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Title: Ink and Metal
Author: rebecca
Pairing: Gibbs/Abby
Rating: PG
Summary: Nine tattoos, dozens of stories, and countless nights.
Notes: This one is for me. I wrote it for the ncis_flashfic challenge on "Marks", and since that's now over I can go ahead and post it here. Enjoy.
Abby has nine tattoos, currently. Nine tattoos, from the stick figure angel on her shoulder to the infinity symbol on her arm to the spiderweb on her neck to the beautiful, intricate cross on her back. Nine tattoos, and Gibbs knows them all as surely and as intimately as if they were his own. He can trace them with his fingers, his lips, his tongue, in the bright light of day and in the dark with nothing more to guide him than the curves and planes of Abby's body.
There's a story behind each one, but there are dozens of stories regarding them. How she got them, why she got them, when and where and who did it, who picked up the needle and the ink and drew the lines on her pale skin. She's told him these stories, one night at a time, one design at a time.
It started after the first time, when they lay in his bed and he traced the infinity symbol on her arm and she told him about it. How it had been her first tattoo, when she'd been sixteen, and she'd slept with the artist in lieu of a tip.
Frankly, Gibbs thinks the artist got the better deal.
The second time, she told him about the angel on her shoulder, as they lay together--still in his bed--and he traced its outline with his tongue, making her laugh as she told him about being twenty-one and in college.
He'd thought that would be it, then. Nine tattoos, nine stories, and she'd be gone.
He's never told her how grateful he is that he was wrong. Because she wasn't done after nine stories. She told him about the infinity symbol again, about being alone and hurting after a bad breakup and looking at her arm, and how it made her remember that everything comes full circle, that there is no true end to anything, only turns and twists in the road.
Gibbs isn't so sure he agrees with her philosophy, but arguing with Abby is guaranteed to do nothing but give him a headache and end with her laughing at both of them. And while he doesn't mind her laughter--he loves it, really--he'd rather do without the headache.
The stories kept coming, one after another, until she turned to him one night and said she was done, that she had no more stories for now. And he'd thought that would be it for them.
Once again, he was wrong. Abby just yawned and snuggled down next to him and in the morning, he woke up with her mouth on his cock. She came home with him that night and he didn't ask her to leave and that, as they say, was that.
Countless nights later and he hasn't gotten over his fascination with her marks, black lines on fair skin, a map to Abby's mind if you know how to look. Gibbs is fairly certain he doesn't, but he's also fairly certain he doesn't care. And Abby seems more than content to let him find his way.
But what's good for the goose is good for the gander, and there have been nights where he's felt her gentle fingers trace over his own marks. His aren't as pretty or as decorative as Abby's, nor are they designed to be seen. A jagged slash across his right shoulderblade, a white line on his left thigh. The mark where Ari shot him.
Gibbs closes his eyes when he feels her trace his scars, because he doesn't want to tell her the stories. He doesn't want to tell her about Panama, or Iraq. His marks weren't made with ink, but with metal--a jagged piece of shrapnel, a sharp-edged knife.
A bullet.
He has scars he'll never tell her about, and marks that have faded too much for even her to see. Like her, he has dozens of stories. Unlike her, he won't share them.
He's not idiotic enough to think she hasn't read his service record. But seeing the words in black and white is a far cry from jungles and deserts, of holding men as they fought for their lives. All these stories he could tell her. He never will.
Abby talks about getting another tattoo sometimes. One for him. A boat, she says, or maybe a cup of coffee. She's not sure which is more appropriate; after all, she says, he hasn't finished the boat yet.
Gibbs wonders if one day she'll tell someone else her stories, and if there will be ten tattoos at that point. He wonders what she'll say about the boat, or the coffee mug, or whatever she might eventually decide on. If she'll call him another turn in the road.
Black ink and hot metal. Careful lines and jagged scars.
She's left her own, invisible tattoo on his heart. He wonders if he's left a mark on hers. |
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