Fic: The One You're With

[linaerys.livejournal.com]

I'm sure no one is interested in the many road blocks between me and finishing this ficathon, BUT the final road block was an awesome prompt that gave me a story too long to finish by my self-imposed late deadline of 10/13. Still, here is part one, with part two to follow next week. Thank you for your patience.

THERE IS NO PART TWO, THIS WAS NEVER FINISHED.

Title: The One You're With (1/2)
Author: linaerys
Written for: saeva
Word Count: ~5000
Prompt: An NCIS investigation hits uncomfortably close for Abby as her less mainstream extracurricular sexual activities become the focus of an investigation about a murdered sailor.
Rating: Light R
Pairings: Gibbs/Tony and other possibilities implied.
Spoilers: Set between S3 and S4
Warnings: The concepts of BDSM are integral to this story, although no explicit scenes thus far. Also, this story leans to the left of the political spectrum. There are a few real people mentioned, but everyone implicated is fictional.

A garbage collector discovered the sailor's body early that morning in the alley, but a blood trail traced a path back inside a small basement club in Dupont. Aside from a small pool of blood under his head, and livid bruises on his neck, it was one of the most peaceful bodies Tony had ever seen. He tugged the dog tags out of the man's collar with a gloved hand and read, "2nd Lt. Johanssen, Marc."

After Ziva took some pictures and Tony made his sketches, Ducky loaded the body into the van, muttering, "looks like strangulation, but I'll have to check some things to be sure. Liver-temp says he died some time in the wee hours this morning." Ducky had been taciturn and what Abby called "snippy" since Gibbs left, and it looked like today was no exception. Tony couldn't decide whether to be happy to be spared a pointless story, or wistful for the old Ducky. New team, new rules, he thought.

Tony walked a few feet into the back door, which opened without a key, and he heard an officious and smarmy voice asking if he needed any help. Tony turned around and saw a short man with feathery blond hair, and a belligerent expression, standing behind him. Tony flipped open his badge, hoping to make the man back off, but he examined it carefully, and said, "NCIS," with an odd knowing note in his voice he'd finished looking.

"Yes," said Tony, "you have a dead sailor in back." The garbage collector had called the police, but when they'd heard the body had a navy ID on it, they had passed the buck up to NCIS without a fuss.

"Hey, you all partiers like Abby, or is she special?" asked the man, crossing his arms to make his tight black t-shirt bulge around his arms. The well formed muscles looked a little ridiculous on someone of his stature, and Tony found the note of familiarity in the guy's voice presumptuous.

"She mentioned an annoying guy with about your looks, wanted us to run him off, didn't she McGee?" Tony lowered his voice to the threatening register he'd been working on and Probie slid in behind him with a marked lack of grace. Tony intended to scold him for it later, but first he had to make this little prick back down a little. "What's your name?" he asked, walking forward a half step to watch the guy back away. This stuff wasn't really that hard without Gibbs looking even more threatening next to him.

"Tommy Morgan. I just work here," he said, uncrossing his arms.

"Tommy," said Tony. "How old do you have to be before they give you a big boy's name?" Tommy looked pissed, and like he might try something, but Tony advanced another half step, and Tommy lost his nerve. "Tommy," Tony continued. "Were you here last night?"

"No, Master--Mister Tompkins doesn't let me work nights yet."

"Mister Tompkins? Does he have a first name?"

"Jeffrey," said Tommy swallowing hard, as if he were afraid of saying the name. He didn't meet Tony's eyes.

"And he owns this place?" asked Tony. "Can you give me his address?" Tommy looked down and shook his head. Tony basked for a moment in how easy it was to cow this kid, but then shook it off. Gibbs would have smacked him in the head three times already for his behavior this morning, and even Probie was starting to look at him askance.

"I don't know where he lives. I have a pager number in case there's an emergency, but he basically told me I'd be fired if I used it."

"I don't really care if you get fired. Get him here, or I'm sure we can find some health code violation back there and bring everyone here back for questioning." Tommy didn't even question such a bald-faced lie. "If you work mornings, and aren't even allowed to call the boss, what do you do?"

Tommy puffed out his chest a little. "I'm in charge of cleanup crew," he said.

"Well, don't clean anything yet." Tony raised one eyebrow. "This is a crime scene."

[][][]

"We just knew a few of the same people, that's all," said Abby. She leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, rocking back on the big heels of her big comfort boots--maybe her subconscious had known what she might be facing today and told her to wear them--but it wasn't McGee or Tony or even Ziva, who she could totally handle these days--it was Madame Director, and she had to play ball.

"This Mr. Tompkins ran the dungeon where Second Lieutenant Johanssen was killed," said Director Sheppard. "And he didn't answer his page."

"Where the body was found, anyway," put in Ziva, who had trailed in stealthily after Director Sheppard, while Abby was trying to figure out how much she had to tell. Abby didn't look up, but she could hear the touch of sympathy in Ziva's voice.

Abby liked to imagine what would have happened if Madame Director (no one looked less like a Jenny to Abby) had met Kate. Abby could see Kate's gray-brown eyes, and the way they went cold when someone tried to get in Abby's face. She could have shut down the director the way no one else could.

Abby remembered the time she'd come into work with a jagged bruise around her wrists from the handcuffs Jeffrey had employed the night before. Abby had been running her hands over the marks, letting the happy memories play through her mind when Kate and Gibbs came in with evidence from their latest case.

"What happened to you," Gibbs had asked, and Abby thought he should have recognized the signs from handcuffs--he cuffed people often enough, but maybe he'd never felt the metal bite into his own wrists.

Kate had caught Abby's eye and then given Gibbs a look, on that made him tilted his head to one side, and the concern and anger drain out of his face. "Not my business," he had said, even more gruff than usual. "If you need me to make it my business, Abby, you let me know."

Abby had smiled and nodded.

"You let me know," he had said more forcefully. "Or I'll find out why not."

And then later she told Kate about her night, while Kate wore a mixture of concern and discomfort on her face. Abby could always see past that, though, to the love underneath. "Don't give me those puppy dog eyes," had said Abby, half teasing, "unless you want me outside your window with a boom box playing 'In Your Eyes.'"

"So you're John Cusack in this little scenario?" asked Kate.

"And you're Ione Skye," Abby had answered. "Don't tell Tony."

Now it was Madame Director asking her questions, and no one to stand in between, not Kate, not Gibbs. "Did you know the deceased, Abby?"

"No!" she said, louder than she intended. "No, I just know the guy who runs the place."

"We're going to have to bring him in for questioning," said Ziva, more gently.

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" asked the Director, but not like it was a question. "We can get the FBI's lab to help us out." Director Sheppard sighed heavily. "The political consequences though. . . "

"I can handle it," said Abby, her voice going hard. "Don't you trust me?"

"No reason not to," said Tony. He had learned Gibbs's way of sneaking into the middle of a conversation, and talking like he knew what was going on.

Director Sheppard gave Tony a cold and annoyed look, a look that Gibbs would have shrugged off with one of his half smiles. Tony attempted the same, but once the director left, he gave a full body all over shiver. "She's pretty, but she creeps me right out," said Tony.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "That's because she's a strong woman, and you, Tony, don't know how to handle it."

"I can handle it fine," said Tony, more as a matter of form than anything else. "We're bringing Mr. Tompkins in for questioning. Is there anything we need to know."

Abby looked up from where she still sat on the floor, past Tony's concerned face, up at the ceiling level windows and the sunlight streaming into her lab. "He's a good man," said Abby. "Don't jump to conclusions just because of what he does. I'm sure he'll help you." Abby let her gaze travel down, still over Tony's shoulder, until she could rest her eyes on her screensaver of Gibbs.

"Ziva, will you give us a minute?" asked Tony. Ziva rolled here eyes just slightly, but Abby knew she didn't mean anything by it—it was just her constant distancing technique, her way of keeping everyone at NCIS at arm's length. No one believed it anymore. Tony watched her leave, and then turned back to Abby. Abby looked at him, weighing her options, then looked back again at the picture of Gibbs. She'd captured him on one of the lab cameras wearing one of those sweet smiles that lit his face so rarely.

"I miss him too, Abby," said Tony.

"Not like I do," she said, hugging her arms around her chest.

His eyes went suspicious for a moment but then he was all concern again. "What was that?" asked Abby.

"I miss him a lot, Abby," he said. "I mean, a lot."

"Oh," she said, putting a few pieces together—so Tony recognized his crush on Gibbs, interesting--then stayed silent for a second. "Is there anyway you can interview Jeff—Mr. Tompkins—wow, that feels weird to say—alone?"

"I can't go alone. NCIS rules. I have to take backup. Ziva won't . . ."

"Won't what? Won't rat me out to the director? Can't you please take someone else?"

"Abby . . ."

"Look, I know he didn't have anything to do with the murder."

"Abby."

"When you see him you'll understand."

"Care to enlighten me?"

She looked around the room, then square at Tony. She put her hand out, let him help her up, then started pacing around the room, suddenly flush with nervous energy.

"Look, Tony, I'm going to tell you something, but try not to be, you know, you for a minute."

Tony composed his features into his favorite phony smile, but this time Abby could tell he was hiding an expression of concern.

"The first time I met . . . Jeffrey, I didn't see him." She twisted her fingers together and thought about that night. It was right after Gibbs had left, left barely saying goodbye to any of them except Ziva, Ziva whom he'd known the least. Abby had been more angry than sad when she called up an old fuck-buddy and told him to take her somewhere wild. And she'd ended up at Jeffrey's Place. That's all they called it. He ran a sex toy store, and on the weekends had a small dungeon club in a basement in Dupont Circle. A lot of people wore masks. Jeffrey had been one of them.

"They don't let Republicans in," said Abby with a short laugh. "You'd be surprised how many of those guys are into getting beaten and whipped, and fucked up the—." Abby stopped herself by clapping both hands over her mouth.

"I would be surprised," said Tony, raising his eyebrows, "but let's not get off topic."

"Don't be mean. Just, when you see him, don't assume that I went to him for the reason you're going to think I did."

"And what does that mean?"

"You'll know when you see him."

[][][]

Tony knew exactly what Abby meant, Jeffrey Tompkins answered the door of his apartment. He'd chosen a time when Mr. Tompkins's shop was closed, not sure he could handle any kind of questioning in a room full of leather and dildos.

And he was glad he did, because the man who answered the door made Tony's heart pound, and his vision go cloudy for a moment before he pulled himself together. Jeffrey Tompkins stood a few inches shy of DiNozzo, and had salt and pepper hair running more to salt than pepper. Still, that wouldn't have been enough to rattle Tony if hadn't been for Tompkins's piercing blue eyes, with crinkles of smiles and sun at the corners, his military posture, and the way he held his blunt fingers against the door frame. Tony's stomach clenched painfully, but it faded into fluttery excitement, as if his body knew this man he'd never seen before. He stared at Tompkins, looking for some weakness, something unGibbs to focus on, willing his breathing to slow.

"Boss," breathed Tony, too quiet, he hoped, for Tompkins to hear. He had left Agent Lee in the car—not precisely in accordance with the rules, and she would certainly tell him about it later—but he was damn glad he had.

"Can I help you, son?" asked Tompkin, his voice a gruff bark.

"Yes, Mr. Tompkins?" Tony's voice rose uncomfortably high on the last syllable. He cleared his throat. "I'm from NCIS—Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I understand you run the club where Second Lieutenant Johanssen was murdered."

Tompkins fixed Tony with a look. On Gibbs that look would have said, don't give me any crap. Gibbs's looks were eloquent. "Where the body was found," Tony amended, swallowing hard. "You don't think he was murdered in your club?"

"I thought that was your job, Agent DiNozzo." His low and dangerous voice was like Gibbs's too, promising things, most of which Gibbs hadn't gotten a chance to deliver.

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Abby shouldn't have called you," he said.

"She didn't," said Tompkins, and offered nothing more.

"She told you about me, earlier?" asked Tony, but then recovered himself, and realized he was allowing Tompkins to lead him off track. "What time did you see Second Lieutenant Johanssen come into the club?"

"Around 2300."

"Was he alone?"

"No, he was with a gentleman I did not recognize, who had not been in the club before."

"I thought you vetted your members," said Tony, cursing himself for the double entendre. Tompkins didn't seem to notice.

"He was with Second Lieutenant Johanssen. We allow one-time guests. After that, membership is by invitation only."

"Can you describe him?"

"About 5' 11", hair light brown going to gray. He wore a leather mask, one that I don't sell in my shop."

"Anything else distinguishing about him?"

Tompkins raised an eyebrow. "I didn't see him naked if that's what you mean," he said with a short laugh.

"So you didn't . . . participate?" asked Tony.

"Most of the time my club is a venue for people who don't have their own set-up."

"Or they like an audience," Tony added.

Tompkins gave him a nod. "You're not a complete novice, are you?"

Tony laughed mirthlessly back and gave Tompkins the blandest smile he owned. "I'll ask the questions, Mr. Tompkins. Did you see anything that went on between them or any other members of the club?"

"The masked gentleman wanted . . . ." Tompkins tilted his head to one side and gave Tony a searching look. "He wanted punishment."

"How hard?" asked Tony, stepping in a little closer. "Hard enough to leave DNA traces?"

"Nothing too exotic," said Tompkins. "Just some riding crop. Would that hold skin, do you think?" Tompkins's voice had gone urbane, silky, challenging, but enough unlike Gibbs's continual gruffness that Tony was able to collect himself a little more.

"I don't know," he said tightly. "Of course, you'll let me take it back to the lab."

"Of course," said Tompkins.

"And nothing after the flogging?" asked Tony.

Tompkins raised his eyebrow again. "Definitely not a novice," he said, enough to himself that Tony chose to ignore him. "No, Second Lieutenant Johanssen generally preferred to be on the receiving end, and was reluctant to go on for very long. After that they went to one of the private rooms, and I didn't see either one of them again until Ricky—Johanssen turned up dead."

"The private rooms? What usually goes on in those?"

"Sucking and fucking, Agent DiNozzo," said Tompkins. "You'd be surprised—people who love to get spanked and beaten in public—well, relative public—still prefer to do some things behind closed doors. I can show you the room."

[][][]

Tony retrieved Lee from the car and Tompkins escorted them to the club, which was just a few blocks away from Tompkins's apartment. An NCIS forensics team was still going over the club for traces of blood and DNA evidence, and Agent Marconi gave Tony a grimace when she saw him come in the door.

"Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack," she said, wiping off her forehead with the back of her arm, above the glove. "Lot of bodily fluids here."

Tony turned to Tompkins. "I thought you had a cleaning crew."

"They can only get so much," said Marconi. "It's not bad, considering—but there are traces everywhere."

Tompkins shrugged and led Tony toward a row of doors near the back. The room he showed Tony was tiny, just large enough for a bed, raised up to waist height, but various eye-bolts stuck out of the walls, and a small chest of drawers next to the bed held an assortment of prophylactics and single servings of lube.

"Well stocked," said Tony after peeking into a drawer. He went back out to the main room and directed Marconi and her team to take special care with that particular room, but not to neglect the rest.

"When do you need your club back?" he asked Tompkins once they stood outside on the street.

"Your people can take their time," he said. "I only do parties once a week."

"Don't, ah, go out of town," said Tony as he took his leave. "We may have other questions for you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Agent DiNozzo," said Tompkins.

Tony and Agent Lee walked back to the car, Tony opened the door for her and got into the drivers seat. He sat still with his hands on the wheel, without turning on the ignition for a full minute until Agent Lee gave him a strange look, and he started the engine.

He drove back slowly, relishing, for once, the traffic that gave him some time to think. He rolled down the windows and let the fragrance from the dying cherry blossoms blow into the car with the early summer breeze. The peak was a week past, and the tourists had gone home, but the wilting blossoms gave off the thickest scent at this time of year, and Tony let his mind empty as he breathed in the scent.

"NCIS handbook says--," Agent Lee began.

"Put a sock in it, Agent Lee, I need to think" said Tony mildly. Her eyes widened, but she did.

In the back of the car, wrapped in plastic sheeting was the riding crop. It looked clean enough, but Abby would know for sure. Tony took another deep breath of the fresh air to wash the disturbing scents of steel and leather and semen out of his nostrils. He could almost taste the thick scent on the back of his throat.

This had been what Gibbs wanted from him, and Tony could feel his own revulsion layered over a frightening and violent attraction. Gibbs had wanted some kind of ownership, with terms Tony couldn't get his head around. When Gibbs broke his own rules, he did it all the way. Tony had spent his whole life avoiding anything more than casual, and his first instinct was always to flee . . .

If you'd given me time, Boss, thought Tony, but then Gibbs had suddenly been ten years younger, ten years distant, and looked at Tony with eyes Tony barely recognized.

"When I went to sleep I had a wife," Gibbs had said, his voice still raspy from the explosion. "And when I woke up, I had you." Gibbs's throat might have still been raw from the superheated air, but Tony could hear disgust in his voice too, something that, for all Gibbs's insults, he'd never heard before.

[][][]

Abby looked at Tony searchingly when Tony came back and handed her the riding crop. "Just what I always wanted," she said.

"You could have warned me, Abby," said Tony, sitting down in one of the high chairs in the lab.

"Just imagine my shock," she said.

"I don't have to imagine it. I was there. You really didn't know--."

"That he looked just like Gibbs? I told you, I didn't know what he looked like, not at first."

"You let guys--."

Abby poked him hard in the chest with her finger, hoping her fingernail would break the skin through Tony's aggressively burgundy shirt. "Don't be judgmental, DiNozzo. I don't make comments about your personal life."

"Still, you could have warned me."

"I'm sorry. I chickened out. What do you think?"

"I'm glad Ziva and the director didn't see him. They would have drawn conclusions. Heck, I'm drawing conclusions."

Abby smiled apologetically and tilted her head to one side. "It's not what you think—" she started.

"That you have big ol' crush on Gibbs?" asked Tony. Abby noted how he also used the present tense, as if Gibbs were coming back any moment.

"Something like that," she said with a little shrug. "I think I need some tequila before we can continue this conversation."

"I have some stuff for you to look at first. I need all the fingerprints and DNA you can get from this."

Abby raised her eyebrows. "So now we're thinking Lieutenant Johanssen was killed at the club?"

"Looks like it. Mr. Tompkins told me he came in with a man he didn't recognize, which I thought was a little odd. Whoever it was could be our murderer."

Abby slammed the crop down on her metal lab bench hard enough that Tony jumped. "That asshole," she said. "You know, you think you can trust a guy."

"What? Who?" asked Tony.

"Jeffrey," Abby spat. "He never lets anyone into the club without knowing who they are. You should bring him in, and I don't even care anymore. I'm sorry, Tony, I said he wouldn't lie to you . . ."

Tony looked surprised at her vehemence. "It's not your fault," he said.

"I know," said Abby, "but I vouched for him. This sucks."

"Relax, Abby, I'll bring him in and lean on him a little, and you work on prints and DNA from that crop-thingy."

"Ducky can't get prints from the strangulation marks?"

"Whoever did it was wearing gloves," said Tony. "I want some good news when I get back."

"Yes, sir," said Abby.

[][][]

Tony took Ziva with him this time, and brought Jeffrey Tompkins in for questioning. Ziva looked taken aback the first time she saw him, so the resemblance to Gibbs couldn't have just been in his and Abby's heads, thought Tony.

Tompkins looked utterly at home in the interrogation room, and Tony wasn't looking forward to trying to lean on him. Ziva must have read Tony's reluctance from his body language—she was annoyingly good at that—because she leaned over to Tony where they stood behind the one-way mirror and said, "Want me to soften him up a little?"

Tony straightened his posture. "What makes you think you can handle him better than me?" he asked.

"Well, he's probably homosexual, might be more rattled by a woman. They say that 90% of homosexual men had an overbearing mother figure."

"Is that what they teach you at Mossad? It's a load of crap," said Tony as he turned to walk out of the observation room and into the interrogation room.

"What is?" asked Ziva as Tony turned the doorknob.

"All of it," called out Tony over his shoulder.

He walked into the room and sat down across from Tompkins, and wished that he had Abby behind the glass instead of Ziva, to feed him information and suggestions. But Abby wasn't officially an agent, and when he'd approached Jenny with the idea, she'd given him a stern no that didn't seem like it would bend to any of his charm.

Seeing Tompkins across the table reminded Tony of when Gibbs had trained him in interrogation, right after recruiting him away from the Baltimore PD. "I already know how to do this," said Tony. He'd been twice as cocky then, and half as smart.

"Not like this," Gibbs had said softly, walking behind him. A thread of fear had traced its way down Tony's back, coming from nowhere, but undeniable all the same, so when Gibbs spoke his next words in a conversational tone, Tony nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Okay, you're good," Tony had said with a nervous smile.

Gibbs had smiled too, wolf-like. "You bet I am, DiNozzo," he said, the first time he spoke any part of Tony's name.

Across from him sat Tompkins with a smug little smile on his face, an expression Gibbs never would have worn, and suddenly Tony knew how to play this. Tony shrunk down a little in his chair, and fidgeted his hands together.

"I'm just trying to figure out why you felt the need to lie to me," said Tony, pitching his voice a little higher than usual, and putting a note of hurt into it. If this didn't work, he could send Ziva in to do her bitch-queen act, but he saw Tompkins unbend slightly, an expression of concern erasing the smugness on his face.

"I didn't lie to you, Agent DiNozzo."

"Oh, you can call me Tony." He looked around the room. I'm acting like Abby with Gibbs, he thought. Better keep it up.

"I don't believe that you'd let someone into your club without knowing who they are. You're in charge aren't you?" asked Tony. Make him feel protective of you, Tony reminded himself. That had to be Tompkins's kink—he was a big bad top who took exquisite care of any of his people. Any of the people he owned. And he was probably feeling like shit for letting Lieutenant Johanssen die on his watch, already vulnerable to any accusations of betrayal.

"I wouldn't," said Tompkins, conciliatory.

"Abby told me you don't let Republicans in," said Tony, throwing and admiring glance at Tompkins.

Suddenly Tompkins snapped up his posture, almost to attention. "I'm not your Daddy, Agent DiNozzo," he said harshly, making it clear that he didn't mean any kind of biological father. "So drop the act."

"Fine," said Tony, himself again, then grinned boyishly at Tompkins. "It was working, though."

"I'll tell you what you need to know. I try not to let Republicans in, but it's not that simple—it's more that I don't want closet-cases in my joint."

"Everyone's in the closet a little," muttered Tony darkly.

Tompkins threw him an amused look. "That's true, it's a matter of degrees. But you know what Washington is like."

"Enlighten me." Tony leaned back in his chair.

"There are a lot of closet queens in the Republican party, with a lot to hide."

"Democrats don't have them, too?"

Tompkins snorted. "They don't have any power these days, so a lot less to lose. It's the power players you have to watch out for, the ones with everything to lose. The rules don't apply to them—anything is okay as long as the hoi polloi don't find out and they'll do what it takes to hang onto their power."

"Even murder?" asked Tony.

"Of a little sailor party boy? You bet." Tompkins crossed his arms over his chest, but it wasn't a hostile gesture. "You either run a Republican-friendly club, where everyone is in the know, or you're on the outside in this town. And it's not just with sex, it's with everything. But I still figured it was safer this way—they can't shut me down for knowing too much when I don't know anything."

"What does this have to do with Lieutenant Johanssen?" asked Tony.

"I'm getting to that. Remember the Guckert/Gannon scandal?"

"Oh yeah," said Tony, "that reporter who got fake credentials and asked President Bush a stupid suck-up question at a press conference? Didn't he run a chat room or something?"

"My, my," said Tompkins, "the story does get diluted. Gannon was—is—at the very top of the top scene, if you catch my drift. He has all the best clients, and when he gets tired of being paid in money, he gets paid in favors."

"Like White House press credentials?"

"Exactly. There is someone highly placed in the White House who spends a lot of money on very expensive men, and if that gets out, it could spell the end for the whole Republican power structure. Johanssen ran in those circles, too—he knew it, and eventually I figured it out, but by that time, it was too late to keep him from coming to the club. He had to have found out too much, about the wrong person. Other than that he was a harmless kid--no reason to kill him."

"And he brought friends with him," supplied Tony. "Friends with even more to hide."

"It was let them in or let them shut me down," said Tompkins. "I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"So you really don't know who Johanssen brought to the club that night?"

"No, he told me not to ask."

Tony could see Tompkins's banked anger, from having a kid like Johanssen tell him what to do. Tompkins would be an easy suspect—most juries would be happy to convict him just for his day job—but Tony's instinct said it was someone different. "Do you know where he met his, uh, friends?" Tony asked.

"He was ROTC at Dartmouth—lot of rich alumni, a lot of rich friends."

"I'll need the names and descriptions of everyone you can think of," said Tony.

"I told you I didn't--."

Tony smiled fake and poisonous; Tompkins wasn't Gibbs and never would be. "Whatever you can remember Mr. Tompkins."

Comments

[jooniper-pearl.livejournal.com]

Just wondering, is there a link to part two?