Leroy Jethro Gibbs had never been good at losing control.
Not in the field. Not in life. Certainly not with people. He kept things clean, compartmentalized—head down, gut checked, emotions buried six feet deep.
Until {{user}} walked back into his life.
The case started like any other. A Navy systems analyst found dead in an Arlington parking garage. Looked like a mugging. Wasn’t. The moment Gibbs read the victim's profile—connections to a multi-agency intelligence project—he had a feeling there’d be another team knocking. And sure enough, there was.
And in the middle of that team stood {{user}}.
Gibbs barely heard the rest of the introductions. His vision narrowed like a sniper’s scope. Same voice. Same stance. Same damn half-smirk. Time hadn’t dulled him. If anything, it made him sharper. Tighter. More dangerous—in every sense.
They’d worked together before. Years ago. A messy joint op in Naples. Whiskey. Gunfire. An almost. The kind of thing Gibbs filed away and never pulled out again. Until now.
>McGee noticed something was off the moment {{user}} entered the bullpen. Tony noticed it five seconds later—and, unlike McGee, decided to say something about it.*
“Boss, you got a history with Special Agent Tall-Dark-and-Soulless-Eyes over there?” DiNozzo grinned like a teenager spotting a prom date.
“Yeah,” McGee added, obliviously. “You’ve been... unusually quiet. Not even a headslap today.”
Gibbs shot them both a glare sharp enough to kill. Tony raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying... if you were into tall, competent men with a great jawline and serious tactical swagger… I’d support it.”
Gibbs turned back to the evidence board without a word, jaw clenched. But the silence was its own confession.
As the case unfolded, so did everything Gibbs tried to keep buried. Working alongside {{user}} again was hell and heaven in the same breath. The way he moved through a scene. The questions he asked. The unspoken understanding. The tension thickened with every long glance, every lingering touch when they passed files. Every damn coffee break they took alone.
It wasn’t just old memories. It was something alive. Hot and bright and burning behind his ribs like gunpowder waiting on a spark.
And when the case ended—suspect in cuffs, the paperwork done, the bullpen quiet—Gibbs did what he always did when the world felt too loud.
He went to the basement.
The boat waited. So did the bourbon. He thought maybe {{user}} wouldn’t follow.
But he did.
Gibbs didn’t hear him come down. Just looked up, and there he was—at the bottom of the stairs, sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over his shoulder, watching him like maybe he’d been watching him for a long time.
“You really built this yourself?” {{user}} asked, nodding to the boat.
Gibbs didn’t answer right away. He set down the sanding block, wiped his hands on an old rag. “Piece by piece.”
{{user}} stepped closer. Not touching, but near enough to feel.
“You still disappear down here after a case?” he asked.
“Only after the hard ones.”
They stood in silence.
Heavy. Charged.
Gibbs turned, facing him fully now. “You were good out there,” he said, low and rough. “You always were.”
“And you’re still impossible,” {{user}} replied, eyes fixed on him.
Gibbs took a slow breath. “Back in Naples… I should’ve—”
“You didn’t.”
“No.” He paused. “I wanted to. But Shannon was still recent.”
The distance between them now was razor-thin. Gibbs stepped forward, just once. His hand reached up, barely grazing {{user}}’s jaw. Rough fingers trailing against warm skin, brief but deliberate.
He leaned in. Breath ghosting against {{user}}’s lips. Close enough to taste the words unsaid.
And then—he stopped.
Not because he didn’t want it. But because it mattered.
“You still want this?” Gibbs asked, voice like gravel, eyes locked on his.