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Title: What Happened In Vegas
Pairing: Abby Sciuto/Anthony DiNozzo
Word Count: 628
Summary: They don't even believe in marriage, yet here they are.
Author's Notes: This is part three of a work in progress. Part one and two help make this one make sense. Concrit and feedback are always appreciated.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
***“Husband?” Abby calls, pausing to slip off her boots. He doesn’t answer, but she didn’t really expect him to. She pads into the kitchen to find him leaning over the dishwasher. The cargo pants do nice things, and he tenses just a little as she slides her hands over his bottom and squeezes. “Still packing a nice booty, DiNozzo.”
“Glad you approve,” he leans into her arms as she slips them around his waist. Abby rests her cheek against his shoulder. He smells like the green apple dish soap and fading cologne. “I take it our guests are gone?”
“Finally,” she glances at the clock, it’s well after eleven. “You know, I think I want to keep you. It’s not easy to find a boy-toy who also helps with the housework.”
“I’m a boy-toy now?” he turns to face her, reaching under her hair to rub her shoulders. Abby closes her eyes as he finds all the little knots and eases them. He’s good with his hands and they both know it. The same way he knows she can’t think when he drags his thumbs along the sides of her neck.
“Tony,” she draws his name out, moan and prayer and her brain’s fuzzy. “You’re not only a boy-toy, and you know it.”
“Do I? You’re the one who’s talking about leaving, what happens on vacation stays on vacation,” he changes the pressure, moving his hands down her back. He holds his breath as she tugs his tie loose, undoing the top button of his shirt. Her lips are warm against his throat.
“I don’t know what else to do. You don’t want to be married. We don’t even believe in marriage, and I’m not even remotely your type and I’m pretty sure you aren’t mine,” she draws the length of silk from under his collar, curling it around her fingers.
“Wish you’d told me that before I said ‘I do.’ You aren’t a fan of tall, dark and handsome?”
“You don’t date Goths and tattoos turn you off,” she looks up into his eyes.
“Things change,” he shrugs, not missing the flash of hurt across her face. He says stupid things, they both know that, and god knows he’s spent years kicking himself for that comment.
He pulls her closer, holding her tight against his chest. She’s like water, bending to fit the shape of the container, pouring herself into his arms.
“I can’t talk about this while we’re touching,” she whispers. “Not when we’re like this.”
“Then let’s not talk about it,” he says, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Just be here with me tonight, and let me take care of you.”
“You already do, sweetie,” she leans into him, tired, and he’s warm and this is good. She could stay like this with him, he holds her just right and she doesn’t mind standing still for him. And really, it’s for her, too. She knows that, just like she knows they aren’t in love, not exactly. “Tony, I like you but—”
“Shh...” he places a finger over her lips. “You said one more night, and that conversation can wait.”
“We don’t have much time,” she says, meeting his eyes. It’s hard to think when he’s looking back at her like that, like she’s the only woman he’s held like this, instead of one of hundreds. Maybe he forgets, too, that he’s one of many. Maybe that’s why he smiles, pressing his lips to hers.
Abby thinks kissing him should be a revelation, a lightning strike, something dramatic, but mostly, it’s a kiss. He tastes like wine and she tastes like sugar, and lips are just lips when it all comes down to it. She’s kissing him, she’s kissing Tony, though, and that matters.
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