 10:28?

It wasn't old age. DiNozzo could still shoot a beer bong in under six seconds. He could run all day if he had to. He could, if he wanted to, go back to the bar and match his frat brothers slug for slug. He'd been looking forward to really letting loose on this vacation. That cute blonde in the gauzy dress had seemed amenable to a hook up, if he wanted to. And there, as they say, was the rub.  He didn't want to.

For Tony, flirting was like digestion--part of his autonomic nervous system. Unconscious, even involuntary. Flirting, at some level, was his primary means of social interaction with everyone--even that surfer creep with the murderously jealous girlfriend. So of course he'd flirted with the blonde. He'd smiled when she brushed past him, deliberately lingering long enough to make sure he knew what she wasn't wearing under that thin cotton dress. That flirting instinct took note and he knew he could have her, against the wall, quick and hard in a dark corner of the parking lot.

But he didn't want to.

Just the same, the thought of the blonde's legs wrapped around Tony's hips triggered another autonomic response, which the baggy beach shorts accommodated. He put the pizza down and stroked himself absently while he flipped through the channels on the motel TV. There was nothing on. Of course there was nothing on. Saturday night in Panama Beach was not exactly prime time. The old folks were already asleep, so there wasn't even any Matlock to keep him company.

He waited through a cell phone commercial, then tossed the remote on the nightstand when Clint Eastwood filled the screen. Heartbreak Ridge. Eastwood was Tom Highway, a marine gunnery sergeant close to retirement. He had to whip some jarheads into shape, keep the brass off his ass, and try to win back his ex-wife.

Remind you of anyone, DiNozzo?

Eastwood tore a strip off Mario Van Peebles and smacked him on the back of the head. Tony sighed and slowed his hand to a gentle caress. There was no use thinking about it, so he might as well stop.

The thing was, there was nothing else to think about. He had a decision to make -- between bad and worse. Bad was what he was doing right now, running headlong after distraction. Bad was losing sleep and not being able to concentrate. Bad was breaking your heart to impress a man who would never, not ever. Never mind the looks and the half-hidden smiles, and the teasing that any sane person would recognize as a prelude to seduction.

Tony tried to convince himself it was all in his head.  And maybe it was all in his head. He expected people to find him attractive. It was reasonable to transfer that expectation to the most important person in his life. Most important person? Jesus! He was gone. Lost. No coming back.

But then, he did spend most of his time with Gibbs in situations that were often emotionally stressful. The psych minor that lived in his head told Tony it was only natural to feel this way. Perfectly normal. Except...why don't you have the hots for Kate or McGee? And how were they able to resist Gibbs' not inconsiderable charms?

Something had to happen. That was all. He had to quit. He'd had a good run. Never stayed anywhere this long. Never had any reason to stay. That's what he'd do. Quit, spend some time chasing tail and then land somewhere else. Maybe the west coast.

Tony went over his options. The lease on his apartment was up next month. He could put his stuff in storage somewhere. Get in the Corvette and just be gone. It wouldn't take long to pack...

But he couldn't go anywhere. Not right away. He was due in court a week Tuesday and he had a bunch of open cases, both warm and cold. Abby had made him promise to go with her and McGee to see Revenge of the Sith when it came out. Would that make him a geek or a nerd? Not important. The point was that he wasn't going anywhere any time soon, so there had to be a way to get himself under control. Just until things settled down and he could leave.

He tried a simple aversion technique. Picture Gibbs with a streaming cold, snot and phlegm everywhere, expecting Tony to fetch him fresh orange juice.

Okay, that didn't work, because god, would he love to do that! Take care of Gibbs when he was sick? That would be...but Gibbs never got sick. And if he did, he'd shoot DiNozzo in the leg before letting him fetch orange juice. He was such a bastard. And Tony loved it. He loved the righteous anger. He loved the single-minded determination to find answers.

And inside the bastard lived this wonderful man who was honorable and loyal. Gibbs loved kids, he protected the helpless, and his eyes could make you want to die with desire. So fucking hot. And he knew it, the cocky son of a bitch.

Tony ground his teeth in frustration and squeezed his cock hard. This? Wasn't helping.

Watch the movie. Distraction. That was a good thing. Except for all the hard sweaty bodies and comments about swapping spit in the shower. Who wrote this stuff?

Distraction. He had to do something, go somewhere. He couldn't go back to that office. Not ever. This was affecting his work, and Gibbs had to be noticing it. Like the other day when Tony left his PDA in the car and then fumbled with it while they were doing their interview. Sure, that yoga class was an eyeful --I'm not blind-- but they were more a relief than a distraction. He'd been thinking about Gibbs next to him in the sedan, thinking about reaching over to trace the outline of his cock inside those ridiculous Dockers while keeping up a steady stream of bullshit chatter.

It was too much. Every time he was alone in the elevator with Gibbs he wanted to throw him against the wall and kiss his throat. He wanted to grab onto the fence in the evidence locker and try to keep quiet while Gibbs sucked him senseless. He wanted fuck Gibbs. On the floor or up against that damn boat if that was how he wanted it. Out of control.

Tony writhed a little and slid his hand up and down with steady determination. He couldn't go back there. But he couldn't just up and quit.

How hard would it be to get fired?

***

Gibbs blew wood shavings from the hole he'd just augured. He put the hand drill down, picked up the thick white mug and sipped at his bourbon. A job like this was all about artistry. Plans and diagrams--like the ones strewn across the workbench--were all well and good, but you needed to have a feel for the wood, to know how it would engage the water.

He put a hand on one of the spars and closed his eyes for a minute. He could see it. Feel it. Hear the wind in the canvas. Smell the clean ocean air. Taste the salt on the spray. Gibbs ran his tongue over his lower lip and opened his eyes to the wooden skeleton that filled the room. Most of the time, it wasn't about the boat, it was about the building of it: The solitary, sensual pleasure of working with his hands to contour the wood. Can you feel the wood? A prick of memory like a sliver in his thumb. Taste of cigarettes. Been doing a lot of solitary pleasure with the hands lately, huh, Gibbs? He buried the thought and picked up some sandpaper to smooth the edges of the hole.

The cell phone on his belt bleated. As Gibbs flipped it open, he noted the time, on his watch and in the corner of the TV screen: 22:47. That was habit. No matter how many computer logs and satellites might be monitoring his cell phone activity, Gibbs liked to check and double-check. You couldn't let technology make you careless.

"This is Gibbs."

"Hi!" The voice was unabashedly cheery.
 
Gibbs pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the call display. The area code was 850--Panama City, spring break capital of the world. Great. DiNozzo, calling to gloat about how many coeds he's bagged in two days. Just what I need. He listened for noises in the background, but heard nothing.

"You're supposed to be on vacation, DiNozzo!"

"Uh, how are you? Are you busy?"

 "No, I'm just -- what the hell do you want?" Gibbs cradled the phone with his shoulder and began to sand lightly around the freshly-drilled hole, while he waited for DiNozzo to get to the point. He tried to ignore the way just hearing Tony's voice on the phone made his cock feel a heavy and his breath come a little fast. That was just between him and his right hand.

 "Just checking in, sir. Everything, uh, going okay?"

 "'Sir?' Are you drunk?" He put the sandpaper down.

 "Bus-ted! You're good! You should be a detective...oh wait..." Gibbs listened as Tony tried to swallow his laughter. This was not the way he intended to spend the rest of his evening.

 "DiNozzo, I am hanging up the phone right now. You better get on your knees and start praying that I forget this call by the time you report back to work." On his knees? Okay, this is stopping now..

 "No! Wait! Don't hang up, boss!"

Gibbs had the phone halfway closed before he decided to relent. "Why not?" All right, he was curious. And DiNozzo sounded like the cat who swallowed the canary.

"You will not believe what I found."

"Try me."

Tony erupted in laughter. Kind of infectious, even if you didn't get the joke. "Kate's picture! Wet t-shirt! Wall of Fame!"

Gibbs held the phone away from his ear and stared at it, the bare beginnings of a smile playing across his face. DiNozzo wasn't just drunk, he was crazy. And dead, if there really was a picture of Kate Todd in some bar.

 "Tony"--Gibbs used the voice he called "reasonable," the one that told Ducky to stop reminiscing, warned Abby to cut the technobabble, and had put fear in the hearts of countless Marine recruits left to his tender mercies--"I want you to hang up the phone, go back in the bar, and I'll see you next Monday." All fucked out and happy.

"No, wait! I...I don't want to go back to the bar."

"Then go sleep it off! We're done here."

 "Why? Are you...busy or something?"

 "No, I'm just --" Gibbs cursed himself for not having hung up already.

 "Come on, boss, talk to me." Gibbs could hear the smile in Tony's voice.  "I'm bored."

"You're at a beach crawling with bikinis, three sheets to the wind, and you're bored?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, I'm...bored. It's not..." Tony sounded like he'd just had a revelation. "I'm just not having fun."

"And you called me at home on a Saturday night to tell me this. Guess your frat boy days are over, DiNozzo." Gibbs took a swallow of bourbon and sat down. What the hell had gotten into Tony? He sounded...intense. This was more than just some elaborate joke at Kate's expense.

 "Huh. Guess so. But..."

 "But?"

"Forget it." Tony sighed. "Nothing." His voice was slower now and dreamy, almost sad, "Sorry for bothering you, Gibbs."

 "Well, maybe you should just go to sleep now. It'll be better tomorrow."

"I'm not sleepy. Are you sleepy, boss?"

 "It's not even eleven, Tony. No. I am not sleepy." An indrawn breath and then silence on the other end of the line. "Tony?" 

 "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" He propped his feet on a milk crate and took a long pull on his drink. The bourbon was doing its job. Gibbs was starting to feel soft and kind of mellow. And he didn't really want DiNozzo to hang up, did he? Didn't want him to go off feeling like no one cared...feeling like Gibbs didn't care what happened to him. He would just sit here and listen for a little while, let Tony get whatever it was off his chest. That would make him happy--it would make them both happy--and then they could hang up and go to bed.

 "I'm just a little...say, what are you doing tonight? Wait, I know, working on your boat, right?"

"You should be a detective," Gibbs answered absently.

 "So, how's it going? The boat, I mean. Tell me about it."

 "Her, DiNozzo. You call a boat her."

 "Okay. No problema. Her," his voice dropped a little lower, "tell me about her."

Gibbs' treacherous cock stirred to life, and his own voice softened a fraction in response. What the hell. Go with it. He's 900 miles away. "You wanna know? I'll tell you." He gazed at the boat frame. "She's a 25-foot pocket cruiser, with a sail rig I can set up and lower without A-frames and guywires, a raised deck for good stability, and a strip planked bilge radius so she'll be fast and less likely to slap the bottom forward in a chop." Gibbs heard a small rustling sound.

"Slap the bottom forward in a chop?" More rustling. "That sounds painful. What else?"

Gibbs launched into details, including hull dimensions, fresh water capacity, and the exact type of trailer he'd need to haul her. He abandoned the old kitchen chair in his basement for the living room couch, "...so she's designed as an offshore cruiser, but she's still easy enough to handle by myself."

 "Would you do that?" Tony said, curious. The rustling had stopped for the moment, Gibbs noticed.

"Do what? Cruise offshore by myself?" Gibbs was stretched out on the couch now, legs splayed wide, the bourbon bottle and mug within easy reach. "Just because a boat sleeps four doesn't mean they're all going to be comfortable, DiNozzo. Besides, it's not like I've got a gang of people waiting to sail with me."

 "I bet Fornell would." DiNozzo snickered.

 "Fornell gets seasick riding the Metro," Gibbs said after a moment, chuckling. My last three dates didn't last this long. But he felt good. Better than good. Relaxed. And not just from the bourbon. If his hand was sliding slowly over his chest, under his t-shirt, stroking over one nipple, then the other...well, that was all right. It felt good, and no one had to know.

 "So what else?" DiNozzo hadn't even noticed the momentary pause. "Does this boat have a galley? Or is it going to be more of a fishing trip kind of boat, with a bait cooler and a fish finder but nowhere to cook?"

"She's designed to have a four-foot galley. Probably won't get much use out of it, though."

"You should invite some people out for a weekend cruise." Tony sounded even more relaxed than Gibbs felt by now. And the rustling had started again. "Used to do that all the time, summers...get invited out on someone's boat and just fuck around all weekend."

Literally? He guessed he'd better not say that out loud, even though his dick was beginning to think it was a really good idea. What came out instead was, "So you can handle a sailboat?"

"It's been a while, but yeah, I think I still could. Why?" DiNozzo added, his voice dropping low again. "You gonna take me out for a cruise?"

Goddamn. DiNozzo could make anything sound dirty with that inflection in his voice. "This boat isn't going anywhere for a long time," Gibbs said, a little of his earlier sternness returning.

 "Hey, don't jump down my throat, boss. You're the one that's building a 25-foot sailboat in a basement with a three-foot-wide door."

 "Don't know if you've noticed, DiNozzo, but I generally find a way to get things done."

"Oh yeah, I've noticed. Things you want done...they get done." And damn, there was that voice again, and Gibbs couldn't wait. He unzipped his jeans and ran his hand lightly over his cock, closing his eyes and letting Tony's murmured words wash over him. This doesn't matter. This isn't real.

 "Did I ever tell you how glad I was when you poached me away from Baltimore?" DiNozzo went on.

 "No"--his hand gripped a little tighter, and he almost succeeded in stifling a gasp--"how come? Something happen up there you didn't tell me about?"

An indrawn breath to match his own, before DiNozzo spoke again. "Let's just say this is the first time in a while I've felt like going sailing."

 "That have anything to do with the company, or are you falling in love with my boat?" Silence on the other end of the line, for a very long moment.

"Not with your boat, boss." Gibbs could see Tony's face -- he could picture the way Tony must be wincing, like he did when he overstepped at work.

Silence again.

Gibbs' cock rose insistently against his hand. "Not with my boat?" he said roughly, and heard DiNozzo's breath begin to come faster. "You were planning to tell me this when, Tony?"

 "When I resigned. Maybe." A small voice, for DiNozzo, but with a harsh catch that made him sound like he'd been running. "Or when you fired me."

"I'm not going to fire you. And you sure as hell aren't going to quit." Gibbs' hands moved with purpose. "Tell me what you're doing right now."

"Oh god, boss, if you don't know what I'm doing right now..."

"Don't call me boss," Gibbs ground out. "Just tell me."

There was another long silence before DiNozzo answered. "Wishing you were here. Wishing I was there. Wishing it was your hand on me instead of mine. Or your mouth. Anything. I just want you to touch me." He paused for a moment, before continuing desperately. "I need to touch you. I want to feel you when you come. Get on my knees for you. Anything."

"DiNozzo..." Gibbs trailed off. He hadn't expected all that, not really, but it made sense. When Tony threw himself into something, he went all the way. All the way. His hand sped up as he imagined Tony lying sprawled on a motel bed, one hand inside his boxers, the other fondling his nipples or his lips or his ass, stroking and touching and playing with himself, giving it up for Gibbs.

"That's right, Tony. Do that for me. You're gonna feel so good when I touch you..." and the breathing in his ear sounded labored and hot and god, it was like he was right there and Gibbs was coming, long and hard and fast, like he hadn't in years, and Tony was right behind him, just like always, he's got my six even here and then it stopped and Gibbs could think again, barely.

"You have your laptop, DiNozzo?"

"Huh?" Gibbs would bet Tony looked pretty good right now, eyes half shut and hand lightly clasping his dick, dropping into a post-coital doze. But he needed him awake and focused, at least for a few more hours.

"Get your laptop, Tony. Hook it up to the internet or whatever. Book yourself on the first flight to BWI in the morning. I'll meet you at the airport."

"Laptop. BWI. First flight. Got it, boss. But why?"

 "Because you're coming home."

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Want to know what happens next? Read the sequel The Trick is Not Minding.