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Author's Note: Originally posted at Porn Battle #7
In the bar after work her first day, Gibbs had asked Burley what the new ballistics expert's pigtails made him think of.
"Handles," Stan had said without hesitation, and Gibbs hadn't actually needed to slap Burley upside the head. Realising what he's just said, and to whom, Stan had turned a shade of crimson Gibbs hadn't seen before or since. The half-empty pitcher of beer on the table hadn't been any excuse, but Gibbs let it slide, pretending he hadn't understood exactly what Stan meant.
But the image had burned into his brain in an instant, and nine birthday dinners later it hadn't gone away. It was still the dirty little thought he had alone in the dark, waking up in the wee hours inside the shell of his boat, his mouth sour with the after-effects of too much Jack, and the taste of sawdust in the back of his throat.
Even when Hollis was encroaching on his half of the bed while the birds sang outside and he woke up hard, it's not the woman ten feet away he thought of as he wrapped his hand around his cock while the bathroom mirror clouded with steam. He thinks of red, red lips, and comes all over his hand, breathing in the steam with short, panting breaths.
It's been ten years, and sometimes when he saunters into her lab, Caf-Pow in hand, and she grins at him impishly, it's still the first thing he thinks of. Even when he's pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek, behind his eyes for just a flash of a second, she's on her knees.
It's dirty, and it's wrong, and he should just cut that shit out, because it's Abby for Christ's sake. But Gibbs has a sneaking suspicion Abby hasn't changed her hairstyle in the past decade precisely because somehow, in that spooky kooky way of hers, she knows.
Which is why, every now and then, when he reaches out to tug on a pigtail and she smiles back at him not-so-chastely, he wonders how wrong it would actually be.
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