Ashleigh Anpilova


Gibbs is bored and so, it turns out, is Ducky.

An established relationship story.

Written: January 2009. Word count: 1,510.



Jethro stood in the men's room; he was bored. It had been a long, tedious day, with far too little work and far too much bickering between the younger members of the field team. In the end he had sent them all home.


It was Saturday and it was quiet - the quietest Jethro had ever known it to be. He decided once he had finished peeing he would go and see Ducky, maybe the good doctor could suggest something to cure his boredom. He smiled to himself at the kind of thing Ducky, if he was in a playful mood, just might suggest.


He'd just about finished when he heard the door open. Years honed of watching his six, meant he glanced around to see who had come in. It wasn't that he expected any kind of attack in the men's room, but it paid to be vigilant.


And who should come in, but his Ducky. About to tell him he'd just been thinking about him, Jethro paused as he saw the look on his lover's face - ah, so Ducky was bored too. Despite the fact he'd now finished reliving himself he stayed where he was and waited.


As he'd been expecting, Ducky moved across to stand next to him. But, Ducky didn't do what one might expect a man to do in front of the urinals. Instead Ducky turned his attention to Jethro; he did not, however. look at Jethro's face.


After a moment or two, Jethro said his tone speculative, "You watching me, Doctor?"


"Why, yes, Agent Gibbs, I believe I am."


"Like what you see?"


"Yes, very much."


"Want to see more?"


Now he glanced at Ducky's face; the look gave him the full answer he wanted, as well as making his entire body begin to tingle with desire. For a half, fleeting second he considered grabbing Ducky and dragging him into one of the cubicles and . . .


But he stopped that thought before it could permeate his mind any further. Their conversation had been risky enough, and while they had, more than once, found themselves in one another's arms in fairly secluded places in the Navy Yard, dragging Ducky off to a cubicle in the men's room might be one step too far - even with a Saturday skeleton staff.


So instead, still keeping his attention fully on Ducky, his tucked himself away, noting, with a faint tinge of smugness, the half pout of disappointment that flashed over his lover's face. As he zipped his fly up said, "Your place or mine?" Given they lived together, it might have seemed an odd question, but for the time being they maintained two homes.


"Oh, yours. It's much nearer."


"Want it badly, do you?"


"Yes. And so do you."


Jethro swallowed hard, as his desire was cranked up another level or two. Once again he gave fleeting consideration to dragging Ducky off and at least kissing him. But they wouldn't stop at a kiss; his body, his arousal, which had started to throb the moment Ducky had come into the men's room, together with the look on Ducky's face and in Ducky's eyes, told him that.


They didn't play games very often, but when they did . . . They did! And it was always Ducky who initiated such games. Ducky had never said so, and Jethro had never asked, but Jethro suspected it was as much about Ducky occasionally having the need to prove, if only to himself, that 'older didn't mean dead' as anything else. Not that Ducky needed to prove anything! If DiNozzo thought Ducky merely dreamed about sex, he ought to . . . That image calmed Jethro's ardor slightly, but only slightly.


Pausing long enough to wash his hands, he snagged Ducky's wrist, now unconcerned as to whether anyone might be about outside, and hurried him towards the door. "Home," he growled.



They barely made it inside the front door, before they were in one another's arms, bodies pressed against one another kissing with a passion and abandonment of teenagers. Jethro solved the problem of shutting the front door, by backing into it and pulling Ducky with him.


Ducky's hat was somewhere on the floor and Jethro tangled one hand in Ducky's hair as his mouth parted and he demanded access to Ducky's. As the kiss deepened and became more passionate, he felt his own and Ducky's arousal increase to the point where both would soon be teetering on the edge of completion.


And that's how and where it would happen: here in the hallway of Jethro's house, pressed against the doorway, fully clothed, including overcoats, they would gain fulfillment that way. Then and only then would they calm the kisses and frantic rubbing and pressing against one another.


And then . . . And then they would go upstairs, shed clothes, start the shower going and the real lovemaking session, the one that would go on for the next several hours, would begin. It would start in the shower and continue in Jethro's bed. The game would be forgotten and they'd return to their gentle, non-frenetic, loving, contented lovemaking.


He felt Ducky's kiss deepen even more, felt his lover push harder against him, felt Ducky's arms tighten even more, and he knew Ducky was about to climax. He always did come first when they made love like this, as he got incredibly aroused by being stimulated through his clothing. Jethro sensed the second Ducky's climax was about to happen, as Ducky stiffened in his arms and gasped into the kiss. Supporting him, holding him even more possessively and securely, bracing himself more firmly against the front door, Jethro felt completion race through Ducky's body, causing him to shudder and again sigh with utter delight.


The intensity of Ducky's reaction, together with the build up and the way that Jethro loved to make his Duck happy was enough to force him up to and over the edge himself. If anyone had ventured to suggest that at the age of fifty-six he'd be happy to enjoy the kind of frantic sex he'd barely experienced as a teenager, he'd have laughed at them. But in Ducky's arms, with Ducky's mouth on his, with Ducky's body pressed against his, it wasn't sex, it was lovemaking. Just as whatever they did, be it intimate or eating breakfast together, was about making love. If anyone had suggested he'd be soppy over a lover he'd have laughed at that too. Yet somehow with Ducky he was; he always had been.


Damp, sticky, now bordering on the uncomfortable, he slumped even more against the door, bringing Ducky with him and holding him, resting his head on Ducky's as Ducky's head rested against his shoulder, trying to calm his pulse rate and bring his breathing back under control.


Once he felt able to stand without the door to support him, he moved his head and put his lips under Ducky's heavy, slightly damp hair and began to kiss and lick Ducky's ear. "Was that good for you, Dr. Mallard?" he breathed.


He felt Ducky sigh and heard a gentle chuckled. "Oh, yes, Agent Gibbs, it was. In fact it was very good. Very good indeed." Ducky moved his body very slightly against Jethro's, causing Jethro to gasp.


"I take it you want more," he managed, now letting his tongue begin to flirt with Ducky's ear.


Ducky's first response was inarticulate. But then he managed. "Yes, oh, yes. I do indeed. Much more. Much, much more." And he moved his head from Jethro's shoulder so that he could kiss him.


But the kiss wasn't of the passionate level of moments before, now the tenderness showed, just as it showed in the way Ducky's arms held him and the way he body leaned against his. The kiss purified them and what they'd just done. It was Ducky's way, despite being the instigator of the game, of seeking reassurance and of giving as much back to Jethro as he sought.


Breaking the gentle kiss, Jethro straightened and moved away from the door even more, slipping one arm from around Ducky so that he could fiddle behind him and lock the door. "Reckon it's time we took this upstairs, don't you, Duck?"


Ducky smiled up at him and his almost black eyes shone with utterly devotion. "Oh, yes, my dearest, Jethro, I do indeed."



Several hours later, warm, sated, contented, complete, happy beyond description, loved beyond reason, holding the man who meant the world and then some to him in a possessive embrace, Jethro mused that older most certainly did not mean dead.


He enjoyed the games, but he had to confess he was glad they happened infrequently, not only because they made them all the more special and exciting, but he doubted he'd have the stamina for more than 'once in a while'. "Love you, Duck," he whispered, kissing the top of his sleeping lover's head. Then he himself closed his eyes and sank into a healthy sleep.



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