Shards To A Whole: Chapter 401: Writing

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 401: Writing

Dragon is a godsend. Being able to write again is making Tim's life about ten million times better. Sure, he's still loopy, so he's fairly doubtful that any of this is going to make the final draft, but he's plot dumping away, and, because he can write, he can deal with "dad-stuff" as he's been calling it, with the shield of his character, Gabe, in place.

It's a lot easier, safer, to handle it that way. It's also clear that whatever this story ends up being, father-son relationship stuff is definitely going to be a major theme.

It's also clear that he needs Lorcan (Gibbs) in the place of step-dad/adopted-dad/mentor-dad/chosen-dad whatever, but not in the place of birth-dad. And that for as much as this is about dealing with Fairrge (John) in this story, it's also about creating something that honors Gibbs and who he's been for him these last few years.

He's not sure what he's doing with Fairrge in this, beyond killing him/shaming him/destroying him in numerous exceptionally messy and violent ways.

That's not entirely true. He knows that he wants them, him, Daegan (Jimmy), Brigit (Breena) and Lorcan to be shape-shifter dragons. He knows that as he's setting up the stories the Dragon Knights are a thing mostly of the past, few and far between. Thought to be legend by the common people. Even in family lines, like the M'Gy (Earliest spelling of his family line that Ducky found when he was looking up the tartan for his clan, and eerily similar to how Gibbs pronounces his name.) the Dragons are going to be rare.

He's thinking that Gabe'll be a dragon, but Fairrge won't. That'll be tension line number one. Fairrge will be a loyal knight in whichever King's army. Gabe won't. Said King, (Tim doesn't have a name for him, yet) will be at war with some other guy, and Lady Skye (Abby) will be working for that side. Eventually, he'll run into Skye over the course of the fight, they'll hook up, and break away from both sides, setting up a third line. End there, Fairrge dead, Skye free from her overlord, and the M'Gys setting off for some new land of their own, and that sounds like a good first book to him.

Those are "working" thoughts. The part of his brain that's in charge when the painkillers are fading away. When he's got plotting and longer arc functions going.

The more drugs in him though, the more violence comes out.

He's gotten to the point in his life where he's not ashamed to be writing really horribly violent graphic murders of his father. He's fairly sure that five years ago, he couldn't have done this. He could have thought about it, but not written it out. Now he can. After all, he's made the deal to have the man killed for real, compared to that, this is just… just letting the dark out. Letting him play with it and then let it go. He does notice that as the days pass, the first few scenes got more and more violent, but he's getting less interested in them.

By the time he's written four versions of it, he's done. He doesn't need to do that again. It's getting boring.

He knows he's not done with writing about his dad, but he's done ending him.

And from there, writing can turn to more pleasurable things. And, as Friday turns into Saturday into Sunday and onto Monday and on… It also becomes clear that whatever else is true about this project, it's also a massive smut-fest.

Smutty, smutty, smutty, smut! All over the place. As of right now, he's got at least a hundred pages of smut, which means this is either going to be an awfully long novel, or it's going on the paranormal erotica shelf. He's got some suspicions as to why this is true, beyond the fact that he likes sex. After all, he was just as fond of sex as he wrote all of the Tibbs books, and none of them contain even one explicit scene.

First and foremost, there's that golden three or four minutes where he's close to getting off, getting off, or just gotten off where he's not hurting. At all. Yes, he's on pain meds, a lot of them, and they are keeping him "comfortable." They are not keeping him pain-free. They're not keeping him in the range where he can just forget he's hurting either. What they are doing is making sure he can function, more or less.

So, if he can't be in those moments, he can be writing about them.

Part of it is that sex is how his body knows it's alive. On a really basic, biological level, fucking keeps him centered on the fact he didn't die. And unlike all the other times where he almost died, he healed up pretty quickly. Pretty quickly isn't on the menu for him, not this time. It's getting onto two weeks later, and every time he moves, every step, every time the habit part of his brain tries to reach for something with his right hand, all of it is a constant reminder of almost dying. (And all of it hurts, which just goes back to point A about chasing time where he's not hurting.)

But, though he's been exceptionally affectionate whenever she's home, Abby does still have a job, so, if he can't be fucking with her, he's writing about it. (And sending what he's writing to her, which means she's usually in an awfully frisky mood by the time she gets home.)

Part of it is wanting to fuck. Pretty much, right now, they've got cowgirl, and reverse cowgirl, soft and gentle and slow, and that's nice and all, but he really wants to fuck. He wants to pick Abby up and rock her world. Wants the feel of his body moving fast and hard, sweat and lube slick skin, breathing hard, flushed, hot, aching full-on, fucking sex.

And that's not happening anytime soon.

So… he's writing about it. In explicit detail. On a pure neurochemistry level, his brain can't tell the difference between real sex and sex on the page. (Sure, it knows the difference between arousal and climax, but chemically porn, fantasy, sex, all of it triggers the same pleasure centers of the brain.) Likewise, he knows it's imaginary, but his dick's a bit fuzzy on that idea, and the only message it's getting is get hard, stay hard, and pounce (in a very slow, gentle, being easy on a whole mess of broken bones sort of way) on Abby when she gets home.

Part of it isn't sexual so much in an erotic sense as in a post-traumatic experience sense. In a very real way Abby, and to a lesser degree Jethro, Jimmy, and Breena all signal safety to Tim. When she's home, and he's awake and can stand to be near people (because he's still having porcupine days, too) he wants to be within touch range. He wants to have Abby holding his hand or a warm arm around his shoulders. And touch feels good, and sex feels better, so hugs turn into stroking which turns to kissing and merges into sex and from there more cuddling and sleep.

He's very, very glad that Abby doesn't mind ending the evening or starting the morning with sex, and then getting some very hot notes during the day to go with it. He thinks the last time they had this much sex, they were on their honeymoon.

And he's also very glad that she's putting up with his mood swings as well, which is another reason to keep writing about sex, because it keeps him on the perky side of things. When he's not focused on sex, he can go from doing okay to crying in less than a minute, and he hates that.

So, at least for the time being, the only downside of the vast wodges of smut he's producing is that occasionally, when he gets a chunk of "writing" done (because after all, he has to speak to his computer to "write"), he'll hobble out of his office, and Heather will just stare at him, which is making him wonder exactly how bad the sound-proofing in their house is.

---

Another Wednesday, another day home, but today, he's noticing something. There's only one Percocet left, and he's not feeling any sense of panic from that. He can go the full six hours between doses now, and shifting down to Tylenol 3 seems like a good plan.

Seems like it will work.

He knows Tylenol 3 is also a narcotic, but it's a much less strong one than the Percocet, and he's really, really hoping that he can take this last one, let it meander out of his system, start up on the new stuff, and get some more control back.

He swallows it down, and tosses the bottle toward his trash can. He misses and sighs. Time to move the vibrational head to the next break, then more ankle flexing and shoulder lifts.

That's also getting less painful, but he knows that as soon as he's got full range of motion on his ankle, Jimmy's going to want him to start working it with weights, and that'll just drop him right back to square one on the pain level.

---

The Tylenol 3 is mostly getting the job done. He's back down to a five hour pain pill cycle, but he feels a lot more like himself. He hasn't broken down crying for (what he considers) no good reason for two days.

Heather graciously accepted his apology for being such a bear the last few weeks. Told him he didn't need to apologize for it, but he knew he did. Even if only to make himself feel better.

No Percocet means his one-handed typing is getting better, and Dragon means that mostly all he's doing with a keyboard is fixing spelling and formatting.

No Percocet also means that today, he's got a job to do.

It's time to start writing up that report.

It's slow. Partially because he still has to get fairly frequent naps. Partly because he can't work on the report without thinking about what was going on, and as Wolf said, flashing back to the fight, and to the life before is normal, and working on the report triggers it. And unlike the story, there isn't the safety of Gabe here. Here he's reporting, not creating, so he can't shift and tailor the story to make himself feel safer.

But he keeps working on it. Keeps making himself put it in the past. He's home, at his desk, safe, working. He's not on a ship. His father is nowhere nearby. (He got an email from Burley about that. For the time being, The Admiral's rented a place in Hawaii. Alas, for the time being he's also not finding much in the way of anything useful in any of those missing sailor cases.) And yes, some of his work he's done with Abby right next to him, keeping him grounded in now, but he's kept working.

---

The great thing about drafts is that the first one can just be miles of crap spewed out on a page. You keep the good stuff, shuffle it around, and delete the embarrassing bits.

And that's what he's doing.

Tim's going over the feeds. He starts with the ships he wasn't on, viewing their data feeds, checking their techs, seeing what they did. He knows how things went on The Stennis, but that's not how things went on all the other ships. Some got communications back faster, some slower. One took a full two hours before they got their internal communications back online. One did it in fewer than two minutes. (He wrote up a separate recommendation for that tech, wanting to make sure he got some sort of a pat on the back for a very good job. Then he made a note to see about looking him up in eighteen months when his hitch with the Navy is up.)

Once communications were fully restored among the entire Carrier Group, they began working together on tracing the hack, and did, eventually, figure it out.

But Tim was on land and unconscious by the time they worked it out.

He writes up a review on how the attack worked, and a plan for how to pull a similar trick. He doesn't want whoever does this next to use his style verbatim; it's got to feel real, and it won't if the same attack keeps happening, but he can put useful parameters in place. Likewise, he dissects the response, pointing out who did well, who didn't, how standard Navy cyber-attack operating procedure worked well, how it failed.

He eyeballs the draft, sure this isn't anywhere near ready to go out, but it's a start.

---

Thursday. Swimming with Gibbs. That's good. He can actually walk when he's in the pool now. Yes, like with the rest of the ankle exercises, it aches when he's moving, but he is moving all the way through the correct placements and motions of walking.

When he's doing that he can also feel why he's still got the cast on his foot. Place weight on your foot and all those little bones in the arch of your foot, which on him are in various stages of healing back up again, spread apart and flex. Even with the cast they shift a bit, and that's not comfortable at all.

He's dreading putting his full weight back on that foot, but a week and a day, and this little cast comes off, and with it, even more rehabbing.

---

Wolf again. Sigh.

Fridays are supposed to be days of rest, right? What with the whole their family does Shabbos thing, right? It's in the rules. Ziva's told them avoiding unpleasant topics of conversation is one of the rules. And this is the mother and father of all unpleasant topics of conversation.

He is going on about that when Abby, who took off work to be here with him for this, looks at him, kisses his forehead and says, "You can cancel."

He slumps a little and shakes his head. He knows he's got to do it. Canceling just puts it off for next week or the week after, and that just pushes off him getting to actually go back to work even further. So, he doesn't want to cancel, he just wants to bitch about it and then get it done as fast as possible.

It's nothing personal against Wolf, but… he doesn't want to be talking about this stuff. Tim would much rather just ignore it.

But he can't.

And at least this time Abby's with him, holding his hand, like she promised to do back when they first started talking about this, back before Kelly was born.

They settle into his office, drinks all around, and begin.

They talk a little about how his body is doing, how healing up is going, and then get to the meat of it. Back to California and being a small child and getting on a boat for the first time.

And from there it only gets worse.

Abby hasn't heard a lot of these stories. Tim's never told most of them. Takes two hours. He's not sure what the point of this is, other than to rip his heart out again, but Wolf seems to think it's useful, and
Abby's holding onto him, so… So he keeps talking.

He's not sure if he feels any better, or different, or anything positive really, when he's done.

Tired. He feels tired. Like he's been wrung out. Like he's run fifty miles and done a million jumping jacks and infinite push-ups, and… just tired, all over, in all ways.

Abby sees Wolf to the door, and then heads back to him, snuggling in close, holding onto him as well as she can, and there's a faint spark of wanting to talk to her about it, but lulling tired wipes it out of his mind.

"You just want to rest?"

He nods.

Abby kisses him. "Then you rest."

It's two in the afternoon, and they're on the futon in his office. He's so sleepy, aching tired, all he wants to do is sleep right now, but there's one other thing he needs. "Stay with me? Guard my sleep?"

One more kiss. "Anytime."

Next

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 396: Being Married

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 396: Being Married


"How's Tim doing?" Heather asks as she heads in to take over on Kelly for the day.

Abby winces a little, not entirely sure how to answer that question. He's better than he was right after the attack, but he's not, by any stretch, good, and if you've never seen someone really hurt, exactly how bad he looks can be pretty shocking. So… "Have you ever seen anyone right after a bad car accident?"

Heather nods. "Got t-boned when I was twenty by a drunk driver. Broken arm, broken leg, bruises all over."

Abby half-smiles. "Then you know."

Heather nods. She knows that Tim wasn't hit by a car, but other than 'hurt in the line of duty' she's got no real information, and enough sense to know everyone she's spoken to about this is very clearly projecting 'Don't Ask' vibes.

"Plan for today?" Heather asks while taking Kelly.

Abby shrugs. "Sleeping, food, didn't really get any time with just each other in the hospital, so… Being married. Quiet, intimate time."

Heather smiles at that. Not a dirty grin or anything, because the way Abby's talking about it isn't lascivious, just happy, pleased. It's nice to work for a family where Mom and Dad are really and truly in love with each other.

"Enjoy!"

"As much as we can. Not sure if Tim'll come down, or just rest upstairs today, but I'm sure you'll see him soon. We don't know when he's going back to work, but he's home for at least another week."

"Do you want me to come by?"

"Oh yeah. He can't pick Kelly up, let alone walk with her, yet. And he really is supposed to be resting, and you know…"

Heather does know, taking care of a baby is not restful. "No problem."

---

When she heads upstairs, Tim's sleeping. On his back, looking fairly peaceful. At least, as peaceful as someone in two casts and covered in bruises can look.

On the upside, the bruises are sliding from black-blue-purple, to purple-green-yellow. The skin colored bits are not in the majority yet, but well above twenty percent now.

Abby shuts their door, slips out of her clothing, and puts the pendent back on. She's fairly sure that this, naked, wearing only it, is what Tim was hoping for when he mentioned giving it to her when they were alone.

She gingerly slides into bed, scooting in toward him, resting her neck over his arm, and lightly curling her back in against his side.

There is a story that Ziva's told them. Well, her and Breena, probably Tony, not the others, and they probably don't need to know, though, it's possible Tim may find it useful at some point.

It's about what happened after Somalia. After the cold, sterile poking and prodding of the doctors, after swallowing down all the antibiotics and antivirals she could hold, after getting out of the hospital, after getting back to 'normal.'

But normal didn't make her body feel like it was hers. Normal and hours in the shower didn't wipe away the feeling of being wrong, didn't take away the sense of being used and filthy.

She'd always been sporadic about synagogue attendance, partly because she'd never had the sort of job where it was easy to get regular Friday nights off, partly because Shabbos at home always mattered more to her.

But she was lost, and hurting, and couldn't talk to her guys, because any pity or sympathy would kill her, and because they were guys. And she didn't have the relationship where she would have talked to Abby about it, not then.

She spent a lot of nights walking, or running, and it didn't help. Couldn't out run or out walk herself.

She'd go by Beth Shalom Synagogue. Often. And eventually she knew why she kept going past it, why every run brought her near.

She started to go in, for quiet, for a chance to pray.

The Rabbetzin was kind and gentle, and knew not to ask too many questions. She could see the woman in front of her was wounded and trying to heal. She could feel Ziva's walls, and knew that trying to get too close, too fast would send her running away.

But when two months of Ziva stopping by, chatting, occasionally talking, a little, about her work, her father, some of her older missions, went by, Miriam asked her if she'd like to use the mikva.

"Whatever you are struggling with," and by that point Miriam had some, not entirely correct but not wrong either, idea of what was going on, "it will help, if you let it."

Ziva sighed. She knew that's why she kept coming back, that she wanted to let this help, wanted to get back to feeling like she was herself again, not just a body wearing a Ziva-costume. But she didn't know how it could help.

She shrugged at Miriam.

"Come, Ziva, let's try."

Mikvah

She had had to explain, at that point, what a mikva was to Abby and Breena, because neither of them grew up in a cultures that believed in either ritual purity, or the idea that regular immersion in a pool of water is part of that. But it didn't take more than a few words to paint the picture of a small pool of water that people would dip themselves in. And for this particular congregation, the mikva was old, below the earth, a pool from a living spring, in a room of living rock. It smelled damp, green, (there was some moss growing between some of the rocks) and the water was cool, verging on cold, so Ziva didn't linger too long as she undressed.

She stripped off her clothing and slipped into the pool, letting the water wash over, and around, and in her. She stayed under for a long time, until the little lights began to dance behind her eyelids, and then broke the surface, gasping air, and slipped under again.

She did it several times, and when she finally felt ready to come out, Miriam was waiting, with warm, fluffy cotton towels, and wrapped her in them.

"Our bodies are sacred, but they collect profane things, marks, stains, thoughts." She gently patted Ziva dry. "This takes those marks away, washes off the stains, and reconnects us to Hashem. Not because He ever goes away, but because we find him hard to see from behind the marks. Beautiful Ziva, beloved of Hashem, your body is yours and His, and no one else's. You are reclaimed by Him, made sacred by Him. The marks are gone, and will stay that way if you can let them go."

Ziva nodded at that, and burst into tears, sitting in the cool air, holding onto a woman who held her like the mother who had been gone from her life for so long.

Abby doesn't have the exact same plan, but that story's the root of where she intends to go today.

Today, she's reclaiming Tim's body, reminding it that it's hers, and that it was designed to be touched with love, and joy, and reverence. That it is a sacred vessel, holding the person she adores beyond all others.

Thinking about how she's going to do that, lulled by the feel of his pulse and breath against her back, Abby falls back to sleep.

---

For a second, a very short second, it could just be morning. He's waking up, the sun is bright, Abby's warm and smooth next to him.

Then the pain crashes back into him. He tries to twist around to check the clock, but Abby's on his arm and his body doesn't want to turn enough to see what time it is with his arm under her neck, and it also doesn't want to lift up the way he would normally do to see his phone, so…

He's really sore, and aches all over. Not that that's new, even when the pain meds are working he's sore and achy, but he's a good few steps past that level of sore and achy, but nothing is throbbing yet, so he's not too far over time for his next pill.

"Abby."

She doesn't move or make any noise. Pregnant sleep, she may as well be in a coma. His working arm is under her, so he jiggles it a little, and she scoots in closer to him, which is a bit uncomfortable but no more painful than anything else.

"Abby. Roll off of me, baby." He nips her shoulder, and that gets her shifting over a bit, so she's on her stomach and he can get his arm free without hurting himself.

Little after ten, he sees when he finally gets his… When he finally gets her phone in view. He sighs as he remembers that his was shattered and likely doesn't have a replacement, yet. Means he made it a bit more than five hours between doses of Percocet. He wonders why the alarm didn't go off, but not enough to mess around with Abby's phone to see how she set it.

Tim supposes more than five hours is a good thing as he takes the next one and begins the very long trek to the bathroom.

---

Everything in the world is built for people who can stand up. And it's not that he can't stand up, it's that it's exhausting and hurts more than sitting or reclining.

It's kind of embarrassing to admit how long it took him to figure out that he is not required to pee standing up. He's chalking that up to pain killers.

And tooth brushing… sigh… it took more than a few seconds to figure out that his bathtub is basically a large sink with a ledge he can sit on. (Though there's a tiny little voice that thinks brushing his teeth using the bathtub is kind of gross, but he can't figure out why that would be true. Not like he's talking about using the toilet.)

Teeth done, he eyeballs the tub, thinking about getting a bath now or holding out for later.

Later. If Abby's still in bed with him, it's because she intends to be with him today, so, he can hold off for when she's awake.

He gets out, sees Abby still sleeping, and notices his computer is on his dresser. He's thinking that maybe he'll grab that, log in, check in on work a little, until Abby wakes up, when it hits him that his dresser is four steps from his bed, and that right now he cannot walk and hold anything. He can crutch his way over to the dresser, but unless he wants to throw the computer onto the bed, or (and just the idea of this hurts so bad he winces) grab the computer and hop to the bed, he can't get it from the dresser to the bed.

So much for that plan.

Abby's phone is on the bedside table, so, that's the next plan. He gets back onto the bed, arranges the pillows as well as he can one-handed and unable to twist, (His ribs do not appreciate anything that involves bending, twisting, stretching, or inhaling deeply.) grabs her phone, and…
Really? Exactly how frustrating being down one arm and one foot is slams into him like a freight train. He can hold the phone, or he can input information into it. But not both.

So, sitting in bed, Abby's phone on his leg (where it's not exactly stable) he starts trying to unlock it.
She's got a five digit passcode. That's the first layer. There's a password after that.

On the sixth try, he gives up. He can't type for anything right now. Five numbers, how hard is it to hit five numbers on a keypad? But for whatever reason his hand just won't do it, not correctly. He got really close the third try, then the damn thing slipped off his leg and reset on him.

He's crying with frustration and wants to throw the phone against the wall, hard, but they need at least one working phone so he puts it, carefully, back down on the bedside table and picks up his Kindle, which does not have a password, or a passcode, and just requires him to swipe his finger over the screen, which he manages (on the second try).

Next to the kindle, there was a plate with melon kebabs. Bite sized chunks of cantaloupe and honeydew wrapped in ham or smoked turkey on wood skewers. Tasty, good for him, didn't matter if it got cold, easy to eat with one hand. The cup of coffee next to it is cool, but it's not like cool, cold, stone cold, and so damn overcooked that it'll do for battery acid in a pinch coffee haven't been on the menu in the past.

It's bitter and sweet and coffee-flavored, and sure, no caffeine, but it tastes okay, so that's all he's looking for.

He tries reading a little while he eats, but his eyes aren't tracking the text well. He's getting lost in the pages and rereading the same line over and over or jumping entire paragraphs.

Tim makes a mental note that he is getting off of Percocet as soon as he possibly can, notices that he doesn't have earbuds, and hopes like crazy that with one or two lines of text on the screen, he can follow closed-captioning, and then flicks from books to TV and goes looking for a light, fluffy, stupid comedy.

---

Abby wakes up hungry, with Tim clinging to her back, dead asleep, and the rather bizarre sensation of something hard and smooth against the back of her thigh, along with the slightly rough sensation of his cast against her back.

When she gently gets herself peeled away from him, she finds the hard, smooth thing is his kindle. He must have been reading/watching something, fallen asleep and ended up with it pressed between them when he snuggled in.

As she gets up, he tries to do his usual Abby got up, I roll into the warm spot where she was technique, but as his weight hits his arm, he jerks, hisses, and rolls back to his back.

She's not sure if that woke him up or not, but quickly gets an answer when he asks, without opening his eyes, "You still in here?"

"Yeah. Just got up. Was planning on getting us some lunch."

He nods at that, eyes still closed. She's fairly sure he's drifting back to sleep. "Then what?"

"Eat, sleep, talk if you want to, make love is you're up for it, spend all day snuggling and napping if that's where you are.

"Napping now. See about the rest later."

She kisses him. "Okay."

---

He's still on his back, still asleep, when she comes back up. She'd been out for an hour, decided to go get them some sushi. Soups, salads, wraps are pretty common lunch food for them, but none of them are very good eat in bed with your fingers food. (Granted, she doesn't want soy sauce dripped all over her sheets, either, but as things they often have for lunch go, this is one of the least messy, and definitely requires minimal fork work.)

And more importantly than that, she was with him the first time he had sushi, so she absolutely knows he's got no memories of it in his childhood.

He starts to stir as she's unpacking everything. No way to get food out of plastic bags and trays without making some noise, and, honestly, she thinks getting him up enough so that he eats at least three times a day is a good plan.

He looks groggy, but perks up some when he sees what she's laying out.

"Hungry?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"Good. I'll go grab drinks, and we'll eat. What do you want?"

He looks at the food in front of him, carefully trimmed and rolled bits of fish, and what he wants is sake, but he's not having that, so… "Green tea?"

"I can make some. Back in a minute or two."

By the time she's back, he's sitting up, and opened the trays, making them a bed picnic. She places his mug of tea on the bedside table, and then sits next to him, snagging a shrimp roll.

"I was thinking about the first time we had sushi," she says, dipping it in the mix of soy and wasabi he'd made for them.

"First date."

"Yeah." Lunch date. No real set plan other than to actually meet the mysterious Agent McGee. He wasn't as young as Tony suggested. She'd been expecting a twenty-two-year-old, right out of college, so almost twenty-five with a masters in forensic computing was a nice surprise. But he was as green as Tony had said.

They'd done the traditional, what-do-you-want-to-eat,-whatever-you-want-is-fine-with-me dance. Finally she said, "Do you like sushi?"

And he said, looking adorably nervous, "I've never had it."

"Great. Let's go!"

She could see he was worried about not liking it, worried about looking like a wimp for not wanting to eat it, worried that he was making a bad impression or turning her off or… He was just all over nervous.

"I promise, McGee, it won't bite you back!" she said with a smile, linking his arm in hers, and heading them out of the lab.

She took him to Gibbs' favorite, where she knew the restaurant would be quiet and the chef would take care of them. And he did.

"So, McGee," He'd already said she could call him Tim, but he didn't correct her when she called him McGee. "Where are you from?"

"Boston, most recently…" and from there they talked about MIT, her work at the lab, FLETC, and the most recent case.

The food came, and he looked at it, skeptical, looked at her, chowing down happily on it, picked up his chop sticks, (She was pleased to see he knew how to use them. Good with chopsticks usually indicated a certain level of manual dexterity away from the dinner table, which Abby greatly approved of.) determined to rise to any challenge she'd set him, and took a bite.

Abby remembers how his face melted from braced-for-something-gross to approving. "Pretty good!"

"Afraid I was going to steer you wrong?"

He brushed that off, lots of people had thought it was awfully funny to steer him wrong over the years. "Didn't think tuna got better if you didn't cook it." He pointed to the soy-wasabi mix. "What's that…"

Tim's sitting on their bed, back propped against the pillows, nibbling a piece of salmon. "Fourteen years ago."

"In November."

"Kind of expecting you to bring pho."

She smiles at that, too, knowing what memory he's hooked into. "You get steadier with that hand, and all the pho you want will come your way."

"Good."

---

Lunch doesn't take too long. She gets everything tidied away, and then heads into the bathroom.

Tim's watching her, wondering what she's up to. He's been living with this woman for long enough to know those aren't usual just taking care of business bathroom sounds.

He hears the water turn on, and can see steam starting to float out of the open door. A few seconds later, Abby's back out. "Start heading in, if you beat me in there, don't take off your pjs. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay." So he starts toward the bathroom.

She does get back into their room before he's all the way in, and he sees that she's got a few of the LED candles, and several more towels than are usually involved in getting a shower.

By the time he gets in there, he can see she's got the candles on the sink and the back of the toilet and lit. Towels are piled next to the tub, so's the bath oil, and one of the perfume bottles (he can't tell which from this far away.)

Once he's in, she's standing in front of him, hand on his left bicep, other hand on his right hip, and gently, carefully kissing him. He relaxes into it, but not too much because staying standing takes effort.

"Shower first, all washed off and clean, then bath."

He nods, that sounds fine to him.

She kneels, quickly peeling off his pants, and letting him know to sit on the edge of the bath. Once he's seated, she takes her time, stroking hands from his toes to his hip on his right leg, gentle pressure, he's got a lot of bruises, but making sure she touches every inch of him. Again on the left, lighter, fingers ghosting over the cast, still making contact with the skin between the holes in the cast, then up over his leg, cupping his knee, circling as much of his thigh as she can with her fingers.

She kisses both knees, smiling up at him, then starts to help him get the shirt off, carefully threading his right arm out of the sleeve.

Abby kisses his left palm and wrist, the crease of his elbow, and where arm meets shoulder, over the code on his delt. She strokes her hand along his arm from pinky fingernail to throat.

He's sitting on the edge of the bath, the sound of the shower spray spattering on the shower curtain behind him. She's kneeling between his legs, cupping the base of his skull in both hands and looking him in the eyes. "I love you, Tim." Her fingers thread in his hair, and she kisses his lips, and his eyebrows, his jaw, and each ear. "I love you."

His eyes close, and he sighs, relaxing further into her touch. His hand finds her shoulder, and gently strokes down over her back.

Abby kisses back to his lips, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling in as close as she can without pressing too hard on his right arm.

Deep kiss, gentle (like all of this has to be) and slow, tongues wet and loving. She pulls back when she feels his dick start to respond. This will be erotic, but she doesn't want it to go there, yet.

Abby pulls back the shower curtain, letting him know to get into the bath. "Sitting?" she asks.

He nods, that'll be easier for him than standing. So, while he gets comfortable, she stands up, grabs the shower head, and pulls it down.

The water's nicely warm, not too hot, and she plays it over him, rinsing him from head to toes, making sure he's completely wet before putting the shower head back up top, letting it rain over them, and grabbing his shampoo. She sits behind him, pulling him back a bit, so he's leaning into her, and starts to lather up his hair.

"This okay?" she's using firmer pressure on his scalp than she would anywhere else. According to his medical records, there weren't any injuries there, and he hasn't winced away from being touched there, but she wants verbal confirmation, too.

"Yeah, it's good." His eyes are closed, and he's resting against her, making a soft, content sound deep in his chest as she massages his scalp, rubbing her fingers in small circles. She takes her time, continuing the massage long past the point of where the shampoo's rinsed all the way out of his hair.

From his hair, her fingers caress over his face. "Shave?" she asks.

He nods. She gently presses on his shoulder, letting him know to lean up. She gets up, grabs the trimmers, his razor and shaving cream, along with the shower head. A second later, she's back in the bath, sitting carefully between his legs, running the trimmers over his goatee. It takes about thirty seconds to get his beard down to a sixteenth of an inch long, another few minutes, in which he sits very still, for her to get that last fraction of an inch off.

After she puts the razor down, Tim takes her hand in his, and kisses her palm, rubbing his now very smooth chin against her hand, and quietly says, "I'm never growing that back."

"Fine with me."

She stands up again and begins rinsing him, and the tub, off. Takes longer than it would if he wasn't in the tub, but eventually all the stray bits of stubble are gone.

"Soap?" She knows he only washes certain bits of himself every day, and that most days his skin is happy with just a rinse.

"You applying it?" he asks with a smile.

Abby smiles back. "Does your answer change if I am?"

"Maybe."

She kisses him again, smiling.

"Once you're all washed off, I'm adding a bit of Light of Mens' Lives to the bath oil," She gestures to the tiny perfume bottle, a soft, warm, slightly smoky, vanilla scent. Comforting more than sexy. "and then I'm running a bath for both of us, and we're going to lay around in the water while I gently rub you all over with scented oil. So, yes to soap, no to soap, you're still getting gently touched all over while nice and warm and somewhat weightless."

"If you're going to take care of me like this, remind me to get beat up more often." She glares at him. And he holds his hand up, defensive. "I'm really kidding."

"You better be!"

"Trust me, I never, ever want to do this again."

"Good." Another long, soft kiss, and this time he can feel some of how scared she's been, how long this last week's been for her, expressed in that touch.

"Never again, Abby."

Another kiss. One more. She pulls back a little, wiping her eyes, and he smiles at her, wiping her cheek with his fingers, too.

"I'm sorry."

"Gibbs and Vance were here at four in the morning. It took a good ten minutes before I got calm enough to hear Gibbs saying you weren't dead."

He kisses her this time, hand wrapped around the back of her neck. "Oh, baby."

"I couldn't break myself out of the panic. Woke up with Gibbs leaning over me, jogging my shoulder gently, and Leon was in the doorway, both of them ready to kill someone."

He kisses her again.

"It was worse than when the State Troopers came about my parents. At least then, I didn't know what was coming when I opened the door."

He kisses her one more time. "I'm here."

"I know." Her eyes tear. "But I didn't then. I was thinking that that's why you went to Cybercrime, so this wouldn't happen."

"It is. Why I'm in Cybercrime, why you've got lab assistants, why we changed, so we could be here, for each other, for a long, long time."

"Yeah. What'd you say, 'A thousand years isn't long enough, but I'll take the fifty we're owed'?"

"Something like that." But he knows he said that the last time, which was supposed to be the last time he almost got killed doing his job. And he can see by how she says the next bit that she knows it, too.

"I want all fifty of them."

"Me, too. November 1st, 2064, huge party with the kids and grandkids and maybe great-grandkids. Like Penny and Ducky, we'll shock them because old doesn't mean love or desire goes away, just gets a little less nimble and flexible."

"Speak for yourself."

"Actually, speaking for you. I intend to be a hell of a lot more mobile at eighty-eight than I am right now." He smiles at that, and she laughs a little.

She sighs. "So, soaping up?"

"Yeah, privates, at least. The rest of me feels okay."

"Underarms?" She winces a little at that slip up. "Arm?"

"Sure. You want me to try standing up?"

"No. You look pretty comfy where you are."

"I am."

"Then just stay there, I'll move around you."

She's already between his legs, so she knows where she's starting. She stands up for a moment, re-adjusting the shower head so the water's hitting against the back wall, and grabs the soap, lathering up her hands.

Abby read Tim's medical record. She knows that crouched in bloodless medical language was something that translated into, 'At least one guy, maybe more, kicked your husband in the balls, hard, several times,' along with a comment along the lines of, 'Though this was classified as 'minor' trauma and there had been no rupture, it might be worthwhile to get a semen sample at some point three months or so from now to see if there's been any lasting damage.'

She did not find that comment particularly comforting, but Jimmy pointed out that's pretty much boilerplate for anyone who takes a shot to the nuts, and really, probably not worth worrying too much about unless they start to hurt.

And, yes, she has seen him naked once before at this point, but, well, beyond a general 'you're beat the hell up,' she hasn't exactly studied that particular area.

The sight of it's enough to make her want to wince, and she doesn't have balls. It's been a week, but they are still very much not back to their normal, slightly pinker than the rest of his skin selves.

Last time she saw anything that looked that bruised and swollen… It was a few years ago, and they were watching a video, femdom, Goth girl pegging her guy, which they like watching, but they don't tend to watch a lot of that because those videos can take a bad turn really fast, and unfortunately that one did. One second it was really hot, and the girl was getting out a cock ring, which was good, both of them were liking where that was going, and then a few minutes later she got out a stretcher and a cage, which started both of them scrambling for a remote, but by the time they found the remote, let alone got a hold of it with a non-slippery hand to turn it off, the poor guy was screaming, not in a good way, and neither of them wanted to have sex that night.

So, to say she's got a tentative hold of Tim would be something of an understatement. "This okay?"

He nods. "Yeah, real light touch." His right foot is next to the edge of the tub, and since that's the side that's okay, he lifts that leg, so it's resting on the side of the bath, giving her a bit more room to maneuver.

She's very, very gently slicking him up with the soap, rubbing her hands across his balls, mostly focusing on where his legs and pelvis join, or his dick, both of which are much less bruised. (And yes, he does have a bruise on his dick, it got kicked, too.) So it's a pretty fast wash, very gentle, and she's not shocked that it doesn't get him hard.

His armpit is pretty fast, too, mostly because he's ticklish and there just isn't a good way to do that without him wanting to squirm, and right now his ribs do not want to be involved in anything along the lines of squirming.

Rinsing off is more comfortable. And after several moments he's all washed off, rinsed off, and she's padding the back of the tub with the extra towels, and mixing up the bath oil as the tub fills.

She settles in behind him, oil warmed between her palms as he leans forward a little, and she rubs over his back, tracing his spine, skirting the edge of his cast, and the spattered purple-green patch of where his ribs broke on the left side. She kisses the nape of his neck while her hands circle his hips, then she nudges him back so he's lying against her, and her hands come up over his stomach to his chest, again skipping over the bruised splotches on his left and right (the other two spots his ribs broke), she pets his chest, tracing the edge of the cast from the front, the line of his collarbone on his left, and ending by stroking down his left arm to twine her fingers with his.

She kisses his temple, holding onto him, letting him rest, cradled by warm water and her body. She's half-thinking he's going to fall asleep, half-thinking he'll start talking.

Talking wins out.

He takes her right hand, wrapping it snug, as snug as he can stand, around his chest. The other one he slips down to his balls, not stroking, nothing sexual in the sense of trying to turn him on, just touching.

He licks his lips and swallows hard. "When I first got to Alameda, they asked if I needed a rape kit."

She nods, feeling ice down her spine, not sure where this is going and very, very afraid. She kisses him, holding him close, trying to be calm.

"I said no."

"Okay." She kisses his neck and shoulder, still holding onto him, trying to get her own mind calm enough so that he can feel that no matter how he answers her next question, he's still hers, still loved, still wanted and adored and, still, above and beyond everything else, still her husband. "We're you lying?"

"No." He shakes his head, and she relaxes a little. "No. But, I'm remembering it. You washing me, and the way they had to process me."

Another kiss. "Okay." One more kiss. "No matter what happens, you're still mine, you know that, right? That never changes. You're mine."

He turns to kiss her lips. "I do." His left hand is still twined in hers, keeping her gently cupping him, so he gently squeezes her ring finger between his middle finger and ring finger. "I do." He drags her fingers over his dick. "He never touched me, so I suppose you can't call it sexual abuse, but… More I think about it, it always seems to come back to this."

"Yeah."

"So… sexuality abuse?"

She can see him trying to build context for this. A frame to organize it. "That probably works. Your sister and Penny think he's gay. Fixated on you to try and destroy what he hated about himself."

"Great," Tim says, voice dead. "Mane his boyfriend?"

"Maybe. Sarah thinks so."

He snorts at that. "Fuck toy maybe, you've got to actually care about someone to have a boyfriend."

Abby kisses his shoulder. He doesn't talk for a long time after that, just thinking, and she's content to hold him and let him think.

---

Tim's a water person.

That thought would probably horrify him. But, it does seem that in the moments where she's held and comforted him, in the moments of their most intense, most dark, intimate connections, that not just the comfort of her touch was there, but the embrace of soft, warm water, too.

Granted the only other time things were this bad, he'd almost been killed in a freezer, and the water was as much there to be warm as anything else. So, maybe this is just her being imaginative and magical, but, something about it feels right. In the bathroom after almost freezing, the shower after Kelly was born, the 'sponge bath' after he started talking about the abuse, after that first case back from Kelly's birth, and now, here, in the bath again, maybe it's not entirely fanciful.

Once again they're in the bath, and she's holding him close and warm, and letting him talk, just letting it flow, and pour, and spill and all those other water-oriented words, out of him.

Listening is hard. Living it was a million times worse, and she knows that, so she listens, and forces herself to stay calm, holding him, taking the weight from him, sharing it. Like she said to Heather, 'being married.'

He starts with the fight, which apparently he remembers in a lot more detail than she would have expected. There's the vicious, savage, and unfortunately short-lived joy at how the actual test went. From the sounds of it, he utterly reamed the Third Carrier Group, and enjoyed every second of it. She hears about dinner, about out-maneuvering John with the pictures of Kelly, and how it was going really well. How… how there was a sense of actually winning for once. How, for a moment there, he got to be in control.

He moved back from that, talking about laying the trap about the Irish Spy, and about how good it felt to show to Jarvis that John's team was cheating. He didn't just produce a test that they couldn't pass, he proved that they couldn't even solve the puzzle without cheating. That had felt good.

And how it all fell apart when he realized that his father had never been kidding about death before dishonor, and he was going to kill him, or at least try, for this.

She pets his shoulder and chest, light, so light touches, just enough to make sure he's still aware of her being there, makes sure he feels safe, makes sure he's still here, with her, at home, in the present, instead of falling back into it. (Especially with the amount of Percocet he's on, she is worried about his ability to separate out his memories from his present.)

He does go back, telling stories she hasn't heard. Most of them are like Sarah's version of the stir-fry story, stupid, evil, petty cruelty for the sake of being cruel. And the only blessing she can think of is that John was on a ship most of the time, because she's fairly sure that if he had been on land more, he would have broken Tim.

Some of the stories he sounds detached from. Some he's sobbing at. Some just generate tears, some are full-on, shaking, verge-of-panic-attack tales, but he keeps talking, he doesn't shut down or shut her out, and she keeps encouraging him, petting him, telling him how much she loves him, how precious he is, that she adores him, and that he's safe. He survived, and he's safe. Now and forever, he's home and he's safe.

The water's cold, and he's drifting toward sleep before they get to the deal with Jarvis or what Sarah did. So she gets him up, and out, and hastily dried off and back into bed.

She's not feeling very sleepy. Angry, hurt, weary, all of those, but not sleepy. But when she gets him to bed, he doesn't want to let her go, and she's fine with that. If he needs a warm human teddy bear to sleep with, she's up for it.

So he sleeps, doesn't appear to be dreaming, and she lies there, thinking, resting, and eventually drifts off, too.

---

Dragon Cuff

He's staring at the wrist cuff when she wakes up. He can see the top bit of it from where his hand rests on Abby's shoulder.

"You and Jimmy picked it out?"

She nods a little, kissing his palm. "Breena helped, too. You were out of it when we got the list of what was coming back. The cuff wasn't on the list, so Gibbs called Burley, found out why it wasn't coming back." She gives him a quizzical look, not sure if he knows why it didn't come back. He nods, he remembers someone telling him they cut it off him to preserve any prints that might have been on the snaps.

"And I know you got your own dress code shifted, so it's not like you can't have the lip tattoo visible, but… We thought you'd miss it. So, we got confabbing. Bad wifi in the hospital. You could get a signal and eventually get information but it was so slow, so Jimmy and I talked to Breena, and she got online and found the shop. Then we went and looked around, and I knew that you liked the old one because it was plain—"

"And yours. I liked that it was yours."

"This one is yours." She rolls over to face him, and gently kisses his lips, and then shoulder, her hand flat and light over his heart. "And you're mine."

He smiles. "Yeah."

She pulls back enough so he can get his arm where he can see the cuff in the afternoon sunshine. Black, Celtic-looking dragon, two silver snaps. It's wider than the previous one was.

"Thought I needed another dragon?"

She nibbles gently on his nipple. "My dragon!" She smiles up at him. "Actually, I was looking at one pretty similar to the last one. All black, embossed swirls, mostly just plain, but Jimmy sees this one and pulls me over to it, going, 'That one! The McGee dragons, right?'

"So I nod at him, and we try it on Jimmy, make sure it'd fit." Obviously it did. It feels right on his wrist. "I tried to convince him to get one for himself, because he's one of the dragons, too, and he told me that Hell would freeze over about six weeks before he got," she air quotes, "'matching bracelets' with you, and we bought it and took it to you."

Tim snorts a bit at the matching bracelets idea, but six weeks after hell freezes over is just about when he'd be willing to wear matching cuffs with Jimmy, too, so it's good to see he's on top of things.

"Don't suppose there's a collar that goes with this?"

Abby smiles at that. After all, her collar, the one she wears when he Doms matches his old cuff.

"Would you like me to wear one that matches this? Or do you prefer the memories attached to the old one?"

"You saying you did get a matching collar?"

"Of course. And the other cuff."

That surprises Tim some. Six weeks after hell freezes is pretty clear on the whole, not gonna do it front, so, it's obviously not for Jimmy. He's never worn two cuffs at once. Abby does sometimes. "For you?"

"Could be, or both on you, or… I got a second collar, too."

He blinks, surprised at that, not sure who the second collar is for. He likes his collar and doesn't want a new one. Then a second thought hit, because after all, it's not like both of them wear the collar at the same time, that's very much an either or type of thing, so there wouldn't be any need to have two of them. He swallows, hard, as why you'd have two of them, why you might need two of them, hits.

"Was this before or after you and Jimmy and Breena had that chat about how we are going to be talking more about what we're doing?"

"After."

He nods. "So… that second collar would be for… Breena?"

"Or Jimmy, maybe. Eventually. If we go there. If not, it's just a pretty piece of leather. I ordered the second cuff and collars online. Jimmy and Breena don't know about them. We talk, we decide, for ourselves, first. But… I like the symbolism of it, so if we ever go there, we're ready. And if we don't, that's fine, too."

"Ah." Tim's not sure what to do with that.

"But, like with the rest of this," he knows she means, today in general, and Jimmy and Breena in specific, that they're talking about anything, but just talking, "we can talk, but we're not making any decision about anything until you're sober again."

"Good plan."

Abby's fingers trail down his chest, down his stomach, intending to just pet him, but finding that part of him is up. "Some of you likes that idea."

He smiles and rolls his eyes some. "Yeah. I'm hurt, not dead. You, Breena, naked, matching collars, ready to be played with. Or… Like you said in the club, having Breena and I sub while you and Jimmy play, okay, yeah, I liked that fantasy, and I still like it, and knowing you've got some costuming coming for it…" He shrugs a bit with his left shoulder.

"So, how hurt are you? This," her hand trails over his dick, still a very light touch, she's got no idea how it feels to get an erection if your balls and dick is bruised up, "looks like it's working."

Tim's eyes drift shut, and he hums with pleasure. "Yeah, that's working just fine." They laze open again, and he shakes his head a bit. "Gentle. The bruised parts are really sore, and everything that isn't my dick aches. Honestly, the idea of you on top even, just makes my hips hurt."

"Spooning?"

"Shoulder and arm hurt when they get pressed too close to my chest, so the kind of loose spooning I need to do to keep my arm okay means about a half inch of my dick can get into you."

She's thinking that he's not really thinking through that, but he's also really drugged, so she doesn't expect him to be Mr. Kama-Sutra right now. However, in that she can bend at the waist, getting her bum snugged up against his pelvis and lots of room for his arm isn't precisely an issue, but she'll roll with it.

"Okay. I know what to do. Lay back, get as comfy as you can. Today's all about you. Tomorrow or the next day or whenever your hips are working, you can owe me one."

He's got a pretty good idea of where this is going and approves.

She gets up, and resettles herself between his legs. "Good, comfy?"

He nods, and she bends, gently licking from the base of his dick to the tip, tongue slipping over and over on him as her hand gently holds him steady.

A soft breath slips out of his mouth at that, making his ribs ache, but she eases her mouth down him, enveloping him in soft, wet heat, erasing that ache.

His body goes limp, relaxing into the bed as he closes his eyes. Feels so good. Feels amazing. This is probably the first time he's been awake and not hurting (mostly) in what feels ages, and if he watches, he's going to come, and right now he wants to stay right here for as long as he can.

She either senses that, or just intuitively gets it, or can read what he's doing by not watching, but she keeps up a slow, steady pace, mouth sliding up and down, light and wet and slick. No suction, she's not sure if that would hurt the bruises, her hand just holding him steady.

But she can't keep him there forever, even with a holding pace, he's ramping up. It has been a long time since she's touched him like this, and his body is more than eager to get off. It's building in his balls and the pit of his stomach, thighs growing tense and tight, left hand fisting, hips rocking against her mouth.

She shifts her position, straddling him, slipping most of him into her, but not settling all the way down, keeping her body, her weight, off of him.

He cries out at it. Feels so good, hot wet pussy slipping most of the way down him, breasts and stomach just lightly brushing against him, and a second later it's better, she's kissing him, deep and wet, lips on his. She pulls back a little, to look him in the eyes, stroke his face, smile.

"Love you. Always, Tim." Another kiss, and that does it, friction and love and wet and thrust and he feels like he's coming apart in the best possible way, tingling from toes to head and everywhere in between while happy, wet pulses and muscle spasms rock his body.

For about a minute, he's really, really good. Happy, comfortable, feeling excellent. And then the aches and everything else comes back. And if he's being honest, he hurts worse now than he did before; he did tense up enough that his body isn't happy with him, but he doesn't much care, because what got him in this situation was worth it.

Abby's still supporting herself on her hands and knees, staying close, his body still in hers, face just above his. He'd like it if she could spoon up and snuggle against him, rest her head on his shoulder, drape her legs over his, but that would hurt, a lot. So, she's in a good place. He pets her hair, kissing her.

After another minute, she grabs a tissue, and then slips off of him, to cuddle as close in as she can on his left.

He kisses her again and says, "So, I'm going to need you to take a leave of absence and do that about… every fifteen minutes for the next three weeks or so."

She looks up at him, chuckling, kissing his chin. "Uh huh. And is Jimmy writing you the script for Viagra?"

"He'll understand. It's a pressing need. First time in way too long that nothing hurt."

"Good." She smiles, looking him over carefully. "How about now?"

He winces a little. "Sore. I'll live. I… I get it now. When I almost got killed right after Kelly was born, and it hurt but you said you needed it… I get it."

She smiles at that.

"And, I bet there's something you need, and if you're careful, I bet I can return the favor."

"You want to?" She looks a little surprised by that. He gets the sense she was expecting him to crash into another nap, and he'd be lying if he said that wasn't appealing, but he wants her pleasure, wants the completion of both of them getting off, even more.

"Oh yeah." Though exactly how successful he's been at anything requiring any sort of fine motor control today flashes through his mind, and he looks a little sheepish at that. It's been a long time since he didn't have the skill to reliably get her off. But he still wants it, still needs her pleasure, too, and it's not like he's just a body, there's a brain and a voice, and they both still work even if his body's kind of clumsy. "And if I can't, 'cause honestly, I have no idea if I've got the fine motor control for it right now. I couldn't log in on your phone, so I may not be able to do this, but, if I can, then I want to, and if I can't, then I want to hold you while you do it for yourself. Come on up here."

Getting a working position is a bit awkward. Her usual straddle-his-face routine involves her feet resting on his shoulders or chest, and that isn't going to work. But, he can lie on his side, and her thigh works as a pretty good pillow, but the correct answer is, no, he can't, not yet.

He can get close. Get her warmed up with gentle licks and soft sucks, but trying to use the hand that's attached to the arm on the side he's lying on doesn't work all that hot, (Which is why he usually sleeps on his right side, her snugged up next to him, so his left hand is free to roam around and make them both happy.) and he can make nice little circles with his tongue, but not fast or focused enough.

The second time she's tensed, making happy noises, and he slips off target, earning a somewhat frustrated groan, he kisses her gentle and deep, pulls back, and says, "Okay, not going to happen, not like this."

She sits up, kissing him, little disappointed, but also relieved that this isn't going to be an orgasm death march, where she feels like it's never going to happen, but the guy's not going anywhere until it does, and she's got to fake it to keep from having her clit rubbed raw. (Fortunately, this has never been an issue with Tim.)

"Flip around, on your side, facing me, want to feel you do yourself."

And she does, resting her neck over his arm like she usually does, close enough for eye contact and kissing, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and the plastic of his cast just lightly brushing her stomach every time she breathes.

His hand cups her shoulder and he kisses her, soft and deep; she responds, gently sucking his tongue.

Her hand slips down, between her legs, and he can feel the back of it lightly brushing his hip.

"Feel good?"

"Yeah."

He kisses her again, drawing a pleased hum from her. "A week, hopefully, and I'll be off of this stuff. And… let's see…" He's going through some mental positioning acrobatics, trying to find something that'll maximize his ability to use the functional bits of his body on her. "I'll sit on the floor, back against the wall. You'll stand up, facing me."

She smiles, knowing how that'd work, breathing a little faster as her fingers speed up. She'd been pretty close a few times, so it won't take much to get there.

"I'll spread you open and lick you to your heart's content. Eat you out and make you come over and over until your knees won't hold you up anymore." He licks her lips, soft, gentle, and then pulls the bottom one between his for a wet suck.

"Just like that. And my fingers. Gonna do good things with them. Spread you open, slide and thrust all wet and slick. Pinky up your ass, other three in your pussy, thumb and tongue making sure your clit gets lots of attention."

She whimpers at that.

"Yeah, just like that. Alternate it, wet licks, so soft and delicate with my tongue, and firm, focused circles with my thumb. Take you good and high with that, feel your whole body clench on my hand."

She is clenching up, muscles getting tighter as her hand moves faster and she pulls his mouth closer for another kiss.

He pulls back just a hair, so he can talk while his lips brush over hers. "Feel it? My mouth on you, hand in you. Feel your body pulling tight? Feel me lick faster, harder, over and over? You're on edge, right? Body hovering, just about to fall over, tingles a breath away?" Another wet kiss as she rubs herself closer to the edge. His tongue traces over her bottom lip. "Gonna lick faster, harder, fingers curling into your g-spot—" He feels Abby twitch, hard, and start to shudder. "There you go." He kisses her gently, forehead to forehead, lips to lips as she rides her orgasm. "Perfect. Love you so much, my beautiful girl."

---

The sun's setting the next time he wakes up.

Means he slept through dinner and Kelly's bedtime. He feels a little bad about not at least getting a hug in, but… But she won't remember, and there's always tomorrow morning. Maybe he'll feel like hobbling downstairs and stacking up blocks for her to knock over on the rug tomorrow.

Or maybe Abby'll bring her in here and they'll have naptime together.

He's thinking he's not going to be feeling like doing all that much more tomorrow than he did today.
More sex and less crying would be nice, but he's got the sinking suspicion that as long as he's on Percocet he's not going to be very good at the former or have much control over the latter.

He doesn't see Abby, or hear any breathing, so she's probably not in the room. He's temped to sit up and make sure of that, but he's fairly comfortable right this second, so he stays put, lying on his side, left arm stretched in front of him.

He stares at the new cuff, late evening sunlight bringing up the red highlights in the leather. It really is beautiful work. Tim carefully rolls onto his back, and tries to get the cuff under the fingers on his right hand. The cast is rigid, but it's also a web, so his fingertips are exposed, he can, sort of, if he can get his wrist into the exact right place, actually touch the cuff and feel it.

He eventually works it under his fingers. It's smooth, supple, faintly warm like leather worn on skin should be. Tim gingerly gets it out from under his hand and sniffs it. Doesn't smell like him, or skin, or Abby, or cologne yet. (All of which, assuming he wasn't just imagining it, his old cuff smelled like.) Just smells like new leather. Nice enough, but not a little bit of home he carried on his body.
Not a tangible reminder of Abby running his body, pulling pleasure out of each cell, making him so hard, taking him so high he ripped the bed apart. It doesn't have that wide open, naked, completely in her hands, at her mercy, letting himself be cared for and played with feel.

He wore it on his left wrist, only took it off to shower or swim. He's licked and wiped cum, his and hers off of it. He's felt Abby bite down on it when she was close. It had his and Jimmy's blood on it from different times when they fought it out together. There was salt from sweat and tears in that leather. Happy and sad tears. And not just his. He's wiped Abby's and Jethro's and Jimmy's and Breena's tears while wearing that cuff. He wore it the first time he touched his daughter and nieces, and it's had every fluid a baby could spew wiped/scrubbed off of it.

Okay, obviously he's got way too damn many drugs in his system if he's getting sentimental about scrubbed off baby puke.

But... As he thinks about it more, this is starting to feel a little gross... But, it was in a very real sense, alive, with his family and history and loves.

The sun is getting low, his room is dimming down, but there's still enough light to make out the dragon on the new cuff. This one has none of that. Can't, not yet.

But his loves got together and got it for him. All three of them working together. He flips his hand over, looking at the dragon from head to tail.

The swirls on the first one were random, energy coalescing, getting ready to become something, but not yet formed.

This one is energy formed, destiny… That feels a bit too weighty for a wrist cuff. Personality, that'll work, formed.

This is who he wanted to be, his own man… he laughs a little at that… his own dragon.

---

"You laughing at something?" Abby asks, sitting on the bed next to him.

"Hey. Just get Kelly to bed?"

"Hour ago, you were sleeping, didn't want to wake you up, but thought I'd check in, you're due some more meds soon." He nods at that. "So…"

"Pretentious thoughts."

"Oh my." She looks at him expectantly, and he shakes his head. "Silly stuff. Jimmy picked out the dragon?"

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah, it is. Thinking about it?"

"Little bit. I was really attached to the old one, you know?"

"Yeah, I did. It and your wedding ring were the only things you kept hold of. Watch, phone, computer, wallet, you let them have all of that, but you kept the cuff and the ring. I saw that on the inventory… I knew. I wish I could have kept the old one for you. If we had run it…"

"I know." And he does. If his people had run the investigation, he would have gotten it back in one piece. "This is good. Just… needs some living and loving in it."

Abby kisses him, then kisses his wrist, on the cuff. "One day at a time, just like the old one. So, getting hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I've got something you want, downstairs."

His eyebrows lift, pleased and curious. "You've got something I want, up here, too." He smiles and winks.

"It good to see you coming back."

He kisses her. "Yeah. So what's downstairs?"

"Well, the next episode of Twin Peaks is queued up and ready to go," he makes an approving noise, "then there's the one that's on tonight, your next Percocet is down there, and there's some grilled chicken legs and veggies waiting for you down there, too."

Tim nods, all of that sounds good. "Okay, help me up." He starts to swing his legs to the side of the bed, and she heads over to help him stay steady and get his crutch within easy reach. Once he's up, he leans in and kisses her, then he looks down, notices he's naked, and says, "Are we the only ones here?"

She smiles. "Think I'm bringing you down in the buff to entertain Gibbs?"

He laughs at that, too. "He's seen it before. I don't think he found it particularly interesting."

"Bad taste on his part."

Tim starts to step forward. "Let's not go there. I don't even want to think of how complicated this would be if Gibbs had been interested," he says, light, joking.

Another step.

"You know, in some lights your hair is kind of reddish," she says with a smile.

"I thought we weren't going there." He stops and pokes her gently.

She nibbles his ear lobe. "Come on, let's get you fed."

He kisses her again. "Thank you."

She nods. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Next

Shards To A Whole: Decadence

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 373: Decadence


Goth clubbing night. Tony rolls his eyes and sighs. It's Wednesday, and a package has arrived at their apartment with Ziva's name on it.

He knows what's in it. Even before she starts pulling pieces of black clothing out of it.

"Come on, it will be so much fun!" Ziva's looking really enthusiastic about this.

He's staring at the pile of black clothing she just handed him, stuff for him to try on, see if it fits.

Fashionable

Another sigh. He's a DiNozzo; he's elegant, refined, attractive, fashionable. Good suit, high end cocktail lounge, maybe a jazz club, not… black and grunge and whatever this stuff is.

"Go, try it on."

He starts pulling off his clothing with the enthusiasm of a man about to face a firing squad.

"You know, if I could see your outfit—"

"No." She shakes her head, smiling. "And no snooping, either. It is a surprise. But I promise, you will like it."

He smiles. "I know I will, but…"

"Pretend it's an undercover mission."

He looks at the clothing again. "This is a mission I'd send Draga and Bishop on."

How leather is supposed to be worn.

Ziva smiles at that, while Tony finishes stripping. He eases into the trousers, leather pants. Tight, black leather pants. They're actually not bad at all. The texture against his skin is pleasant, but he does like good leather. That is, he likes good leather the way good leather is supposed to be worn, as shoes, belts, and the occasional jacket.

He's less thrilled with exactly how much of him is on display with these pants. Sure, he doesn't mind when women check out his package, he actually likes it, but… like with a Christmas present, he likes to keep it well enough wrapped you can't tell exactly what's under there. Right now, he looks like a guitar under the Christmas tree, the only person who can't figure out what it is, is the person who's never seen one before.

He's also a bit less than thrilled at the inch of flub that's muffin-topping over the waistband of said pants. He stands up a bit straighter, and that helps.

"Size up?" he asks Ziva.

"This is how they're supposed to look."

He picks up the shirt, it's… wrong. Shirts are supposed to be made of solid fabrics and this is… he puts it on, yeah, it's mesh. Black mesh, say quarter inch holes all over the shirt. And sure, part of him is aware of the fact that Ziva's looking at him like he's the most perfect chocolate cake ever, and she's going to eat him alive, most of him is aware of the fact that his chest hair is sticking out of those holes in what he considers ridiculously-stupid little tufts.

He looks at himself in the mirror and mutters, "I'm killing McGee for liking this, and then I'm killing Palmer for going along with it."

"Oh, hush, you look great." She's standing behind him, hands on his shoulders, and kisses him.

"I look like a dork." He touches one of the little tufts. "And I'm going to have to shave if I do this."

Ziva's eyes light up, and she tackles him into their bed.

---

On Thursday, Tony heads down to Autopsy.

He sees Jimmy working away, but doesn't see the Autopsy Mogwai (He'll have to give that to McGee, that's a killer nickname.) anywhere, so he says to Jimmy, "Really, Goth club?"

Jimmy shrugs. "Why not? It'll be fun."

"You and I have very different definitions of fun, Palmer."

"What's the problem? Loud music, good drinks, dancing with our girls? Last I checked you were in favor of all of those things."

"Well, yeah, but… Leather pants? Eyeliner? Ziva bought a mesh shirt for me." Tony looks really uncomfortable at that. Mostly because, if you wear a mesh shirt, and you happen to have a lot of chest hair, it sticks out in really stupid-looking little clumps. Which means, if you are going to wear a mesh shirt, you have to shave off said hair, and if you shave off said hair, while say, your wife coos at you with great enthusiasm about it, it's suddenly abundantly clear that you have not done nearly enough in the way of crunches or push-ups in the last ten years, so to say he's not enthusiastic about that mesh shirt, in addition to all of the rest of this, is a vast understatement. (Yes, attending Bootcamp every week for the last three months has improved things, but, like they say, most guys gain fifteen pounds in the first year of marriage, and well, he was already at least ten up when he got married, and yeah… mesh shirt. Ugh. Tight leather pants, double ugh. If they push this off until, say, November, when, with any luck, he'll be down another ten pounds, he'll be a hell of a lot more enthusiastic about it.) "Last time I dressed up in a ridiculous costume for a girl, I looked like a dork, felt like a dork, and the sex wasn't nearly good enough to make up for it." (Okay, it's not like the post-shaving sex was bad, but he had a really hard time getting out of his head enough to really enjoy it.)

"Wear what you're comfortable in. Abby says it's a private club, and any guest of a member is welcome. Put on your James Bond tux if you like. I haven't seen what Breena's got for me, but she tells me it's not strictly Goth."

"They're members?"

"Of course."

"You're really going to do this? Get all dressed up? Wear makeup?"

Jimmy shrugs at that, too. "Wouldn't be the first time. Like Tim said to me, 'Not like your dick'll fall off if you put on mascara.'"

Tony acknowledges that with a tilt of his head. "Gonna feel like a moron."

"It's for a good cause."

"Getting' you laid isn't a good cause!"

Jimmy smiles brightly at him. "It is to me!"

Tony laughs, shakes his head, decides to ask McGee about the tux, because that would feel a lot more comfortable, and wanders out of Autopsy.

A few minutes later, he finds McGee, at his computer, fingers flying away. Like usual, he waits at the door for McGee to look up from his work, and wave him in.

"Hey," Tim finally says, noticing him there.

"Hi."

"What's up?"

Tony explains, glossing over exactly how dumb he feels in what Ziva picked out for him, and if he could do something else.

"Yeah, sure. Goth comes in lots of flavors. Just because I go for a punk version of it doesn't mean you have to."

"Jimmy suggested my tux."

"If you like. If you've got what you wore to my wedding, say with a black button down, you'd be perfect. Even the red sunglasses'll look right."

Tony lights up, feeling a lot better. "That, I can do."

---

On Friday, during Shabbos, all three girls vanished for about fifteen minutes to chat about it. (They dragged Abbi and Penny into that conversation, too.) They returned giggling, happy, looking at each other, and the guys, and very much looking forward to Saturday.

---

On Saturday, Tony chickens out. Or as he put it in his phone call to Jimmy, "Oh, so sorry, you know, crime..." and off they went on a case that takes him and Ziva, Bishop, and Draga to London. Jimmy's suspicious that Tony may have specifically called Dispatch and begged them for any case in the Western Hemisphere, but he's fairly sure Ziva wouldn't have gone along with it if it wasn't a real case.

So, on May 14th , 2016, two days after their fourth anniversary, the Palmers head over to the McGees' to get ready to Goth themselves out, just the four of them.

Since Jimmy and Breena have never done this before, they agreed to head over to Tim and Abby's before getting dressed, the idea being that Tim and Abby would be able to help them get into costume and look authentic, or at least as authentic as they could get.

(Jimmy's a little fuzzy on why they need help getting dressed. He's been successfully doing that since he was a child, but if Breena and Abby want to have a BFF makeover slumber party thing ahead of time, it doesn't bug him. Hanging out with Tim is good, and having another adult to spend time with always makes baby wrangling more fun.)

They get to Tim and Abby's, and Breena and Abby vanish. He and Tim hear occasional, loud, laughter from upstairs.

He and Tim are just hanging out. Nothing they're going to do to themselves is going to take nearly as long as whatever it is the girls are going to be doing to themselves, or each other.

Tim would be lying if he said he wasn't imaging what the girls did the last time they played dress up. But, he's trying not to think about it too hard. He's got Kelly on the floor, playing with her, while he and Jimmy watch a game. (Gibbs'll be over closer to date time to grab Kelly.) It's not a really good time to be imaging them fooling around with each other, say in their underwear, little, lacy underwear, kissing, soft and wet, while they get ready.

But, eventually, Gibbs and Borin, her presence makes Tim and Jimmy smile, come to pick Kelly up.

Borin looks them both up and down. They're both in their gelling at home on the weekend outfits of t-shirts and jeans. "Aren't you supposed to be all dressed up?"

Tim shrugs. "Doesn't take too long to get into a kilt and t-shirt."

"You really wear kilts?" Okay, sure Gibbs had mentioned that, but she's having a hard time wrapping her head around McGee in a kilt.

"I own and wear several kilts."

"I've got to see this."

Tim nods a bit. "We got invited to Senior's wedding, too. I can swing it."

"It's black tie," Jimmy says.

"It's a formal kilt," Tim shoots back.

Borin chuckles at that. "Okay."

Gibbs has Kelly, looks at both of them for a second, and Tim catches a hint of warning in his eyes, but he's not sure what it's about, "Jethro?"

He seems to snap out of whatever that look was, hoisting Kelly up a little further. "Have fun."

Jimmy grins at him, "Oh, we will. And I'm sure Abby and Breena'll get pictures if you want to see them after."

Tim kisses Kelly as Abby heads down the steps in her bathrobe with her hair in curlers. "Hi. Thank you so much for taking her!"

"No problem." Gibbs says, allowing himself to be hugged.

Kelly gets petted and kissed again, and then he and Borin are off.

Abby links arms with both of the guys and begins to pull them up the stairs. "Come on, time for you two to get ready."

---

In 2002 when Tim met Abby, he liked Goth. He appreciated the aesthetic, and the danger, and the whole forbidden aspect of it. He did not, however, grasp the concept that Goth came in many flavors and nuances.

However in the fourteen years that he's been 'Goth Adjacent' he has come to understand, respect, and enjoy the nuances.

There is literally not enough alcohol on Earth
to get Tim into this outfit. 

His own personal flavor of Goth tends to go for straight rock and roll or punk Goth. This is probably a result of not much liking velvet or lace (on him, Abby wants to coat herself in the stuff, and that's fine with Tim) helped along by the fact that he is awfully fond of leather.

Plus part of the point of tattoos is for other people to see them, and ninety percent of the time when anyone other than Abby is around, Tim's are hidden. If he goes for the more dressed up styles of Goth, his will be covered.

So he doesn't. Part of nights when Tim goes Goth is about letting the hidden parts of himself out. And tonight, everything comes out.

He steps out of the bathroom, toweling off his hair. "You're sure this is temporary?" he asks Abby, who's doing her makeup. He's going all out tonight, so he dyed his hair black.

"Yeah. I know lots of people who have worn this. Your hair'll be its natural color again by next week."

"Good." Sure, right this second, he thinks black hair looks cool. He's not sure he wants it forever, though.

This on the other hand...

His t-shirt is black, and sleeveless. Not a tank top. It's a regular t-shirt, he just carefully ripped the sleeves off of it, that way two of his tatts are visible. There's a name of a band on it, and some very intricate artwork, all in gray and white. He doesn't much like the band, but the art's cool, knotwork that has a similar feel to the knot on his arm.

And, of course, he's putting his black kilt on. (Means half of number four is visible. His boots are high enough they hide the bottom half of his dragon.) No way he'd skip that. DC isn't exactly prime kilt-wearing territory, so when he has the chance, he takes it.

The wrist cuff and the boots are a given. So, number three is, like usual, hidden.

Nail polish, also black, of course! Hell, he's hit the point where he wears it to work one week out of four, so he's got to be wearing it for clubbing.

He's waiting for his nails to dry when Jimmy and Breena head into their room. He sees Jimmy glance around, look at the mirrors, and then smirk at him. Tim inclines his head and smiles.

Tim likes Breena's outfit. Likes it a whole lot. She's got her hair in a high ponytail, red and black streaks cascading down, and had borrowed Abby's black and pink dress with the halter top and very low back. He knows Abby can sew, and wonders if Breena can too, because that dress fit Abby perfectly when he last saw it, and now it fits Breena just as well, but Breena's six inches shorter than Abby.

Breena or Abby, that dress is a winner.

He loves the makeup. She's got her lips painted patent-leather-shiny blood red, and lined in black. It looks awesome. He's not sure if she'll be able to eat, but it looks really cool. Not much on her eyes, just a little liner and mascara, she wants all the attention on her lips, and they're worth it.

Abby usually wears that dress with knee or thigh high boots. Breena's got small black pumps and two very long, very intricate tattoo transfers that'll go on her leg and back.

But for as much as he loves how Breena looks, it's Jimmy he's staring at in amazement. So, he knows that Jimmy will wear clothing vastly tighter and a hell of a lot smaller than he will. But… They're jeans, blood red, tight, nothing to the imagination, clinging to every single inch of his skin all the way down to the black boots he's got on, jeans. And sure, Tim has worn and still owns a few pairs of skinny jeans, but… okay, he never leaves the house in pants so tight you can see his dick. He just doesn't.

And pants so tight you can tell he's not wearing anything between those pants and his dick? NEVER!

But Jimmy in those jeans, you can practically tell if he's circumcised. They're really, REALLY tight.
Add in the white button down, completely unbuttoned, bow tie, undone, just sort of draped over his collar, and Jimmy's a whole lot more straight rock and roll than anything he'd think of as Goth.

"God, Jimmy, what the hell are you trying to do, smuggle a hamster into the club?" Tim says when he gets his words back and stops just staring at Jimmy.

"Guinea pig," Jimmy says with a smirk.

Abby and Breena laugh hysterically at that.

"Baby guinea pig." Tim says when they quiet down, and that sets off another round.

When Breena can talk again, she asks, "Tim, you have a black leather jacket that'll fit him, right?"

Tim nods. "Yeah. I was going to say it might be a little snug, but I guess that's the idea."

Jimmy smiles. "So, my wife tells me."

"So…" he's looking at Jimmy while Abby shows Breena his jackets and she messes around with them. "What's the Goth part?" Jimmy opens his hand and Tim sees he's holding a contact lens case.

"You're not wearing your glasses."

Jimmy nods. "They're silver. Got some sunglasses, too. And Breena and Abby said something about eyeliner."

Tim nods. That'd be pretty subtle, other than the incredible pants-of-show-off-everything-you've-got, and cool.

"You two almost ready?" Jimmy asks Tim, sitting down in front of Abby's dressing table, opening the contacts.

"Almost." Abby's still in her robe, but her hair's "almost done" and her makeup is. Theoretically, all she has left to do is get her dress on and take her hair out of the curlers.

Tim's almost entirely dressed. He's sitting on their bed, waiting for his nails to dry. Abby kneels behind him on the bed and slips the last piece of his outfit on.

It's true that there's nothing intrinsically Dom/sub about Goth and vice versa, but there does seem to be a fairly large overlap between the two groups. So, one thing Tim has noticed is that, while he did get felt up at Zephyr, that's never been an issue at any of the clubs they go to in DC. (Well, yeah, he gets felt up, when he goes clubbing with Abby, all the time, by Abby. Zephyr was the first time a stranger did it.) And he's fairly sure there's a reason why he's never been felt up at any of the clubs they go to in DC.

Abby's fastening it around his neck.

It's a nine strand braid of the softest, most supple black leather he's ever felt. It ends in a belt buckle, which works better than snaps because the size of this is more easily customizable. And yeah, he's not a bound submissive, won't ever be one, but he doesn't mind playing one when they go to what he considers Abby's territory.

Breena's watching Abby pull it snug, quest for the perfect jacket temporarily forgotten, as black leather slips through the buckle. She seems really curious, looking from Tim to Abby and back again, as Abby kisses the nape of his neck, right above the collar, before hopping off their bed.

Finally Breena says, "What kind of club are we going to?"

Abby catches the different layers of meaning to that question and smiles. "A Goth club. Nothing else."

"Really?"

Tim nods. "Really."

Breena steps closer to Tim, standing in front of him, fingers brushing lightly over the leather around his throat. "And... um... yeah... You know what you're saying, wearing that, right?"

Tim laughs. Yes, he does. He didn't realize Breena would know, though. "And what do you think I'm saying by wearing this?"

Breena picks her words carefully. "That Abby's in charge."

Tim smiles, feeling pretty flirty as he says, "And when we go to one of her clubs, she is."

Jimmy, who had just been quietly listening to this says, "So, it's not actually a sex club?" (He's possibly rethinking his choice of pants.)

Abby gives Tim a long, questioning look, and he shrugs, at no point did he actually tell Jimmy it was a sex club. Though, thinking back to what he actually did say, two years ago, he can understand why Jimmy might think it was.

She answers, "No. Though people do have sex there. And there are private rooms where anything goes. It's mostly a place where the music is loud, the lighting is dim, and no one stares if you like black and leather and pretending to be a vampire."

"So, why the collar on Tim?" Jimmy asks.

Tim looks at Abby; he's never asked that. The first time they went, she had suggested it. He thought it looked cool and knew exactly what it meant, and since it didn't bother him, that was fine.

"I just like the way they look. You got a neck as pretty as Tim's, you should show it off. Same reason I always wear one."

"So being told what to do doesn't make you all tingly?" Breena asks Abby.

"Not saying that." She smiles hot at Tim, then glances to Jimmy. "Just saying that isn't why I wear them."

Tim watches Breena think about that. He looks over at Jimmy, who is watching them in the mirror, finger with a silver contact frozen en route to his eye as he stares at the girls, and figures they are both wondering exactly how far tonight is going to go, and what they might all be comfortable with. He's also wondering how much of this the girls planned with each other ahead of time.

"So, you do like being told what to do?" Breena asks, smiling.

"I do if the right person is saying the words," Abby says, looking at Tim, then to Jimmy, then to Breena. Images of Abby subbing for Breena leap into Tim's mind, and he swallows hard. "You?" she asks Breena.

"Oh yeah." She sighs it, looking from Jimmy to Tim and back to Jimmy.

Tim takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, bites his lip, and tries to clear his mind of the suddenly very explicit image of telling Breena to get on her knees. When he opens them, he notices that Jimmy's squirming a little at this conversation, as well. And he also gets the sense that neither of them are entirely sure if this is I'm-so-turned-on-I-can't-think or this-is-getting-really-close-to-outside-of-my-comfort-zone squirming.

"Do you like telling him what to do, too?" Abby asks.

Breena shrugs. "It's okay. I'd rather be told what to do. Would you do the transfer on my back?" Breena picked a large dragon tattoo. The dragon's face would go on her bicep, and the rest of its body would twine around her arm, onto her shoulder, and down her spine. She had borrowed Abby's black and pink halter dress because it had the right cut for the entire dragon to be visible.

"Give me a hand, Tim. I'll hold it in place, you press the wet paper towels into it," Abby says, heading into the bathroom to wet the paper towels. A second later, she's handing them to him, and then he's watching his and Abby's hands on Breena's skin. Abby gently smoothing the transfer into place while he presses the wet towel over her skin.

Breena and Abby are talking about something. It's probably not even sexy, right now. But he can't focus on that. He and Abby are touching Breena. Pretty much his number one fantasy for the last four years. He's watching their hands working together over her skin, across her back and arm, and when they finish that one, she's got a long abstract spire of curly-cues that'll go from her right ankle all the way to her hip. He and Abby do that one, too. Smoothing the tattoo transfer up her leg. She's coy with her skirt, so he can't see anything besides her leg, but touching her skin, her very soft, very beautiful, very naked skin all the way up to the crest of her hip, drops of water from the wet paper towel he's using on the transfer meandering down her leg in slow, swollen rivulets, (And yes, he wants to lick them off, bad.) and he's very, very glad he's not wearing anything as tight as what Jimmy's got on.

He's wondering if the four of them are going to have sex tonight. And right now that's the hottest thing he can think of and more terrifying than being locked in a room with ten German Shepherds and foot deep maggots.

He makes a quick promise to himself. He's not drinking tonight. No matter what happens, he wants his head clear. It's hard enough to make good decisions when your balls are doing the thinking, it's even worse when they're drunk.

"I'll drive tonight."

"Okay. Cool." Jimmy says, two beats too late, sounding distracted. Tim looks away from Breena's leg and sees that contact is still there, balanced on his finger, and he knows Jimmy hasn't moved since they began this. He'd just sat there, watching it, probably just as confused between God, too damn hot and Freak out, now? as Tim is.

Abby peels off the transfer. "And I think you're done, Breena. Your nails dry, Tim?"

Probably should have made sure of that before they started rubbing all over Breena. He gently touches his thumbnail. "Yeah."

"Jimmy?" she asks.

"Not quite." He quickly faces the mirror and gets his contacts in, then turns to them, eyes flashing sliver.

Abby grins. "Oh, that looks so cool! Okay, give me a few minutes, still got to get my hair done."

"Thanks. Still got to do my makeup, too. Breena?"

"On it." She crosses to Jimmy, and begins to rifle through the bag of cosmetics she had brought. After a second, she has eyeliner and mascara. She straddles his thighs, still standing, tilting his face up to her. "Hold still. I'm not used to doing this on people who move."

Jimmy grins, hands settling on Breena's hips. "Staying still."

A few minutes' work has Jimmy's eyes rimmed with kohl and lashes darkened. Jimmy glances at himself in the mirror, shakes his head a little, and says, "'Line my eyes and call me pretty.'"

Tim's standing next to them, doing his own eyes, and he smiles wryly at that.

Breena, who's in Jimmy's lap, rocks against him, smiles hot and dirty, then pets his face, "Pretty, James, so pretty." Then she bends to kiss him, very quietly saying, "Laid's not just going to be the name of that song, tonight."

Jimmy grins at her, and she runs her fingers through his hair, tousling it, making it curl wild. Tim notes that her lipstick stayed perfect, so whatever magic she did involved making sure it wouldn't smudge.

A second later Abby steps out of the bathroom, her hair down.

Gothic Marilyn

Tim looks at her and sighs. "Oh, baby!" It's the Marilyn makeup, lips black instead of red, and hair, this time her real hair, in soft, blonde and pink-tinged curls. Instead of the white Seven Year Itch dress, she's got on something with a similar feel if not the same cut, same halter top, but this one is black, the edges spattered with red, and rough. It swirls around her the same way the white on did, kissing the back of her calves when it settles.  Black pearl earrings, black lace gloves, tiny, little sparkly black anklet, and cute, little black satin pumps finish it off.

"Good?" she smiles at him, twirling, doing her best dark Marilyn.

"Fuck, yes," he answers, stepping to her, kissing the nape of her neck.

"Are we ready to go, then?" Abby asks.

"Oh yeah," Breena answers, pulling Jimmy up. "Let's go!"

---

There are club, clubs, and clubs. When they went out to Ziva's club, it was just a place with music and drinks. The only reason anyone got turned away was for being underage.

Jimmy and Breena's place was a club. There was a dress code, and the guy at the door was keeping out anyone who didn't look like they fit. Tim in his kilt did get a bit of the hairy eyeball, but the girls were cute, and he did have a jacket and tie, so they got in.

Enoch's Cove, Tim and Abby's club is a club. You have to be a member or a guest of a member to get in. And you can only get a membership by being invited by another member.

It's not that it's a heaping cauldron of illegal activities, (Though this would be a vice cop's wet dream or nightmare depending on if he's the one getting credit for the busts or having to do the paperwork.) but the clientele here deals with enough shit for being counter culture in the rest of their lives, and this is a place to relax and have fun, not get ogled as freaks.

It's a Goth club. It's dark. The décor is sumptuous and baroque, lots of detail work and everything is covered in silk and velvet. The music is loud, live, and unless you're really into the scene, you won't know the bands. The men wear just as much (if not more) makeup than the women, and everything about the place has been designed to cater to utter decadence. For example, this is the first place Jimmy's been to where not only can he get Absinthe, real Absinthe (as opposed to the Thujone-light version that's legal in the US.), but he has options from six micro-distilleries from different regions of France, and if he wants his sugar cube with refined white sugar or raw sugar or stevia. If it wasn't for the fact that he doesn't want to mess with insulin tonight, he'd be really interested in trying them all out. The party animal he was at twenty would have loved this place. Of course, at twenty, he couldn't have scraped up the cash to afford the cover fee, let alone the drinks.

Abby's been going here since she moved to DC. It's pretty far off the beaten path, in a strip mall of all things, and everyone here knows her.

And for that matter, they know Tim now, too. He'd gone with her once the first time they dated, and enjoyed it once he got enough alcohol into him to shut down the part of his brain that felt like he stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. (Though part of the reason for going to Enoch's is that it is a private club, and they do tend to be fairly kind to newbies who don't exactly fit in, because those newbies are the guests of someone who does.) The second time they started dating, they went back, and by that time he was more than comfortable enough in his own skin to enjoy it.

And enjoy it he did.

They made it back a few times a year until Kelly was born. But this is their first time back since. It's his favorite of her clubs, but not the only one they go to. But like with choosing this one to introduce Tim to the scene, it's the one they both thought Jimmy and Breena would be most comfortable with, too.

---

"Are we the only married people in here?" Jimmy asks Abby as they stake out a booth. As Abby said, there are private rooms here, and there are booths lining the dance floor. Unlike the private rooms, they provide a view of the dancing, and in some spots, whoever's playing, but each booth has high walls reaching to the ceiling on three sides, providing a certain level of privacy.

"I'd doubt it," she replies. "We're not the oldest people here, either. Goth's just like everything else, lots of people who do lots of things."

Tim and Breena head over with their drinks and snacks. Absinthe for Jimmy, Cosmopolitan for Breena, Abby's got mineral water, and Tim has a Diet Coke. Enoch's offers tasting menus of chocolates, caviars, and oysters, and Breena had opted for all three as well. Dinner was light, and they'll want snacks for dancing.

"I'm out about it a lot more than the rest of the world, for a lot of people, especially adults with real jobs, this only gets to come out at play time. But just because you can't do it every day doesn't mean it isn't real. Oh, you got all three didn't you?" Abby asks Breena as she sees the stacked trays.

Breena nods. "Going all out tonight." The top tray had three bites of six different kinds of chocolates, second tray held four mother of pearl spoons, and six shot glasses with tiny mounds of different caviars, bottom tray was larger, with a two inch high lip, filled with ice, and sixteen oysters (four different types) sitting among the crushed ice.

Tim sets the tray with the drinks down, puts each of the "easy" drinks in front of their owners, and then points to an assortment of things that he's set in front of Jimmy. "Okay, Jimmy, how does this work? I've seen complicated drinks before, but this is the first one I've dealt with that's required equipment."

Jimmy smiles about that and wonders how it is, with that bottle Jethro got him for Christmas, Tim's never seen him do this before, but… Oh, yeah. Said bottle is still in his closet with the rest of the Christmas presents he opened, looked at in a pleased sort of way, and promptly forgot all about because Anna was two weeks old and he was completely fried from no sleep. He needs to go open that thing and see how it tastes.

There's a small decanter, crystal (All of these are on what looks like a silver tray, Abby's not kidding about decadent, everything in this place is silver, Victorian, and expensive.) with what looks like about three shots worth of Absinthe in it. "How much did you get me?"

"Three. We're going to be here for a while," Tim answers. "That's what you normally do, right?"

Jimmy shakes his head. It's not that Tim's wrong. If they're out for a night and he's not driving, three is right, but three is usually wine with dinner, (which he's already had) and two mixed drinks, that are usually low on the alcohol and high on mixers. If this is as strong as he thinks it is, that's probably the equivalent of six or eight of his usual drinks sitting in front of him.

He really should have already done this with them. He takes the first decanter and pours a bit in the long stem glass that's also sitting on the tray (of course it's cut crystal) and takes a quick sip. It's way easier to tell what he's getting himself into if he tries it straight. "Wow." He exhales, fast. This is STRONG. "Absinthe 101: it's somewhere between fifty and seventy percent alcohol, and this stuff's at the high end. For reference, the bourbon Jethro likes comes in at a bit over forty percent." There's a silver slotted spoon, and he places that on top of the glass, removing one of the stevia cubes from the little silver bowl on the tray and setting it on the spoon. "You don't drink it straight. The alcohol content's so high you can't really taste it if you drink it straight." There's a larger decanter of water, also crystal, and this one is the somewhat traditional fountain shape (It holds about a pint of water, which is more than you'd typically use for this much absinthe, but Jimmy's appreciating it, because this is really strong.) with a small spout to dribble the water. Jimmy sets the glass under the spout, opens it gingerly, but it's well-calibrated, the water eases out a few drops at a time, meandering through the stevia cube into the absinthe.

After a minute, the cube's crumbled and the water and stevia dripping into the absinthe have turned what was a clear, slightly yellow-green liquid into a cloudy light-green liquid.

"Once the Green Fairy's appeared," Jimmy says, stopping the flow of water, "It's ready to drink." He offers the first sip to Breena, knowing she's not a huge fan of licorice-flavored things, but the sip he took told him this was more of a sweet, green, herbal flavor than overwhelming anise. She smiles, nods agreeing this is okay, and hands the glass over to Abby, who decides a taste is unlikely to have much effect on the on-going quest for the next baby McGee. Like Breena, for her it's okay, probably really good for absinthe, but she's not a huge fan of that flavor profile. She hands the glass to Tim, who also tries it, and is quite surprised at how good this is, he's also not a fan of anything with a heavy anise flavor, but this is really nice, and he needs to stop now or he'll give Jimmy all the help he needs to deal with the fact that this is more alcohol than he'd normally drink.

From there the music shifts, and Abby takes both Tim and Breena's hands. "Come on, dancing, now!"

And so they dance.

---

As a medical doctor, Jimmy is well aware of the fact that the hallucinogenic properties of absinthe are vastly overrated. Yes, thujone can produce a mild hallucinogenic effect, in quantities way higher than you'd get in a glass of absinthe. In fact, you'd probably need to drink a whole bottle of it for the thujone to be an issue, and by the point the boat-load of alcohol will have kicked in and taken over.

And, as a medical doctor, he's well, well aware of how the brain can react to suggestions, how the psychology of an event is in many cases just as powerful as the pharmacology, if not more so.

(Plus, back in the day he actually got his hands on some real hallucinogens, so he knows how that feels, and this is not that.)

But this is awfully nice. He's feeling very… he doesn't have a word for it. The mood is genteel, sensuous, pampered. The music is loud, sinuous, beat shifting from a heart's throb to a languid pulse, ebbing and flowing like the pace of really good sex. The lighting is dim, reds, purples, and golds, washing everything in a dull-warm hue.

Everyone in costume, the perfumes both of the girls are wearing, faint incense and musk of the club, the slightly narrowed frame of vision courtesy of his contacts, the buzz he's got from his drink, and the pleasure of Breena sitting next to him, feeding each other tiny bites of chocolate (for her) and caviar (him) between kisses, he feels like he's dreaming. Like this is the easiest, most intense, lucid dream he's ever had.

He gets why Tim and Abby like this. Sure, it's not anything he's ever going to chase for every day, but once a year or so, oh yeah.

---

"Do you and Breena have anything planned for tonight?" Tim asks as he and Abby dance slow and close. Jimmy and Breena had headed back to the booth about two songs ago. This one right now is finally soft enough that he can actually talk to Abby, on her own, for the first time this evening.

"What sort of planned?"

"The sort where you ambush Jimmy and I, and all four of us end up in bed?" His eyes slip away from her to Jimmy and Breena, who are in the booth, petting and necking, Breena in Jimmy's lap.

All four of them had been dancing together, as a foursome, and as two couples in every combination but the guys with each other, and precisely none of those dances were friendly and chaste. From the first second their feet hit the dance floor, everything was close and hot.

Tim knows why Jimmy's back in the booth, and it's not just a matter of a somewhat more discrete location to make out with Breena. Only so long you can dance like that without getting hard, and there's no way that's even remotely comfortable in those pants. If he wasn't unzipped two seconds after getting that table between them and the rest of the club, Tim'd be shocked.

Abby smiles at him, pressing in closer yet, her body stroking his as she moves in counter point to him, pulling his attention away from watching Jimmy and Breena necking in the booth. "Would you like it if we did?"

"I honestly don't know. Half of me loves the idea. Half is scared shitless."

She kisses his neck, just above the collar. "Don't worry, we wouldn't spring something like that on you. We're just playing, pushing the line a bit further than we've been before, see how you two do, but we're not going that far. At its most, tonight is just a dry run to see if you two look like you can handle something like this."

"And how's it looking?"

"Like you're both half-terrified/half-so-turned-on-you-don't-know-what-to-do-with-yourselves."

"Yes!" He kisses her long and deep. "Talking with Breena about subbing while having me rub a tattoo onto her was torture!"

She leans up, speaking into his ear. "I was thinking about having you and her sub, and letting Jimmy and I play with you. Tie you down on the bed, arms above your head, her on your cock, leaning into your chest. Her hands tied together behind your neck. You don't get to move. She doesn't either. Jimmy's behind her, fucking her ass, and that's all the direct friction you get, the way he moves in and out of her, and the way she moves on you as a result of that."

Tim can see that in his mind, feel it on his body, and right now, he's hard as a rock. He bites his lip, looks over to the table, where Jimmy and Breena are, and maybe they're just making out, maybe they're having sex, the table is in the way, so he can't tell for sure, but he knows what that rocking motion means when he and Abby are doing it, and it certainly isn't just making out. He swallows, hard, and asks, "What are you doing?"

"Gently petting your hair, letting you watch Breena and I kiss slow and deep from an inch away, then passing her lips to yours, saying something extremely dirty while you kiss, and holding the remote on the vibrator in your ass, pulsing it every time Jimmy thrusts."

"Oh..." That's a recipe for an orgasm so intense he'll pass out.

"Yeah. Still scared?"

"No." He shakes his head for a second and kisses her hard, holding her face in his hands, grinding against her, then pulls back so his lips brush against hers as he says, "The part of my brain capable of fear left the party as soon as you said 'having you and her sub.'"

She doesn't pull back any further, her lips still brushing his, kissing him with her response, "So what's the problem?"

Now, he does pull back, a few inches. They're still close but he wants to be able to really look her in the eye for this, and that's almost impossible if they're lip to lip. He needs to be able to read her face, and let her read his. "It'll come back when I'm not insanely turned on and things'll get weird and uncomfortable and shoot our relationship with our best friends to hell and gone."

"No way to know if we don't try." He can see she's hopeful.

"You really want to?" At first this is a question about the four of them and the fact that she thinks it'll go well and that it'll be happy and fun and the scared part of his brain isn't coming back and they can handle it.

"Yeah." She's smiling, reassuring him, and he can feel that she's certain they can do this, that it won't cause problems.

But he's not sure, afraid that that little, jealous, MINE voice in the back of his head will hop up and bite them, so he takes it a step further, making her say it, seeing how that feels. "You, with Jimmy?"

"Yes." She kisses him again, rubbing against him. "Want both of you, together. Me in the middle, rocking between you."

He expected to feel a flash of mad jealousy and wanting to kill Jimmy, but it didn't happen. And he's not sure why, he certainly felt it before when Jimmy was joking about sleeping with Abby, but he's not feeling it now.

No, if he's feeling anything right now, it's turned on, really turned on. But the rational part of his brain is still in control enough that… he's not afraid so much as afraid of being afraid.

She sees him thinking about it, and pets his face. "Could be all four of us together, and you know it'd be so good."

Tim sighs. He knows. He can imagine it. He can look over and see Jimmy and Breena, and yeah, his dick's all in favor of heading over and joining in. On a purely physical sensation level, it'd be amazing. But the fear is still there. "I don't know if I can. If there's a guy I can share you with, it's Jimmy. And, the idea is insanely hot." He ground against her, getting the point across. "But I don't know if I can."

"Then it'll stay a fantasy."

He's very happy to see no disappointment on her face, just acceptance. "Thanks." He kisses her long and hard, his hands gently running over her arms. "Got any other fantasies for me?"

He can tell the look in her eyes is asking if he wants to hear one with all four of them, or if Jimmy involved with her is still off limits. He nods a little, all four of us, sure.

"How about this one?" she says, turning so her back is to his chest, and he bends to kiss her throat, keeping his ear near her mouth. "Jimmy's on the sofa, I'm on my knees between his legs, sucking him down, while you fuck me from behind. Like that image? My tongue, wet and soft on his cock while you get to slip in behind me?"

Yes, he does. He shouldn't. It should make his blood boil, and not in a good way, at all. But he does like it, likes it way too damn much. He swallows, throat dry. He can imagine it, the look of Jimmy's dick slipping between her lips. He'd be behind her, setting a slow, steady pace, one hand holding her hair out of the way, letting him watch, matching his pace to hers, and Jimmy'd be sprawled out, eyes closed, hands in fists, legs quivering, breathing hard, so turned on.

He looks toward their table. Breena's skin is flushed, even in this light he can see it, and Jimmy's kissing her neck, hand on her breast, under the dress, both of them rocking slowly against each other, rhythm utterly unrelated to the music throbbing through the club.

He pulls his eyes away from them, back to Abby.

"What's Breena doing?"

She turns again, facing him, letting a few beats of music flow through them as they dance, and then grins, sexy, dirty, so good smile on her face, and licks his bottom lip before saying, "You, with a strap on. You slip into me, and she slides all the way into you, and when you pull out she does, too."

She knows the look on his face isn't pain, but a casual observer wouldn't. That's very intense sexual arousal. "Are you trying to just talk me off?"

"Do you think I can?"

"No, but you're going to get me awfully close."

"How close?"

"Wet spots on the inside of the kilt close."

"Ohhh..." She grins. "I like that. Wanna lick it off and then kiss Breena, let her suck it off my tongue."

He groans at that image and kisses her, long and hard, while her hand traces up his leg, feathering gently over his balls and pulls away much too fast.

"Anything else you like?" he asks.

"You in charge. Seeing you take Breena and I in hand and making us both all happy and tingly." She presses in even closer, grinding against him. "Wanna see you run the whole show. Want you to get us both off while Jimmy watches, tied up, unable to touch himself, so hot he doesn't know what to do with himself, and we don't let him get off until you're done with both of us."

"Fuck!" he breathes it quietly while grinding into her. Then he pulls back, kissing her, quick and hard. He unbuckles his collar, and slips the leather slowly off his neck, trailing it over his skin, knowing she likes to see it, likes leather and his flesh, and better yet leather and hers. He fastens it onto her, snug and smooth on her skin.

His hands trail down her back, settling on her thighs, and then snake up, under her skirt, cupping her ass and pulling her flush to him.

He hisses at the pressure of her pelvis right against his, and grinds against her.

"I want you to know who owns you. Me. My collar on your throat." His fingers skim the collar. "My marks on your skin." He lifts her arm and bows his head, kissing the tattoo on her arm, then licks the one on her throat. "My rings on your finger." He squeezes her left hand. He pulls the edge of the kilt up, hitches her leg over his hip and slides into her in one fast thrust. "My cock in your pussy. My cum on your lips. You are mine."

She nods, leg tightening on his hip, pulling him closer, deeper. "Yours."

"And if I want you to fuck my best friend, you will."

"Yes."

"If I want to get off on seeing you eat out his wife…"

"I will lick her pussy until she's quivering, begging, keep her on edge until you give me permission to get her off. I will make her scream and make you proud."

He's got to back his mind away from this, or her words will get him off. He's stroking her neck, kissing, biting, hard enough there'll be little pink marks for a while, not hard enough to bruise.

She takes his hand in hers, guiding his fingers to her mouth, and then gently sucks on two of them.

"Tell me to, and I'll do that for Jimmy."

His teeth grit, and he's replaying BioShock 3, trying to ease back from the edge. It's not working.

Time for the big guns. He looks over, and yes, Jimmy and Breena are watching them, and they are definitely fucking now. Nothing about the way they are moving suggests frotting. He catches Jimmy's eye, knowing that'll do it. If he and Abby are the entertainment for the night, he is damn well going to be worth watching.
Jimmy watching him cools him down again. Competition is good for a lot of thing, and no way Jimmy's lasting longer than he is. And no fucking way he's getting off before Abby does.

He looks back to Abby, and he can see by the smile on her face that she knows what he just did. He shrugs quickly, breaking character for a second, and she winks, as long as it keeps the game going, she's good with it.

He kisses her quickly on the nose and gets back into character.

"We're going to the table, and I'm going to lay you on it. Back against it. Your legs up over my shoulders, head leaning back over the edge, so you can take Jimmy to the root. You've been looking at it all night. I wanna see you take it out and taste it. And you're going to suck him so good he won't know his own name. Then Breena's joining in. She's going to straddle you, pussy over your face, and you're gonna lick her while Jimmy fucks, and she's going to lick you while I fuck."

"Look at them." And Abby does, turning her face to Jimmy and Breena, keeping her eyes on them, seeing them flush and grind against each other, watching her and Tim. "He's about a minute from coming, and you'll be the one doing it to him, with your hot, soft, wet mouth sucking him down. And Breena, see how tight she is right now, see how close, two more soft, wet licks from your succulent tongue, and she'll be coming on your mouth."

He grinds his hips against hers, thrusting deep and steady and scans the club. This is a fine position to start in, but it's not an easy one to get her off in, and if Abby getting off, really getting off, shaking, screaming orgasm ever mattered to him, it does now.

And then he has a plan.

"There's a support pillar over there." He nods behind them. It's deeper into the crowd, but not so far back they'll be invisible.

"I'm going to slip out of you, and we're going over there." And he did, smoothing down the kilt and her skirt, making sure she's covered before he steps back, and leads her over to it. Then he spins her, looks like a dance move, and it is, sort of, just maybe not the dance everyone else is doing, so she faces it, pressing her against it, facing the Palmers. His right hand strokes over her throat and shoulder, while his lips nibble her ear, and his left hand slips under her skirt to rub her clit.

"They'll be able to see your face, and mine, but the crowd will keep most of what we're doing hidden. They'll get little glimpses now and again. A tease here." And he bites the back of her neck just above the buckle of the collar as his fingers slip around her clit. She arches into him and moans. "A hint there." He fists his hand into her hair, pulling her into a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

"But mostly they'll just see your face," he says, lips brushing the words to her. "See the pleasure on it. See the way I'm making you feel, and imagine how good it is.

He slips into her again, a hard, sure thrust, and stills, savoring the sensation of her body clinging wet and tight to his. He kisses her shoulder and the curve where neck becomes back, feeling her hands reach behind her, rubbing over his sides and thighs. Tim sets a slow, easy pace, feeling the rush of this, the rich, golden pleasure of her body on his and the ego trip of knowing Breena and Jimmy are watching, seeing him fuck her, seeing her enjoy it, and getting off on it.

He'd never thought he had that much of an exhibition kink. Yes, having Abby watch him makes him even harder. And yes, the risk of getting caught has always appealed to him. And sure, in the club, in the dark and anonymous, two bodies writhing along to the music and maybe turning on someone else was fine too, but this…

Jimmy and Breena know them! After this they are going to go home together. Monday three of them will go to work together. Right now he's feeling Abby's body on his, hot and silky and perfect, and he can see Breena's face, the way her eyes have narrowed but not closed, she doesn't want to stop watching them, and her expression has gone tight, as her lips open into a small O.

Abby's close. He can feel it in the tension in her body, the way she's moving.

He's behind her, so he can't really see if her eyes are open. "Are you watching them?"

She nods.

"Like what you're seeing?" God, he does. Really does. This is better than any porn ever. They're real people, real people he adores having a very good time. Breena's coming, flushed, shuddering and twitching on Jimmy's lap, beyond beautiful. Jimmy can't be far behind, he's moving fast and erratic, pumping into her.

"Yes."

He rubs her clit faster, little harder, thrusting faster. Won't be able to talk too much longer. "I'm gonna lay on the floor. You're going to kneel on my face. What I do to you, you'll do to Breena, while Jimmy fucks her. I'm going to show you exactly how I want you to eat her out, and if you get off before she does, or if you get distracted, I'll be disappointed."

Her hands are fisted in his hair, her body's tight on his, and she's balanced on the edge of what he knows will be a full-body, shaking orgasm, and he's so close, too, just a few more seconds.

He pulls her back against him, hard deep thrust, fingers moving even faster over her and he feels the tingles start deep in his dick, that second before the rush begins.

"And if I don't disappoint you?"

"When you're done coming down, I'll slowly stretch you open, and Jimmy and I'll fuck you together. You get to pick who goes where."

And that did it. He felt her fingernails scraping against his scalp and the nape of his neck as her body shuddered. Her body clenching on his took him over the edge, too. Dropping him into an insane, rushing, pulsing high of pleasure, pride, ego, fuck, and ecstasy.

---

It should be awkward, right?

Once his brain got back online, he was expecting awkward. Awkward with a side of 'Oh holy fuck, what were we thinking?' and not being able to look Jimmy in the eyes for, by conservative estimate, nineteen years. There's a reason why the little head doesn't get to make the decisions, and that's because the little head is stupid.

His forehead is pressed to Abby's shoulder, and he's handing her one of the tissues he always has on hand when they go clubbing, feeling no need to look up and face what they just did. But time doesn't just stop because you let your balls make the decisions. She slips off of him, and he takes a second to make sure their clothing is hanging properly again. He feels Abby slip the tissue back into his pocket, (he makes a quick mental note to find a trash can), and then she turns to face him, smiling, face flushed, lazy, happy, approving grin on her lips, and, okay, yeah, that helps.

She kisses the tip of his nose, gets a little smile out of him, takes his hand in hers and squeezes it, and starts to dance again.

And he can do that.

---

It's a bit later, two songs, maybe three, when the real acid test for awkward shows up.

Breena and Jimmy bop over, and yeah, Jimmy's looking sheepish too, but the girls are smiling and laughing, and it's contagious, because that's just how happiness works, and then he had Abby on one side and Breena on the other and they're both dancing with him and Jimmy kind of looks at him and shrugs, and Tim sort of half-nods back, and Abby sees it, grins again, kisses him, gooses Jimmy, who looks really startled for a second, and then smiles, and both of them start to laugh too, and, well, everything is okay again.

Tim feels the freedom of that. They're okay.

Better yet, the girls already know where the lines are and have promised not to cross them until they're all on the same page.

Which means they can play. They can explore this… space… game… whatever it is. He heads back to the table to grab a drink. As he's there, taking a gulp of his diet coke, it hits him, this is like subbing, he can relax into it and enjoy it, let the girls run the game, knowing that he's made his lines that can't be crossed clear, and they'll respect it.

Something else hits, these people love him, absolutely. He can safeword out of this if it's ever too much. If it gets freaky or uncomfortable he can say the word and they'll stop, and that'll be it. Abby didn't flip out about leaving it a fantasy, at least for tonight, and Jimmy and Breena won't, either.

Maybe all we'll ever be is good friends who dance too close and flirt too hard, and we enjoy it because it makes us feel good and sexy. And if that's all this ever is, that's fine, that's more than fine! Breena had said that, or something close to it, and he's watching Abby and Breena and Jimmy dance, as he takes another sip of his drink, then takes a sip of Jimmy's.

There are rules here, and they won't get broken, because this matters too much to all four of them to fuck it up, which means he doesn't have to stay rock solid sober. (He's driving, so he can't have too much, but some…okay, Jimmy's absinthe is even better after a bit of time to breathe and he really likes it, but yeah, driving… not too much. Next time they do this… This is already expensive as hell, adding a limo or something so they can all drink won't break them.)

He takes his shirt off, because it's hot, and they're dancing hard, and this matches some of his fantasies, and he's not the only guy without a shirt in the room, and hell, Jimmy's is completely undone, so…

So, it doesn't matter why, he doesn't need to justify it. That's the freedom of this, the joy of love. It feels good, the girls'll like it, and he likes it, and that's all that matters here.

Time to play.

---

Abby's between them, one hand on Jimmy's chest, her other arm wrapped around Tim's neck, grinding between them, and Tim's so fucking turned on he doesn't know what to do with himself. (Well, he does, he knows exactly what he wants to be doing, but that's not happening for a while yet. He's enjoying this… space… between desire and getting what you desire, and though he wants to get to the next part, he's not feeling any need to hurry, this bit right here is amazing, too.) Jimmy's got one hand on Abby's hip, the other on his waist, keeping all three of them close, leading the beat. Abby's sandwiched between them, and with the kilt and no shirt Tim can feel her skin against his, and Jimmy's hand on his waist, fingers on naked skin, feels a bit odd, but it's not bad, and it is helping him keep the beat.

Her ass is grinding against his dick, which has definitely woken back up and is very interested in seeing this go further.

He's kissing along the back of her neck, fingers of his left hand toying with the edge of her skirt, right hand on Jimmy's shoulder, helping with balance and timing.

He can see it in his mind, slipping her skirt up, rubbing his hand up along the insides of her thighs, feeling her wet, turned on from the dancing, sex, and desire, lingering drops of his cum from last time, and they don't have lube, but it's a fantasy, so they don't need it, cum, hers, his would be enough. He could be stretching her out, getting her ready, while she grinds against Jimmy, fucking him through their clothing, riding the beat against him, this song's flashing strobe lights catching the silver on his contacts, and gleaming against the sweat on their bodies, as he slowly eases one more finger in…

Jimmy's saying something to her, head bowed to her ear, and even only a few inches away, Tim can't make it out, but he can imagine. Jimmy telling her to pull it out, kissing down her throat, groaning while she does it. He'd hold her steady, leaning against his chest, while Jimmy slips in.

She'd lean forward, into Jimmy, and he'd hold her while Tim eases in, and for a few beats they'd be still, just feeling it, so tight and full, her body stretched around them, letting Abby get used to it, then she'd smile, kiss Jimmy, turn her head, kiss him, and start to move…

Breena cuts in, twirling him off of Abby's back, and she's soft and warm and pressed into him, and the fantasy drops away, replaced with right now real, and right now real is very, very good.

Breena can feel how hard he is, has to be able to because she's dancing close, grinding into him, and she's got this grin on her face, so hot, so good, so making him want just… everything.

That's part of the fun of this, getting to enjoy the wanting.

He can smell sex on her. Light sweat, wet pussy, Jimmy's cum, it's all there, mixed with her perfume, and probably about ten gallons of pheromones pouring off of all four of them. Her hands are around his neck, and he can feel her skin on his shoulders, on his legs where his calf is rubbing against her knee.

That support pillar is behind her, and he's imagining pushing her back against it, dropping to his knees, lifting her skirt, and finding out if she's bare or not. In the fantasy she's got a small triangle of blond pubic hair, and he spreads her lips, watching a drop of Jimmy's cum ooze between her lips, down her thigh. He licks it off, before rubbing her clit with his tongue, feeling her arch into him, leg tight over his shoulder.

Abby's behind him, pressing into him, and Jimmy's behind her now, and… Fuck… Daisy chain, all of them fucking into each other…

And it's all good.

Wanting it is good.

Being able to want it, with no one freaking out or insulted or… It's really good.

---

Breena and Abby are dancing. With each other. They'd led Jimmy and Tim back to the booth, pushed them, gently, into it, and Breena said, "Stay put, watch, enjoy."

The girls aren't pulling any punches. They're dancing close and slow and kissing each other, deep, open mouths, tongues and lips and FUCK. Tim's whimpering as he watches. He's sure they've got some sort of bet going to see if it's possible to kill him or Jimmy by making them watch the hottest thing in the history of hot things.

Tim looks at Jimmy, seeing the same thing in his eyes that's going through his head. He doesn't know if he wants to drag them both out of here and fuck them in the car immediately, or let them keep doing it and watch.

Watching seems to be winning. Breena's leg slides between Abby's, and Abby's rocking back and forth against her thigh, kissing her throat and Tim's thanking God it's a black kilt, because if he had the khaki or plaid one, the precum would have soaked through it in a really obvious spot.

He's never, ever, ever seen anything this hot.

Then Abby steps back from Breena, twirls away from her as the music speeds up, and there's a shiny, wet spot on Breena's leg, and that's killing him. There's literally not a single drop of blood anywhere in his body that is not in his dick or racing toward his dick right that second, and then Jimmy (who, wait… okay, no he's not still sitting next to Tim) kneels down and licks it off Breena's thigh and the only reason Tim didn't cum in his kilt right then is that he literally cannot get off if no one is touching his dick.

---

It's actually fairly early when they head home. Because they have stuff they want to do at home. Stuff that needs more room, more props, more of everything, than you can get in a club.

Abby's rubbing his thigh as he drives, not willing to distract him too much.

And Tim can hear what's happening in the back seat, wet sucking kisses and the sound of skin rubbing on skin.

At a red light, he's feeling all of it, high on being here, doing this, and thinking about how happy he is not to be wearing Jimmy's pants, because those things looked uncomfortable as hell to have an erection in. Yeah, Tim walked out with his kilt tented, but there's no room for that in Jimmy's trousers, so he could see the long line of his cock, hard and full, heading up toward his waistband and maybe if he was less turned on he'd be bothered by checking out another guy's cock, let alone Jimmy's, but, right now, it's all good.

It's reinforcement of this being okay. It's… positive visual confirmation that this is good.

Fuck it.

It's hot is what it is. It's him looking in the rearview mirror, watching Breena stroke Jimmy through his pants, hand moving long and slow over hard flesh and tight red denim, and Abby's got her hand under his kilt, making slow, languid circles on his inner thigh, back of her hand rubbing against his balls on each of the upstrokes, and he jerks in his seat when the guy behind them in the lane honks his horn, hard, letting him know that red turned green, God alone knows how long ago, because he certainly doesn't.

---

Getting all the way upstairs is going to be a challenge. He sees Jimmy and Breena stumble, Breena backing up the stairs, pulling Jimmy by the waistband of his jeans, already unbuttoned, cock already sticking out of them, probably very grateful for the extra space, and he's not sure if Abby and him are going to make it up or just fuck on the sofa because it's three feet away and looking awfully tempting.

Up the stairs, okay, he can do that, make a bee-line for their bedroom, also not a problem, both of them tearing clothing off as fast as they can, kilt on the floor, no idea where her dress ended up, his boots are still on because taking the time to untie the damn things just isn't going to happen.

Tumbled onto the bed, Abby on top, him deep in her and swearing at how good she feels on him. Hours of foreplay, the most erotic show he's ever seen, and her body on his, and he doesn't think he's ever felt this high.

Then he slips up another notch. He can hear Jimmy and Breena. Breena's breathy moans, and low, soft grunts from Jimmy. And he and Abby aren't being quiet, at all. Every thrust pulls another panting moan out of Abby, another gasp out of him, and he's talking her through it, telling her in explicit detail exactly how good she feels to him right now and how hard he is and how hard they're both gonna come.

He sits up, hands on her ass, guiding her body, kissing her deep and hard.

Abby's going tight on him, moving faster, jerking, erratic, nails dragging down his back, and Breena's keening, higher-pitched ecstatic sounds with each breath, and everything about it feels so incredible, like sex in a dream, a perfect dream, the kind where you feel everything and can fuck forever, and it just keeps getting hotter and hotter and more and more turned on and each second lasts for hours of unending better.

Abby's hips jerk, hard, against his, and she shouts his name, nails tearing down his back, and that sets him off, vision going dim as he pumps into her, clutching her tight against him as he soars through his climax.