Signs and Dust
Rating: R-ish.
Who: Abby, Gibbs/Abby
Summary: It means something, or whatever.



She touches him. Most of it is indirect, though, and that's what kills him. She flattens his lapels, or tugs on his sleeve, or presses her fingers into his forearm. Or lets her head, occasionally, drop to his shoulder, but not really. There is always fabric between the two of them. He feels cheated.

Later, when there is no fabric, he still feels cheated. He presses himself very close to her. There is always something he cannot identify, something between them, something preventing this thing, and it resides in the space he's quite sure should be his.

There are no clothes and they are very close and he presses, presses, and presses harder, and maybe it'll hurt them both, and then they'll have that between them, too.


She flirts with other people in front of him. He pays it no mind as she has her games and he has his. But, sometimes, when she's in the middle of it he'll catch McGee's eye, or Tony's, or Ziva's, or—Christ—even Jen's, and make it perfectly clear that Abby's got no interest in any of them, that it's just her pretending not to have an interest in Gibbs.

There are times, though, that he does pay it some mind. She belongs to him in a way most people will never understand, and despite his rules or any sense of self he has left, they belong to each other and it's at such a price that he won't let her forget. Mostly, how he deals is by fucking her so hard he nearly splits her open.


Abby leaves traces of herself wherever she goes. Usually, it's minor disturbances: Tony with a little smirk, McGee's desk "definitely not how he left it," or times when Gibbs walks into autopsy and Ducky is laughing, shaking his head like Abby stole his voice, and that he'd gladly let her keep it.

Other times she is more devious. That's when he loves her the most, he thinks, because Abby isn't always nice and her smile isn't permanent. People don't know that about her and secrets do have a way of making men feel powerful. At her most wily, she's kissed him on the mouth in full view of anyone she goddamn feels like, tucked her favorite pair of panties into his blazer pocket, and written filthy phrases on the lid of his coffee cup.

It isn't often, but she's flinched when he touched her, and when she's particularly vicious, she's left him before he's woken up.


Her body is a dangerous secret. The way she moves, stuttered steps in steel-toed boots (very carefully because her skirts are short), might belie her actual age, but she is not so young as to be unaware of her figure. She will skip, strut, and shimmy her way into the lab, fabric fluttering at her waist as she maneuvers around tables, chairs, and expensive equipment.

She is graceful in the sense that she's comfortable with herself, the way she fills out a t-shirt or a pair of pants. An argument could be made for her court suits, but her heart just isn't in those types of clothes, the kind that make her feel like she's helpless, flat on her stomach and wearing another person's skin.

It is the same thing with her tattoos. It wasn't an impulsive decision, not for her, to decorate her body as she has. The cross on her back reminds her of home: the Gothic, wrought ironed, accents of old stone buildings, with shadows that disagreed and façades that were always cool to the touch.

He knows her body and its markings by degrees, finds himself in the space between her elbow and her fingertips, the position of her body relative to his own.


Her voice is at times hoarse, wanton, even informative, and there's something in it that settles under his skin, makes a space for itself. She will sometimes whisper as if everything she's relaying is a delicious secret, and maybe it is, because he can never keep himself from moving closer, leaning into her.

Up and down, down and up, her voice raises and lowers depending on how he's touching her or how she wants to be touched. He has trouble discerning between the two and all his movements are in an effort to catch up to her. There is no word to describe her laughter, the way it makes his hands fidget and the muscles in his thighs tremble.

She has wept and chuckled and growled in his presence. She's screamed, her fists hitting his chest like pebbles while all he could do was hold her, and she just screamed and screamed. Every noise that came from her took something that mattered away from him. It was a new feeling, as he'd killed men before, but never stuck around to watch them die.