NCIS fic: Opportunity (Tony/Jeffrey White; PG-13)
Title: Opportunity
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Tony/Jeffrey White
Rating: PG-13
Words: About 2400
Summary: It nags at him. AU.
Notes: Yeah, so I've watched 2 1/2 seasons of NCIS in about 9 days. I feel shame. Tony/Jeffrey somewhat creepy AU, aided and abetted by mklutz. Slight aspects of dialogue from episode 2x10 (Chained) and a throwaway line from an s2 or s3 ep (I can't remember which one). First attempt at full-length NCIS fic.
It nags at him - it's too easy, too convenient. If Lane is so paranoid, why would he just walk away, leave loose ends alive? It bothers Tony. Just enough that eventually he asks, "Jeffrey. Why'd you think Lane went without you?"
Jeffrey hesitates - barely noticeable, and he disguises it by glancing out the window. " Lane was unpredictable. Greedy."
"Huh," Tony grunts, nodding, pretending he buys it. But he doesn't - he didn't miss the way Jeffrey used the past tense. And there's something else - something off, just a little wrong. It's been there from the start, something hiding under the nervousness, under the awkwardness.
Jeffrey's a hell of a lot more dangerous than he wants Tony to know. And he's lying.
Tony tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and grins out at that road. He doesn't mind. It's mutual.
*
He figures they lost the trace almost immediately. Leaving breadcrumbs for Gibbs and Kate is a reflex - doing the job, being the job. He moves on automatic.
He's not sure exactly when he decides to do it. Why is a little problematic too - there's the money, that's obvious enough. And Jeffrey - he likes Jeffrey. But it shouldn't be enough.
Maybe it's something in the way Jeffrey says, "I can't face Lane alone," his eyes wide, blood still smeared across his forehead. There's vulnerability there, something reaching and wanting and -
Tony can't resist it.
And he's bored. Bored with NCIS, bored with this phase of his life. He's getting too comfortable as Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS agent. It's time to move on, even if he hasn't thought about it too actively yet. Plans are important, but sometimes opportunity shouldn't be ignored. "I'm with you," he says, and starts thinking about how he can get a plane. He's got contacts - contacts Gibbs doesn't know about.
He watches Jeffrey pack - anal, obsessive. There's a cellphone lying on the table - right out in the open. He could palm it in two seconds, and use it to call Gibbs. Two seconds, two seconds closer to another case solved, another answer found.
Instead, he leaves the phone there, lonely and useless.
Minutes later he's watching the landscape pass by. It's boring as hell. He should have insisted on driving. Instead, he's thinking about that phone, and the decision he's just made, if there's anything he'll miss. But it's not like he has anything to leave behind, anyway.
Well, maybe his car. "My car," he mutters.
"What?"
"Nothing. I'm just thinking."
"About cars?"
"What else? Cars make a man, Jeffrey. My car would've been driving in style. This thing is junk."
Jeffrey laughs.
*
The money transfer is easy - almost so easy that Gibbs could have set it up, made sure it ran smoothly. Instead, Tony knows they get lucky - they get there just in time, they miss Gibbs probably only by minutes. He doesn't know how he knows it, except that he feels it in his gut.
"Should we kill him?" Jeffrey whispers, once they've verified the cash.
"You want to leave a trail of bodies behind us? Or do want to do this with subtlety?"
There's a pause - enough that Tony's eyes narrow and his lips curve upwards - "Subtlety?"
"Good choice, Jeffrey. Subtlety keeps us from getting our asses thrown in jail."
"Right, right, I know," his fingers twitch at his side, the other hand clutching the briefcase.
"Let's go," Tony says, "we have a country to leave."
*
Mexico is a first step, but it won't be enough.
"Haiti?"
"No, Jeffrey. Do you ever read the news? Government overthrows, gangs running the street? Haiti's a no."
"Mexico?"
Tony shakes his head. "Too close."
"Puerto Rico?"
He takes a deep breath, remembering the scent of the sea, the taste of the cheap rum. "God, I love Puerto Rico. Sun, sand, fabulous scenery. I went there once. On a job. Didn't have much time for fun though." Never had much time for fun. "I'd love to go back."
Jeffrey beams. "So, there?"
"No."
The smile cracks and Jeffrey twitches. "But. You love Puerto Rico."
The eagerness to please is almost endearing, even if it is a little pathetic. "American territory, Jeffrey. They'd find us, fast. The place is crawling with Navy." He shudders, once, exaggerated. "All those sailors." And Gibbs would track them before Tony could even step onto the beach.
There's a long silence before Jeffrey says, "What about Columbia?"
Oh, hell no. "Drug runners and the criminal element are not our friends."
"But aren't we -"
"We're not drug runners. There's a difference. We trade art." He smirks. "Well, once. Stolen art." He winks, slow and exaggerated, and watches Jeffrey's face light up. "We have class."
"Where do they have class?"
Tony shrugs, thinking about it. "Well, Dubai, but the money," he carefully avoids saying our money, "would only last a week there. Morocco, maybe. Ever see Casablanca, Jeffrey?" There's appeal in the thought of living among the fading elegance of Morocco, full of gentry and casinos and bored, rich women. It's tempting.
But Morocco is too obvious. "I'm thinking something a little more - Pacific. I'm thinking beaches, Jeffrey. Surf and sand.""
"Oh. So -"
"My friend," he says, clapping his hand down on Jeffrey's shoulder, "we are going to Vanuatu. Archipelago. Don't you just love the way that word sounds?" He says it again, drawing the word out. "Archipelago. Yep, Vanuatu, always wanted to go there. It's good fulfil your dreams. Where the living is easy and the women wear bikinis. Tiny, little bikinis. There are even sarongs. Or, so I hear. From brochures. And the internet- that's what the internet's for, Jeffrey, finding out about fine women and easy living -"
Jeffrey's smile has slipped into a frown, irritated and nervous.
And that just makes Tony irritable himself, but maybe a little smug. "What's wrong, buddy?" he asks, testing.
Jeffrey shrugs, shoulder jerking under Tony's hand. He doesn't look at Tony, even though Tony's been intercepting sneaky, interested looks for a couple of days now.
Some people would call him suspicious, or egotistical. But Tony's always been able to tell when someone's checking him out. He isn't oblivious or wilfully blind. He isn't McGee, or worse, Gibbs. "Trust me. You'll love Vanuatu. They don't have an extradition treaty."
Jeffrey still looks doubtful.
"There's diving," Tony says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Palm trees. And a drink called Kava. I've heard great things." He squeezes his fingers. "Vanuatu, Jeffrey. We'll have good times. And I'll never be cold again."
Jeffrey grins, tentative, and Tony just knows he likes what he sees. "You hate being cold. I know you hate that."
"I really do." He doesn't mention women and bikinis again.
*
They're in Mexico for four days - long enough to ditch the plane, and start planning the next part of the route. It's also long enough to get corned by one of the local LEOs, too observant and sniffing around for bribes. It doesn't go well.
"Shit," Tony mutters, as he leans up against the alley wall. "Shit." Subtlety just went out the window.
"I'm sorry," Jeffrey says, calm and sounding far, far from sorry. "I'm sorry. It's just -"
Tony gets it. Tony prefers planning, covering all the details, thinking long-term. Briefly, he images Kate rolling her eyes, muttering something about Tony's idea of long-term being 24 hours at best. He shakes it out of his head.
Tony plans, but Jeffrey acts on impulse, and he's uncontrolled right up until the moment after he's made the kill. "Never apologise. It's a sign of weakness."
In the half-light of the alley, blood gleams on Jeffrey's hand, and Tony watches as his fingers tighten around the knife. "Thinking of doing me next?" he asks.
Fingers tighten again, and yes Jeffrey's eyes say, yes his half-smile echoes.
Tony counts silently, one, two, three. The moment stretches out, four, five, six. He keeps his arms folded loosely, seven, thinks about twisting to the right when - if - Jeffrey comes for him, eight, nine, ten. And he lets himself smile, wide and predatory - eleven, twelve - .
Thirteen, he counts, just as Jeffrey says, "No. I wouldn't do that."
"Good," he says. Then, "You did the right thing." It's false reassurance, but enough to get Jeffrey focussed again, get his eyes off the blood and the joy out of his head.
Jeffrey is an amateur, and unpredictable. The combination is problematic, but enticing in its own way.
Hours later - blood cleaned off, arrangements made, he finally asks, "How many people have you killed, Jeffrey?"
Jeffrey slides his gaze to the side, not quite meeting Tony's eyes. "Four. No. Five. Including Lane."
He wonders how long it took for Gibbs to figure out Jeffrey's fondness for a knife. Was it longer than it took Tony? Fingering his neck, he asks, "You sure you're not looking to make it six?"
Jeffrey's smile is slow, tentative. It's not reassuring - not that Tony wants reassuring. Mostly, he's just testing the waters, figuring out a game plan. "Yes. You're nice to me. You're not like Lane."
"And you need me."
"And I need you." He chews at his lip. "How many people have you killed, Tony?"
Tony grins. "Just the one, my friend," he says, even as he counts the bodies off in his head.
*
On the way to Vanuatu - too damn long, on too many stinking, creaking ships - he sometimes thinks about them. It's a way to pass the time. He wonders if Abby laments not convincing him to use a suppository locator, or if she doesn't say anything about him at all, ever.
He wonders if Kate doubts herself, if she thinks she should have seen this coming. Maybe she thinks he's dead - that Jeffrey killed him and they just haven't found the body. Kate's like that. She believes the best in people.
Gibbs doesn't. Gibbs knows that Tony ran, that he went with the money, though maybe he doesn't quite know why. Tony doesn't have to wonder how Gibbs handles it, because he knows - knows Gibbs never speaks his name, and doesn't respond when others do. Gibbs will have created a file on Tony, and on quiet nights, he'll flip through it, just once, before shoving it away again.
Tony thinks about them, but it doesn't exactly keep him up at night.
"Jeffrey," he says, just before they step onto Vanuatu soil, "Vanuatu's a small place. Don't fuck us over by killing where you live."
After all, it's not like Jeffrey doesn't have the money to go on holiday.
*
It's their eighth night in Vanuatu when it happens - eighth night in a beach house Jeffrey bought for cash, no questions asked. Eighth night after another day of fabulous sun and blue skies. It's the tourist season, and all day Tony's watched pretty little tourists walking by, chattering, smiling, completely oblivious and unguarded.
Just thinking about it makes him smile.
"Tony?"
Tony knows what's coming. He'd been working towards it the entire time they'd spent getting here. Winks, contact, the right words at the right time. And this afternoon when he'd come in from the surf, wet and grinning, and Jeffrey had gulped. Twice.
So he's waiting for it, and Jeffrey doesn't disappoint him.
"Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"It's - I made dinner."
"Yeah?" He pushes himself up from the chair, exaggerating his movements.
"It's fish. If you're interested."
Jeffrey can't cook worth shit, Tony learned that fast enough. But he doesn't care. "I'm interested," he says, with just the right inflection.
Jeffrey gets it. He's impulsive and uncontrolled, a little weak and eager to please, but he's not stupid. "I thought - I though you were maybe watching me. That you wanted -" he steps in close, licking his lips nervously. "Me. That you wanted me. Not just for the money. For me."
He can't resist. He should know better, but he doesn't. "I wouldn't know about that, Jeffrey, I'm a Mormon."
Jeffrey freezes, hands hovering over Tony's biceps, mouth suddenly turning down. "What? You are?"
Leaning down, letting his arms connect with the warmth of Jeffrey's hands, Tony grins. "No."
Jeffrey's mouth wavers, smile curving at the edges. "Really?"
"We gonna talk about this all night, Jeffrey?" He takes a deep breath. Jeffrey's hair smells clean, of sun and sand. It's good.
"Talking can be over-rated -" Jeffrey starts, and Tony nods just before he shuts Jeffrey up.
*
In the morning, he rolls over to find Jeffrey staring at him. Tony grins, slow and easy, stretching. "Hey."
Jeffrey's eyes widen slightly, like maybe he can't believe he's in Tony's bed. He wouldn't be the first.
Then again, it could be that he'd been contemplating cutting Tony's throat. Again. It's impossible to miss Jeffrey's right hand shoved under the pillow, and Tony knows one of the kitchen knives has been missing for two days.
He can't lie - it's a bit of a thrill. "So," he says, watching Jeffrey's face and ignoring his hand. "You needed a pilot, and lucky you, you were chained to me. You needed a buddy, and I had your back. I'm wondering - you looking for a boy toy right about now?"
Jeffrey's eyes get even wider - it's a frequent look for him - and his mouth softens. Then slowly, slowly, his hand - empty - eases from beneath the pillow and comes up to curve around Tony's jaw. "Really?"
Tony winks. "Really. Unbreakable bond between all men, Jeffrey, remember? And you've got to keep up the life of a beach-property owning millionaire. I think a boy toy's part of the requirement."
Fingers tighten briefly, and Jeffrey doesn't know how to hide his feelings - the anger, or the want, or the nervousness. He can't hide anything now either, so Tony knows Jeffrey likes what he feels - morning stubble and salt-smoothed skin and the hard line of Tony's jaw.
Jeffrey wants this.
Maybe he wants it more than the touch-memory of a knife slicing through skin; maybe he wants Tony in the morning and the smell of sand and sweat more than he wants the scent of copper and the warmth of blood on his fingers.
Maybe. For now.
And when that changes, Tony will be waiting.
End
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Tony/Jeffrey White
Rating: PG-13
Words: About 2400
Summary: It nags at him. AU.
Notes: Yeah, so I've watched 2 1/2 seasons of NCIS in about 9 days. I feel shame. Tony/Jeffrey somewhat creepy AU, aided and abetted by mklutz. Slight aspects of dialogue from episode 2x10 (Chained) and a throwaway line from an s2 or s3 ep (I can't remember which one). First attempt at full-length NCIS fic.
It nags at him - it's too easy, too convenient. If Lane is so paranoid, why would he just walk away, leave loose ends alive? It bothers Tony. Just enough that eventually he asks, "Jeffrey. Why'd you think Lane went without you?"
Jeffrey hesitates - barely noticeable, and he disguises it by glancing out the window. " Lane was unpredictable. Greedy."
"Huh," Tony grunts, nodding, pretending he buys it. But he doesn't - he didn't miss the way Jeffrey used the past tense. And there's something else - something off, just a little wrong. It's been there from the start, something hiding under the nervousness, under the awkwardness.
Jeffrey's a hell of a lot more dangerous than he wants Tony to know. And he's lying.
Tony tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and grins out at that road. He doesn't mind. It's mutual.
*
He figures they lost the trace almost immediately. Leaving breadcrumbs for Gibbs and Kate is a reflex - doing the job, being the job. He moves on automatic.
He's not sure exactly when he decides to do it. Why is a little problematic too - there's the money, that's obvious enough. And Jeffrey - he likes Jeffrey. But it shouldn't be enough.
Maybe it's something in the way Jeffrey says, "I can't face Lane alone," his eyes wide, blood still smeared across his forehead. There's vulnerability there, something reaching and wanting and -
Tony can't resist it.
And he's bored. Bored with NCIS, bored with this phase of his life. He's getting too comfortable as Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS agent. It's time to move on, even if he hasn't thought about it too actively yet. Plans are important, but sometimes opportunity shouldn't be ignored. "I'm with you," he says, and starts thinking about how he can get a plane. He's got contacts - contacts Gibbs doesn't know about.
He watches Jeffrey pack - anal, obsessive. There's a cellphone lying on the table - right out in the open. He could palm it in two seconds, and use it to call Gibbs. Two seconds, two seconds closer to another case solved, another answer found.
Instead, he leaves the phone there, lonely and useless.
Minutes later he's watching the landscape pass by. It's boring as hell. He should have insisted on driving. Instead, he's thinking about that phone, and the decision he's just made, if there's anything he'll miss. But it's not like he has anything to leave behind, anyway.
Well, maybe his car. "My car," he mutters.
"What?"
"Nothing. I'm just thinking."
"About cars?"
"What else? Cars make a man, Jeffrey. My car would've been driving in style. This thing is junk."
Jeffrey laughs.
*
The money transfer is easy - almost so easy that Gibbs could have set it up, made sure it ran smoothly. Instead, Tony knows they get lucky - they get there just in time, they miss Gibbs probably only by minutes. He doesn't know how he knows it, except that he feels it in his gut.
"Should we kill him?" Jeffrey whispers, once they've verified the cash.
"You want to leave a trail of bodies behind us? Or do want to do this with subtlety?"
There's a pause - enough that Tony's eyes narrow and his lips curve upwards - "Subtlety?"
"Good choice, Jeffrey. Subtlety keeps us from getting our asses thrown in jail."
"Right, right, I know," his fingers twitch at his side, the other hand clutching the briefcase.
"Let's go," Tony says, "we have a country to leave."
*
Mexico is a first step, but it won't be enough.
"Haiti?"
"No, Jeffrey. Do you ever read the news? Government overthrows, gangs running the street? Haiti's a no."
"Mexico?"
Tony shakes his head. "Too close."
"Puerto Rico?"
He takes a deep breath, remembering the scent of the sea, the taste of the cheap rum. "God, I love Puerto Rico. Sun, sand, fabulous scenery. I went there once. On a job. Didn't have much time for fun though." Never had much time for fun. "I'd love to go back."
Jeffrey beams. "So, there?"
"No."
The smile cracks and Jeffrey twitches. "But. You love Puerto Rico."
The eagerness to please is almost endearing, even if it is a little pathetic. "American territory, Jeffrey. They'd find us, fast. The place is crawling with Navy." He shudders, once, exaggerated. "All those sailors." And Gibbs would track them before Tony could even step onto the beach.
There's a long silence before Jeffrey says, "What about Columbia?"
Oh, hell no. "Drug runners and the criminal element are not our friends."
"But aren't we -"
"We're not drug runners. There's a difference. We trade art." He smirks. "Well, once. Stolen art." He winks, slow and exaggerated, and watches Jeffrey's face light up. "We have class."
"Where do they have class?"
Tony shrugs, thinking about it. "Well, Dubai, but the money," he carefully avoids saying our money, "would only last a week there. Morocco, maybe. Ever see Casablanca, Jeffrey?" There's appeal in the thought of living among the fading elegance of Morocco, full of gentry and casinos and bored, rich women. It's tempting.
But Morocco is too obvious. "I'm thinking something a little more - Pacific. I'm thinking beaches, Jeffrey. Surf and sand.""
"Oh. So -"
"My friend," he says, clapping his hand down on Jeffrey's shoulder, "we are going to Vanuatu. Archipelago. Don't you just love the way that word sounds?" He says it again, drawing the word out. "Archipelago. Yep, Vanuatu, always wanted to go there. It's good fulfil your dreams. Where the living is easy and the women wear bikinis. Tiny, little bikinis. There are even sarongs. Or, so I hear. From brochures. And the internet- that's what the internet's for, Jeffrey, finding out about fine women and easy living -"
Jeffrey's smile has slipped into a frown, irritated and nervous.
And that just makes Tony irritable himself, but maybe a little smug. "What's wrong, buddy?" he asks, testing.
Jeffrey shrugs, shoulder jerking under Tony's hand. He doesn't look at Tony, even though Tony's been intercepting sneaky, interested looks for a couple of days now.
Some people would call him suspicious, or egotistical. But Tony's always been able to tell when someone's checking him out. He isn't oblivious or wilfully blind. He isn't McGee, or worse, Gibbs. "Trust me. You'll love Vanuatu. They don't have an extradition treaty."
Jeffrey still looks doubtful.
"There's diving," Tony says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Palm trees. And a drink called Kava. I've heard great things." He squeezes his fingers. "Vanuatu, Jeffrey. We'll have good times. And I'll never be cold again."
Jeffrey grins, tentative, and Tony just knows he likes what he sees. "You hate being cold. I know you hate that."
"I really do." He doesn't mention women and bikinis again.
*
They're in Mexico for four days - long enough to ditch the plane, and start planning the next part of the route. It's also long enough to get corned by one of the local LEOs, too observant and sniffing around for bribes. It doesn't go well.
"Shit," Tony mutters, as he leans up against the alley wall. "Shit." Subtlety just went out the window.
"I'm sorry," Jeffrey says, calm and sounding far, far from sorry. "I'm sorry. It's just -"
Tony gets it. Tony prefers planning, covering all the details, thinking long-term. Briefly, he images Kate rolling her eyes, muttering something about Tony's idea of long-term being 24 hours at best. He shakes it out of his head.
Tony plans, but Jeffrey acts on impulse, and he's uncontrolled right up until the moment after he's made the kill. "Never apologise. It's a sign of weakness."
In the half-light of the alley, blood gleams on Jeffrey's hand, and Tony watches as his fingers tighten around the knife. "Thinking of doing me next?" he asks.
Fingers tighten again, and yes Jeffrey's eyes say, yes his half-smile echoes.
Tony counts silently, one, two, three. The moment stretches out, four, five, six. He keeps his arms folded loosely, seven, thinks about twisting to the right when - if - Jeffrey comes for him, eight, nine, ten. And he lets himself smile, wide and predatory - eleven, twelve - .
Thirteen, he counts, just as Jeffrey says, "No. I wouldn't do that."
"Good," he says. Then, "You did the right thing." It's false reassurance, but enough to get Jeffrey focussed again, get his eyes off the blood and the joy out of his head.
Jeffrey is an amateur, and unpredictable. The combination is problematic, but enticing in its own way.
Hours later - blood cleaned off, arrangements made, he finally asks, "How many people have you killed, Jeffrey?"
Jeffrey slides his gaze to the side, not quite meeting Tony's eyes. "Four. No. Five. Including Lane."
He wonders how long it took for Gibbs to figure out Jeffrey's fondness for a knife. Was it longer than it took Tony? Fingering his neck, he asks, "You sure you're not looking to make it six?"
Jeffrey's smile is slow, tentative. It's not reassuring - not that Tony wants reassuring. Mostly, he's just testing the waters, figuring out a game plan. "Yes. You're nice to me. You're not like Lane."
"And you need me."
"And I need you." He chews at his lip. "How many people have you killed, Tony?"
Tony grins. "Just the one, my friend," he says, even as he counts the bodies off in his head.
*
On the way to Vanuatu - too damn long, on too many stinking, creaking ships - he sometimes thinks about them. It's a way to pass the time. He wonders if Abby laments not convincing him to use a suppository locator, or if she doesn't say anything about him at all, ever.
He wonders if Kate doubts herself, if she thinks she should have seen this coming. Maybe she thinks he's dead - that Jeffrey killed him and they just haven't found the body. Kate's like that. She believes the best in people.
Gibbs doesn't. Gibbs knows that Tony ran, that he went with the money, though maybe he doesn't quite know why. Tony doesn't have to wonder how Gibbs handles it, because he knows - knows Gibbs never speaks his name, and doesn't respond when others do. Gibbs will have created a file on Tony, and on quiet nights, he'll flip through it, just once, before shoving it away again.
Tony thinks about them, but it doesn't exactly keep him up at night.
"Jeffrey," he says, just before they step onto Vanuatu soil, "Vanuatu's a small place. Don't fuck us over by killing where you live."
After all, it's not like Jeffrey doesn't have the money to go on holiday.
*
It's their eighth night in Vanuatu when it happens - eighth night in a beach house Jeffrey bought for cash, no questions asked. Eighth night after another day of fabulous sun and blue skies. It's the tourist season, and all day Tony's watched pretty little tourists walking by, chattering, smiling, completely oblivious and unguarded.
Just thinking about it makes him smile.
"Tony?"
Tony knows what's coming. He'd been working towards it the entire time they'd spent getting here. Winks, contact, the right words at the right time. And this afternoon when he'd come in from the surf, wet and grinning, and Jeffrey had gulped. Twice.
So he's waiting for it, and Jeffrey doesn't disappoint him.
"Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"It's - I made dinner."
"Yeah?" He pushes himself up from the chair, exaggerating his movements.
"It's fish. If you're interested."
Jeffrey can't cook worth shit, Tony learned that fast enough. But he doesn't care. "I'm interested," he says, with just the right inflection.
Jeffrey gets it. He's impulsive and uncontrolled, a little weak and eager to please, but he's not stupid. "I thought - I though you were maybe watching me. That you wanted -" he steps in close, licking his lips nervously. "Me. That you wanted me. Not just for the money. For me."
He can't resist. He should know better, but he doesn't. "I wouldn't know about that, Jeffrey, I'm a Mormon."
Jeffrey freezes, hands hovering over Tony's biceps, mouth suddenly turning down. "What? You are?"
Leaning down, letting his arms connect with the warmth of Jeffrey's hands, Tony grins. "No."
Jeffrey's mouth wavers, smile curving at the edges. "Really?"
"We gonna talk about this all night, Jeffrey?" He takes a deep breath. Jeffrey's hair smells clean, of sun and sand. It's good.
"Talking can be over-rated -" Jeffrey starts, and Tony nods just before he shuts Jeffrey up.
*
In the morning, he rolls over to find Jeffrey staring at him. Tony grins, slow and easy, stretching. "Hey."
Jeffrey's eyes widen slightly, like maybe he can't believe he's in Tony's bed. He wouldn't be the first.
Then again, it could be that he'd been contemplating cutting Tony's throat. Again. It's impossible to miss Jeffrey's right hand shoved under the pillow, and Tony knows one of the kitchen knives has been missing for two days.
He can't lie - it's a bit of a thrill. "So," he says, watching Jeffrey's face and ignoring his hand. "You needed a pilot, and lucky you, you were chained to me. You needed a buddy, and I had your back. I'm wondering - you looking for a boy toy right about now?"
Jeffrey's eyes get even wider - it's a frequent look for him - and his mouth softens. Then slowly, slowly, his hand - empty - eases from beneath the pillow and comes up to curve around Tony's jaw. "Really?"
Tony winks. "Really. Unbreakable bond between all men, Jeffrey, remember? And you've got to keep up the life of a beach-property owning millionaire. I think a boy toy's part of the requirement."
Fingers tighten briefly, and Jeffrey doesn't know how to hide his feelings - the anger, or the want, or the nervousness. He can't hide anything now either, so Tony knows Jeffrey likes what he feels - morning stubble and salt-smoothed skin and the hard line of Tony's jaw.
Jeffrey wants this.
Maybe he wants it more than the touch-memory of a knife slicing through skin; maybe he wants Tony in the morning and the smell of sand and sweat more than he wants the scent of copper and the warmth of blood on his fingers.
Maybe. For now.
And when that changes, Tony will be waiting.
End