Incongruous.

Lacking in harmony; incompatible. Not keeping with what is correct, proper or logical.

Used in a phrase? How about "a joke that was incongruous with polite conversation."

Perhaps that suited him just as well.

Normally, Paul Lewiston would just accuse him of questionable ethics. As if questionable ethics weren’t the only kind it was possible to have. But this time the senior partner had merely looked out at him from his gray eyes and said, "I continue to find your behavior incongruous."

From the Latin for not to agree.

Not agreeable.

Admittedly, that much was true. He was not agreeable.

He was particularly feeling not agreeable today.

The world, by definition, could not be made to revolve in the manner one personally desired.

A truism.

One he railed against, nonetheless.

He peered down the security line to the crowded concourse beyond and curled his toes against the leather of his calfskin Ferragamos. Airports. Where the crowds made mincemeat of the intrinsic virtues of love for your fellow man and woman.

Lewiston had, of course, hand-chosen him to slush through the snowy Boston streets to Logan International when … congruously (the antonym to his current sobriquet brought a small smile to his lips) … he could have chosen Brad Chase, buff ex-Marine, to chase down unhelpful agents of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

He buffed his nails on the lapel of his coat then examined them critically. The woman next to him shuffled her carry-ons and the line moved infinitesimally forward.

He thought that, when he reached the checkpoint, he would perhaps see just how not agreeable he could be and still manage to get on the plane.

An amusement.

That was … congruous with his personality.

He liked amusements.

~oOo~

The trouble being - with amusements, that is - was that they never lasted. Habituation set in and the soul tired of them.

He was tired.

Tired of Lewiston.

Tired of … confinement.

He stretched as best as possible against the limitations of the coach seat in the belly of the 737.

Another twist of Lewiston’s knife.

Coach.

Definitely tired of Lewiston.

Tired, too, of …

Don’t be a coward. Admit it to yourself, he commanded.

Tired of Tara.

The old man next to him snorted softly in his sleep and began a slow, leaning descent toward his shoulder. Grimacing, he let the head of sparse gray hair settle on the seam of his favorite pinstriped Paul Smith suit.

Coach.

~oOo~

First things first, he decided.

If nothing else - although he would, he knew (well aware of his natural internal vanity), claim there was much, much more - but, still, if nothing else, he was a studied connoisseur of hotels.

Which is why he had quickly ditched the reservations made by Lewiston, and instead, now laid down his private platinum card on the marble reception desk of the Willard Intercontinental.

Perhaps, later tonight, he would go to the Round Robin Bar and have a mint julep in memory of Henry Clay’s introduction of the bourbon, sugar and mint concoction to the snowy Northlands.

He laid a hand on the cold, smooth grain of the marble.

Courtesies of a small and trivial character are the ones which strike deepest in the gratefully and appreciating heart.

Or an even better Clay quote.

An oppressed people are authorized whenever they can to rise and break their fetters.

In his case, authorized by Visa.

He looked around the elegant lobby.

Perhaps tonight, the cajoling of NCIS agents out of the way, a different kind of companionship was on order.

~oOo~

They say you have a …type.

But, he mused as the cab sped toward the Washington Navy Yard, dodging its fellows with the frightening inaccuracy of a bumper-capped pinball, his type had less to do with symmetry of the body than symmetry of the … soul.

Deep down, he was a lover of the … ethereal.

Not that a perfectly formed face, an elegantly structured body couldn’t turn his head. Not that he hadn’t happily boffed his dick off on occasion just because the base aesthetics of the package appealed to him.

Not that on those blissful, rare occasions, the Supreme Deity of one’s choice didn’t smile down on you and provide both a delectable body and a delectable mind.

But this was DC.

Obtaining a delectable body would be no problem.

A delectable mind was something else.

~oOo~

"I do not have to talk to you."

Even said with a smile, the clipped words of the first agent he came to - an attractive brunette in a skirt that could have used being just a smidgen shorter to better show off her admittedly shapely legs - were not heartening.

Neither was the way she turned her back on him, folders cradled between the crook of her arm and one admirably slim hip like a schoolgirl carrying her math text home.

"You have to forgive Kate, she only got to chapter two in the Big Book of Manners," drawled in a pleasant tenor from his right.

The brunette swiveled around to glare in the direction of the right-hand desk, earning a pleased chuckle from its occupant.

"Then perhaps you can assist me, Mr.-" He swung, hand stuck out in greeting, and verbally stumbled when he encountered …well, this was simply … delectable.

"DiNozzo," offered the younger man, easily filling the now pregnant pause, rising to offer his own hand. "Special Agent DiNozzo."

"Special Agent DiNozzo," he echoed, recovering himself. "Well, Special Agent DiNozzo," he couldn’t help but like the way the agent’s face lit up at the second recitation of his name, "I am Alan Shore, at least… temporarily of Crane, Poole and Schmidt."

"Sounds pricey."

"It is," he admitted.

"And what can NCIS do for you?"

"Very little, I’m afraid."

This put a vertical crease between the man’s blue-green eyes. "Okay."

"Nonetheless, I am obliged by my employer to attempt to garner, properly or improperly, your cooperation."

This utterance brought a rather delighted grin to the agent’s face and, in the glow of it, Alan found himself shifting to relieve the pressure of his suddenly snug trousers.

"I would be willing to bribe you with a late lunch," he offered, slightly restaging his stance once again as the subtle shifting hadn’t brought enough relief.

The agent turned his head toward a vacant desk across the aisle and, as if haunted by the desk’s invisible owner, said, "I’m afraid not."

"Perhaps, then, I could at least elicit your assistance in the pursuit of my assigned task."

The brunette returned, folderless, and the agent … DiNozzo, visibly preened under the attention that clearly had abandoned his colleague and settled, instead, on him. He could feel the glare of the brunette’s eyes boring through the wool of his overcoat.

"And what is your assigned task, Mr. Shore?"

"Alan," he corrected, wondering exactly who Agent DiNozzo was playing along for. Was the younger man interested in the brunette? Flirting to make her jealous?

"Alan," agreed the younger man, smiling again. "I’m -"

"Tony," came the warning, like a low growl, from the brunette.

"Yes, Kate?" the agent asked brightly.

"Mr. … Shore," the level of contempt she managed to pack into the syllable of his name had a Lewiston-like quality, "has no right to question us."

"And what exactly," asked Tony, turning his attention back toward the cause of his coworker’s consternation, "do you have no right to question me about?"

He retrieved the small leather notebook from this pocket, opening it to the last page of scribbled notations. "On the night of September 30, an Abdul-Halim Yasim was taken into custody by the fine operatives of your agency, perhaps," he speculated, "by … Kate," the laser mentally being bored through his back intensified, "and yourself. After that he … disappeared. We would like to know where he is. His parents are understandably concerned and they turned to us for help."

The agent looked sympathetic but he only shrugged and said, "In afraid we can’t divulge information regarding our ongoing cases."

"So this is an ongoing case," he restated.

The brunette growled the name again. "Tony."

From the Roman family name Antonius, his mind supplied, unasked. Sometimes claimed to mean "flower" from the Greek anthos.

He had known, as a child, that this preternatural storing of trivia that his brain cells seemed to do as a pure matter of course was …odd.

Had known that he was …odd.

Too bright by half.

As if you had any more control of the strength of your mind than you did of the color of your eyes.

The agent’s eyes were flecked, changeable in the cool fluorescent light. Green. Blue. Hazel. Almost … iridescent.

He gathered himself. "I have other federal employees to annoy. Perhaps if I stop by on my way out we could …" He trailed off, aware he was being scrutinized from both directions. "Or perhaps not."

The agent’s gaze flicked again to the empty desk. "I can’t divulge-"

"I understand," said Alan. "I can promise you it will be strictly ‘don’t ask / don’t tell’ type of evening."

The gaze flicked back and held his own in a silent appraisal.

"Five?" offered Tony.

"Five would be fine," he agreed. He nodded in the younger man’s direction, "Special Agent DiNozzo." He spun on his heel to meet the dark stare of the brunette. "Special Agent … Kate."

~oOo~

Love.

Love required things.

Even though everyone said it didn’t.

Perhaps if Tara hadn’t declared it.

But she had. She’d said it. And he’d … reciprocated. In his own way.

Denny’s declaration of affection he could take more easily. Almost from first glance, he and Denny had made a silent pact to fight the system. He forgave that Denny went duck hunting with Dick Cheney and Denny, likewise, forgave him the idiosyncrasies of his own soul.

It was, in its own way …love -- of a decidedly non-carnal kind.

He tapped his heels against the linoleum of the government-issued floor in the government-issued cafeteria, sucked the misbrewed coffee through thinned lips.

Tonight would not be about love.

~oOo~

"Special Agent DiNozzo."

God, it was a damn fine grin that greeted him.

"It’s after five. Call me Tony."

"Tony," he obliged.

"Like the way you say that way better than Kate."

He glanced toward the brunette’s now-empty desk but the only sound was the shuffling of papers behind him. When he turned, a kind of mournful-eyed look studied him from above the leaves of governmentese.

"McGee," said Tony neutrally, greeting this new apparition.

"Tony, Gibbs wouldn’t-"

"McGee." The tone this time was one of warning.

Perhaps, he mused, his hand coming up unmindfully to help the taller agent shrug into his leather coat, entire conversations could be held by the properly trained using only the other person’s name.

Teeth worried at a plumpish bottom lip of the other man. "Tony-"

But Tony merely put a hand on his elbow, a warm, strong grip steering him. "Goodnight, McGee."

In the elevator he found himself rising slightly on tiptoe to barely brush the curved shell of Tony’s ear, "You do understand I want to fuck you."

"Got that," confided Tony, breathing warm and damp against the curve of his jaw.

Oh, good … not about love at all.

~oOo~

"It is not true, as they rumor," reported Alan as he pored from the bottle of ’95 Comtes Blanc, "that the coupe," he twirled the so-named shallow bowl of the old-fashioined champagne glass in his hand, "was modeled on the breast of Marie Antoinette."

He offered the glass to Tony who was slouched in the upholstered cushions of one of the suite’s armchairs, already looking wonderfully debauched from the mauling they’d given each other at the door - jackets and ties stripped and lying forsaken on the Axminster carpet, shirt tails askew, the younger man’s lips slightly swollen and kiss-bruised.

"La plus grande sagesee de l'homme consiste à connaître ses folies," he quoted, raising his on glass in toast to the owner of the salon at the Port-Royal, "Madeleine de Souvré."

"I just love the French. They taste like chicken," Tony replied back, tipping his own coupe in Alan’s direction. "Hannibal Lector."

He felt his lips quirk up in a kind of relieved smile. So, Alan-the-intellectual was not needed - or apparently wanted -- here.

Good.

The lawyer, the relative ethicist, the quoter of erudite quotes could all be packed away for the night, could be retrieved, if needed, in the morning.

Having downed the glass, the younger man was already casting an eye toward the silk-covered duvet of the bed and Alan emptied his with one glup - a waste of expensive champagne that was both delightfully improvident and freeing.

Fast, first, he decided.

Then slow.

~oOo~

Slow consisted of a careful examination of the flushed skin. Of the body toned undoubtedly past US government standards. He kissed the hard plane of the abdomen, hands palming down slender hips, fingers kneading for a purchase on the solid muscles.

Age had taken its toll, his recovery time not what it used to be in the heyday of his legal youth. But there were other pleasures … aesthetic sensation for the brain that would, in its own good time, filter down to fillip his cock.

He worked his way down, postponing his attack on the quintessential goal, inhaling the pleasurable sent of musk as he kissed a rock-hard thigh, smiling at the twitch of the already half-erect phallus he was studiously ignoring.

Learning to wait would do the agent some good, prepare him for the future.

The legs were long, lean. The feet somehow delicate. He experimentally sucked a toe, looking up to see the cock rise a bit more. An impatient groan met the kiss he placed on the other foot and he murmured, "patience" softly. With a little more speed, he worked his way up the other long limb, reaching for the small bottle he’d dipped into before. Gently cupping the testicles in his well-oiled hand, and smiling at the slight buck of the hips the motion received, he ringed the base of the waiting cock, fingers curling around the silky warmth. The slide down produced a profound quiver and he repeated the motion around the expanding shaft.

His own cock filled in response to the minute shivering of its partner. He brought his other hand up, thumbs gently massaging the sensitive head until the motion brought forth a small incoherent gasp and the hips bucked harder. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he moved to put gentle pressure on the perineum, fingers trailing to circle the ring of tight muscle above it, barely slipping in when the younger man bucked again and he knew the slow pleasure was about to come to a lovely, if sadly abrupt, end.

Arching a bit, he took the shaft in his mouth, the taste of sweet oil and musk enticing his tongue. Once. Twice. With the third push, salty heat exploded in the back of his throat, a satisfied groan accompanying the final upward press of the hips. The body beneath him fell back in a limp ecstasy and he, too, came again, though with lesser force, collapsing atop the firm thighs.

~oOo~

"Why did you come with me?"

Tony laughed, "Why do you think?"

Alan smiled up at the ceiling. "Do you have someone that loves you, Special Agent DiNozzo?"

He turned to see the man’s forehead wrinkle in consideration. "Perhaps, someone you love," he prompted.

This, too, was met with silence.

"He’s something of legend in your office, you know."

Tony turned his head sharply and considered him with an even deeper frown.

"Special Agent Gibbs," he explained. "It was, by far, the most popular question of the day when I approached anyone. Why hasn’t Gibbs thrown you out? After a while, I realized he wasn’t the doorman."

"He’s at a terrorism conference."

He nodded, the soft pillowcase ruffling his hair like a caress. "Does he know?"

"Know?" asked Tony.

"This," he spread his hands over the disheveled sheets.

This time the laugh sounded forced. "I don’t report my off-duty activities to him."

"But I bet you do," he deduced. "At least the female ones." He turned back to contemplating the cream-colored ceiling. "Forgive me. I have cross-examined so many witnesses that I sometimes forget I’m not in court."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You’re often in court … nude?"

A tiny smile quirked his lips, "Only the once."

"If I ever need a lawyer," Tony began, "I think I want you."

"I am very expensive," he cautioned.

"But well worth the price," concluded Tony.

"Tell him."

"What?"

"Tell him," he ordered.

"Tell Gibbs that we-" Words failed the younger agent.

"Fucked," he supplied. "Only fucked. Tell him that you love him."

"And lose my job," Tony pointed out.

"People don’t get fired for having feelings toward their coworkers - only for fucking them. And if he does fire you, we’ll sue him. Well, as long as he hasn’t taken you up on the fucking part."

"He wouldn’t," Tony sighed.

"That is what makes the world a bearable place," he observed, "you never know."

~oOo~

Dressed, at the door, both wrapped tight against the early morning cold, they shared a final, deep kiss, breaking apart a little breathless.

Tony’s fingers toyed briefly with the short strands of his hair. "Does someone love you, Alan Shore?"

"Yes," he gave little discomforted cough, "amazingly, they seem to."

"Good," Tony opined.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it genuinely. "For everything." He slipped out into the hall, watched Tony close the door behind him. The younger man shrugged his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "I want to hear from you. I want to know if you told him …"

In the light of the hallway, the agent’s eyes were an almost crystalline blue.

"You deserve love."

~oOo~

He left him with a handshake in the lobby. Tony drawing his hand, warmed, from his pocket, the clasp holding a little too long. A little too tightly, neither of them willing to let the moment go, as if the release of their fingers would be what opened a crack in the dam that held back reality.

I fight reality, he thought wryly, and reality always wins.

Authority, however, had been known to lose spectacularly.

The DC streets were chilled and sludge-filled; the cab ride bumped him against the cold leather seat.

There were depositions to be taken, reports to be made. Court tomorrow. Abdul-Halim Yasim, as he knew he would be, was still lost … Lewiston’s fool’s errand. But, perhaps, if Lewiston really wanted him found, he’d be given his usual carte blanche, once Lewiston felt he had safely blanketed himself and the firm in plausible deniability.

He’d take Tara out tonight.

Love, when you were lucky enough to stumble upon it, needed to be nurtured.


~end~