A diminutive, black feline sat passively on the solid, wide sill of the large, front window of it's home and yawned broadly, lazily admiring the view of the cold November day just on the other side of the clear glass from it's special, secluded perch. It liked being there, tucked partially behind the open curtain and shades, removed, somehow, from the rest of the world but able to keep close tabs on everything that happened...within and without. It rose slowly to stretch languidly and adjust its position, legs and back and neck going stiff and arching, and then quickly hunkering back into its original 'loaf' position. Both front paws were now folded and tucked securely against the compact little body and the unusually long tail wrapped up one side until it overlapped and covered those tiny, hidden, front feet, adding an extra layer of warmth to the contented animal. It continued to bask in the waning afternoon sunshine, happy to find a warm, cozy, and unexpectedly nice spot this late in the day...and well away from the disturbing, angry voices beginning to rise up from the stairwell leading down to the basement below.

At the sudden sound of something shattering, the cat reflexively tensed and quickly swiveled it's head in the general direction of the open doorway, the strangeness of the racket at direct odds to what had been, up until now, a relatively peaceful day. Remarkably, the young cat remained resolutely unmoving, her intelligent, green eyes filled with notable apathy but the small, pointed ears twitched and turned in a minor measure of uncertainty. It wasn't particularly afraid or upset by the commotion nor was it apt to scamper away to hide under a bed or a couch or in some darkened closet corner but the noise was strange and unexpected. Instead, the little female feline contented herself to remain in the warm sun's rays and rest, eyes closing to slits, focusing on the tone of the voices drifting up from far below.

"I don't have to stay here and listen to this load of crap from you." Angry. Subdued.

"Yeah, I think you do." Filled with patience. A bit tired.

"No, I don't." Stubborn. "I don't *owe* you a damn thing, you sanctimonious sonofabitch." Edged with ire.

And then silence. No voices. No sounds.

The cat opened her slanted eyes and looked toward the open doorway again. The clock on the mantel against one wall ticked loudly in the sudden absence of the raised, male voices. She waited patiently, half listening...and half not. The sun falling on her dark, slick coat was warm and just too soothing to be ignored completely.

"Well, you owe me another mug now." Direct. "Hell, that was my favorite, too." Almost tinged with humor.

"Fuck you, Gibbs." Exasperated but still full of anger. "You don't have a 'favorite' anything." Almost cruel.

More silence again. Faint, distinct sound of a few things finally being moved around and then the soft rasp of sandpaper on wood. The silence continued, lengthened, broken only by the repetitous scraping of fine grit on timber and, in the stillness, the cat shifted it's head slightly away and allowed her eyes to drift close once more.

"I'm going home." Not a threat...more of an announcement.

"No." Immediate. Not to be ignored.

"Look, Gibbs, we aren't getting anywhere by doing this." Resigned.

"This? What are we doing, Tony?" Genuinely concerned.

More silence and more slow, precise sanding. A familiar creak of the bottom step of the staircase as someone sat heavily upon it. A quiet clearing of a throat.

"I just...I just don't think I can do this anymore." Hesitant. Faint. Unhappy.

The absence of all sound now...no voices, no sanding, no movement. The cat flicked an ear and shifted slightly on the warm, wooden sill.

"I'm just not enough for you, am I?" Not accusing. Calm. Understanding.

"It's not that..." Quick. Desperate.

"Then why did you chase down a piece of tail last night when you could have been here with me?" Slightly accusing. A bit sharp.

"I don't know." Petulantly.

"Sure you do." Tinged with impatience.

Silence again. The clock ticked on and the cat began to drowse.

"Sometimes...sometimes I just need something...else." Unsure. Reaching.

"Well, I'd say you got exactly what you were looking for, all right." Slight frustration. Followed by a bit more silence. "Did you get what you needed?" Quietly.

No response. The bottom step squeaked as if the body upon it shifted uncomfortably and, upstairs, the cat angled it's head to one side.

Finally. "Don't..." Soft. Tinged with a hint of distress.

"Did you?" Repeated. Slightly louder again. "I think I deserve an answer."

"Why?" Huffed out. Faintly astonished. "Why do you want to know that?" Brief pause. Whisper. "I thought you didn't want any 'emotional involvement'."

"Hell, Tony, we're *fucking*." Quick and to the point. Almost bitter. Almost. "I'd say that's classified as 'involved', emotionally or not."

"But we're not exclusive." Equally as quick and to the point. Bordering on desperation.

Again silence. Heavy, oppressive silence. It took a few uncomfortable moments for the soft scrap of sandpaper to commence again.

"Exclusive?" Voice tight. Slightly insulted. Annoyed. "You're right. It *is* time for you to leave."

No sound of movement of any kind from the basement. The little feline twitched it's whiskers but continued to bask in the sunshine.

"I said..." Hard. Gritted.

"I heard what you said, Gibbs." Quickly interrupting. Nervous.

"Well?" Sharp.

"Well, what?" Stalling for time. Unsure now. Uneasy.

The abrupt sound of something slapping hard against the workbench below and a long, deep sigh of frustration slightly roused the slumbering cat. She turned her petite head but the verdant eyes remained closed.

"You were right. This is not going to work anymore." Final Resloute.

The bottom step squeaked as the weight was removed. Quietly. "I didn't say that. I still want to be with you."

A huff of disbelief. "Yeah, I can tell. You didn't waste any time finding a substitute."

"She wasn't a substitute." A tinge of righteous anger reappearing. "Christ, Gibbs, I'm only allowed so much from you. You've set all these damn rules about what *you* want and what *you* expect but you never..." Stopping abruptly. Anger draining away with a sigh.

Silence. The muted sound of shuffling feet.

"What?" Demanding. "Go on, Tony...you've begun already. Might as well finish this the right way. What do I 'never' do?"

"Nothing." Resigned. "Forget it." Final.

"No." Angry. Insistent. "You started this by coming here, reeking of pussy and acting all strange, so I suggest you just get everything off your chest while you can."

"Fuck you, Gibbs." Quiet. Filled with dangerous emotion.

A bitter laugh. "That's highly unlikely now." Deadly, biting sarcasm.

Someone turning and beginning to move, soft footsteps shifting toward the stairs. More sounds of shuffling feet, of fabric ripping, a sudden grunt of surprise. The little cat twitched.

"Ow! Let me go!" Pained amazement.

"What don't I 'never' do?" Tight. Forceful whisper.

More sounds of shifting and struggling. The cat sits up and looks toward the open doorway.

"You never think of anyone but yourself, you stupid prick!" Slightly muffled. Furious. A bit breathless. "Now, let go of me!"

"I'll let go when I'm damn good and ready." Threatening. Gritted roughly.

"Like hell you will..." Panting. A shade of pain. Livid.

Equally furious. "This is *exactly* why I didn't want to get involved with you in the first place." Condemning.

More sounds of shuffling feet, of bodies struggling, of flesh against flesh. The black cat pushed upward and bent into another stretch, tight, little back arching and rounding before she finally sat up and stared curiously toward the open doorway. Another muffled grunt and she leapt agiley from the sill to the floor and covered the distance in her lazy, unhurried gait, long tail held high, stopping only to gaze down when she arrived at the top riser.

"Well, you can have your wish now." Forced. Unhappy. Strained. "Let go of me and I'll be out of your hair for good."

Silence. Heavy breathing. High tension.

"Not until you tell me why you went to her in the first place." Softly commanding. Persuasive.

More silence.

"Tell me." Smoothly. Not to be denied.

The little cat moved downward a few steps, ducked her head under a riser, and peered across the distance into the dimness of the basement, watching the two humans as they stood so close together. They were positioned back to front, the silver-haired man's arms wrapped tightly around the younger man, keeping him from escaping. She angled her face into a small space, twitched away a cobweb, and hunkered down, content to be nothing more than a silent witness.

"No." Whispered.

"Yes." Soft but compelling.

"I...I don't want to." Almost desperate.

"Tony." Filled with disbelieving admonishment. "Yes, you do."

A whisper of a muted sound, a murmur, a capitulation. Surrender.

"I just need some tenderness sometimes, okay?" Hushed. Bordering on embarrassment. No longer fighting to escape. "Now, let go."

"Tenderness?" Surprised. A longer moment of silence. "I never knew."

"It doesn't really matter now, does it?" Tired. A ragged, resigned sigh. "Please...just let me go."

A brief pause. The sound of heavy breathing. The air laced with a hint of testosterone...and something else. The little cat shifted and sniffed.

"Was she 'tender' enough for you last night?" Close. Whispered warmly against an ear. Suggestive. "Did she make it good for you?"

"Gibbs." Hissed like a prayer. Close to begging. "Don't..."

"Did she kiss you softly? Sweetly?" A growl from low in the throat. A slight shifting of the bodies. "Was she hot and wet and *tender*?"

"Gibbs." Gasped. Resistance beginning to crumble. Still trying to be angry. "Don't do this."

Another brief but useless struggle and the two men were up against the workbench, still locked together, back to front, the older trapping the younger and holding him steadily in place. One hand began to roam possessively over the cotton-covered chest, restlessly flattening and stroking.

"Did she wrap her smooth legs around you when you fucked her?" Intimately hissed. Erotic. Demanding. "Did she?"

Another moment of futile resistance. "Yes..." Strangled confession. Arching against the questing fingers.

"Put your hands on the table, Tony." Silky voice. Commanding. "Lean forward."

The instructions were relunctantly followed. Wandering fingers trailed downward, seeking, and teased over the metal tab of the fly's zipper. A groan of denial. A moan of confused assent, of weakness. The digits suddenly spasmed and tightened over the hardening bulk of flesh covered by the tight denim, eliciting a hiss hovering right on the edge of pain.

"You want me to stop?" Taunting. Tempting. Torturing. "Tell me."

"Yes...no...I...I..." Indecisive. Confused. Breathless. "Just..."

Silkily. Hot breath against exposed skin. "Tell me what she felt like."

"No." Off balance. Wavering. Embarrassment flashing again. "I won't do that."

"But that's why you came here today, wasn't it?" Mocking. Fingers still stroking, teasing. "You *want* me to know all about her."

"That's...that's not true." Attempted defiance. Breath hitching and gusting out. "Oh, God..."

"Yes, it is." So certain.

The scent in the air grew stronger, more enticing, and the little cat padded silently down the rest of the steps, stopping only when she reached the area of the cold, concrete floor beside the end of the long, heavy workbench. She gazed interestingly up at the two humans, drawn by their movements and smells, and then moved until she could rub up against the boat's upside-down hull, still a bit wary of their proximity.

The agile fingers drew the zipper down, slowly...torturously...pushing aside fabric and elastic, combing leisurely through wiry hair and massaging smooth, unblemished skin. There was a moment of token resistance, a slight shifting away of the lean hips, but the older man quickly soothed with quiet murmurs and insistent kisses against the side of the arching neck.

"Tell me what she felt like." A velvet order. Hand touching intimately, possessively. "Tell me."

Futile resistance. "No..."

"Tell me." Controlling. Not to be denied.

The strong body bracketed the other against the hard workbench, one quick hand pushing the soft, slightly-torn T-shirt up, exposing the long line of the smooth back while the other continued its maddening attack. A hot mouth bit lightly at an uncovered shoulder blade.

Again. "Tell me."

A soft moan. A rough, loud swallow. "She was...so soft." Panting. Remembering. "Everywhere."

"You like soft?" Interested. Easily restraining the quivering body. Strong and solid. "Hhmm?"

A head nod. Affirmative.

"No." Reprimanding gently. Mouth nipping once more before hissing. "*Tell* me."

Almost breathless. "Yes." Hushed confession. "Sometimes..."

"But sometimes you don't." Quick. Knowingly. Clever, deft fingers tracing and tormenting. "Sometimes you want hard and rough and forceful. Don't you?"

Another nod. Followed by a rapid gasp of pain/pleasure.

"*Tell* me." Reminding sternly. Quiet authority. "You have to say the words."

"Yes...yes...yes..." Repeated in a rush. Full of desire tinged with a hint of discomfort.

The older man pushed at the waistband of the sagging jeans, shoving the briefs underneath down at the same time, and let both of his strong hands wander and stroke and enflame. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the little cat as it jumped gracefully from the floor to the end of the long workbench and began stalking their way.

"Take your shirt off." Not a suggestion. Dismissing the feline.

"Gibbs..." Almost pleading. Almost.

"Do it." Not to be denied. Big hands roaming. Stroking.

Another moan, filled with acquiescence. The fabric rising, exposing more skin. Over the tousled hair and flung carelessly away. Gone. No barriers. The slightly startled cat froze and waited until the pale shirt landed in a discarded heap close to her position and then slinked forward, nose delicately hovering over the cloth, whiskers twitching, green eyes never leaving the two humans. Intrigued.

Lips trailing over broad shoulders, tongue wetting and teasing, teeth sliding, barely marking, elicting fine shudders and shakes. Harsher breathing. Urgent bodies pressing impossibly close, rubbing and rasping, like the sandpaper to wood, flesh upon flesh.

The young cat moved closer, carefully, fascinated by the sights and the sounds and the smells produced by the activity. The air was ripe with musk, strange but tantalizing, drawing her impossibly nearer.

"Keep your hands flat on the table." Direct order masked with sensual heat. Not to be disobeyed.

"Oh, God..." Surrender. Complete surrender.

Bodies shifting, one strong hand reaching out for a container of slick assistance, lower torso jammed impossibly tight against a bare bottom, holding easily in place. A slight move, a low groan, and coated fingers entering slowly, surely. Nails scrabbling against wood, looking for some purchase but any other attempt at movement easily prevented by a strong hand to the back of the sweaty neck and a couple of wickedly probing digits in the ass.

Sweat and heat. Sweet, sweet heat.

"That's it." Soothing. Rough, tight voice. "That's the way."

A muffled moan of sharp pleasure and then a sudden hiss of impossible pain as the position and pressure of the invading fingers alter. Forehead pressing to rough, wooden surface, trembling arms stretching out to either side, away from the heaving, bowed body. A bent crucifiction. An ersatz nailing to the facade of the workbench, fingers penetrating and securing and almost punishing. Searching. Marking deeply. Harsh panting and grunting.

Creeping closer, the cat slides into a bit of shadow cast by something blocking the direct fall of the overhead fixture's light and hunkers down near one of the breathless, young man's hands. She watches as his slim digits tense and scratch at the unyeilding surface, sees the clear trembling and twitches, and is fascinated by the flexes and spasms. She noses closer, her curiousity unbound.

The bodily probing abruptly reverses, shaky breath returning, and a hurried rustle of a belt opening and a zipper lowering ensues. The crinkly sound of foil wrapping ripping, a hushed, muttered curse, a grunt of near-pain. Bodies shifting again. The hands on the workbence suddenly form into tight fists and the smell in the dim, enclosed space blossoms. There's a lush, intoxicating fragrance. Exciting. Invigorating.

"Breathe." Tight, almost strained demand on the first push. "Relax and breathe."

Muffled groans. Bodies slowly merging and separating. Muscles bunching and tensing. Deeper penetration. Hot slide of slickened latex into flesh. Deeper still. The ultimate, intimate caress.

"God..." Almost etched with pain. A plea. "Gibbs..."

Movement accelerates. "I'm here." A sharp jab of pelvis. Bordering on cruel. A half-snarl. "Feel me?"

"Yes!" Close to shrill. Forceful. "Yes..."

The hand on the back of the younger man's neck trails downward, over the heaving side, and snakes under the bent body, searching until it locates the protective gap between workbench and torso. Playful fingers, taunting fingers. More moans and half-hearted pleas.

"Did she suck your dick?" Slightly bitter tone. Chest plastered to back, mouth against shoulder, words almost lost. "Tell me."

Hard thrust. Low moan. Shuddering breath.

"Yes." Quiet and shaking. Almost unheard.

"And was she good?" Gritted. Several more hard, rough thrusts. "Did you like her lips and tongue and spit all over your dick?"

A series of slow, sweet slides, almost pulling completely out. Then, holding still, the head barely in. Teasing. Leaning toward meanness. The body spread across the workbench arches and tries to shove backwards, to reconnect fully. Movement twarted. Strong, capable hands locking on and holding hips still. Bruising force.

"Tell me." Warning." Fighting the squirming flesh beneath his hands...and waiting.

"Yes." A rush, almost frantic. "Yes, she was good and, yes, her mouth was hot and wet." His own mouth stupidly spouting words. "But it wasn't as good as her tight, little cunt!"

Body slamming immediately back in, balls deep, producing a gasping howl in response. Surging and struggling, almost fighting. Younger body pushing back and meeting each thrust with a tightening desperation. Sweat dripping, flesh slapping, hands still resolutely braced on the surface of the workbench. Muscles corded and tense. Straining.

The older man bit at the shoulder with more pressure and pulled back with both hands, arms sliding and wrapping tightly around the upper torso and holding the younger man awkwardly upright. He continued to sink into the hot, tight confines and ignored the low growl of protest. The angle was all wrong and, even though he could easily remedy the problem, he chose to ignore it.

"You knew it was going to be like this with me." Gritted harshly. Unrepentent. Accusingly. "You *knew*."

A strangled, aborted sob. "Yes."

"I *told* you I wasn't going to do all that emotional crap with you or anyone else ever again." Severe reminder. Still fucking ruthlessly, hips snapping.

"Yes." Quiet defeat. Head slowly angling down, taking it up the ass in more ways than one, palms still resting on the edge of the workbench.

"Fuck who you want. I don't care." Hard, ripping words. "But I don't ever want to hear about it. Understand?"

A silent nod. The older man let this one ride without censure. Shifting one hand downward, he grasped the younger man's flesh and stroked with practiced purpose, dutifully ignoring the niggling of doubt playing in the back recesses of his own mind. This is what he wanted...wasn't it? He pushed the unwanted thought deliberately away and focused on the feel and the smell and the taste of what he needed right now. No room for anything else. No room for tenderness or affection or...jealousy. No room. This was much more simple and simple was good.

The little cat drew closer, head bobbing as she followed the hand on skin. The smell was stronger there, between their surging bodies, where the two humans were connected, but she couldn't get directly to that spot to investigate. Still, the musk was pouring off them in waves and centered itself on the bit of flesh grasped and tugged between the fingers of her owner. The feline nosed nearer.

"This is what I want." Whispered fiercely, almost convincingly. "Just fucking. No strings, no attachments, no confusion. Understand?"

Another nod from the lowered head. A hard shudder as the hand on his dick moved faster, intelligent fingers knowing and seeking the appropriate spot, twisting wickedly and repeatedly.

"I...I understand." Breathy voice strangely void of emotion.

Groans mingled with harsh panting. Bodies surged toward completion. The younger man began to move more restlessly, trying to push himself over the edge, wanting to find the finish, for this to all end. He bucked forward and then rapidly back several times, heard a hiss from somewhere over his shoulder, felt his testicles drawing up, and was coming...

...all over the surface of the workbench, the discarded T-shirt, and even, surprisingly, the little black feline. Breath catching, holding, and muscles seizing, eyesight threatening to gray out, he was only dimly aware of it scampering away to safety.

The older man pushed him roughly forward and he quickly caught himself before slamming face-first into the rough surface of wood. There was an assortment of hand tools scattered close by and he silently tried to determine their purpose, resolutely blocking out the sounds and the feel of the man still buried in and pounding away at his ass. Hammer, plane, sanding block...

Gibbs finally grunted through his release and finished, swiftly drawing back and trying to ignore his pounding heart, his weakened knees, and the quiet hiss of pain the quick separation caused the younger man. He backed up, telling himself not to look, and turned away, running a shaking hand through his hair, trying to recapture his calm. He fumbled and stripped off the messy condom, ignoring the twinge as a hair got caught in the haste, and tossed it disgustedly toward a pile of trash. Zipping up was easier...but only marginally.

There was no other sounds in the room for some time except the continued harsh, ragged breathing: his and DiNozzo's. Too loud. Disconcerting. Mocking.

Finally, movement from behind, at the workbench, but he didn't turn to look. Quiet sounds of jeans being tugged awkwardly up, of slow, measured footsteps moving toward the stairs, of the telltale boards squeaking as someone carefully ascended. Soft treads overhead, from basement doorway to front entry. A pause, heavy and charged with silent accusation. Ultimately, the knob turned, front door opening and closing with nothing more than a final whisper...

...of silence.

...of emptiness.

...of goodbye.



END