His eyes are the color of Indiana sky over snow-blanketed cornfields.

Kathryn doesn't remember when the thought first came to her, but it always brings the same twist of feelings: the blanket-swathed warmth of home with klaxon-sharp anxiety. She can't think those things about Tom–about Lieutenant Paris--not now, not ever.

Despite herself, other thoughts creep in. The grace of his fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the dryness of his wit. The way he has a special smile, just for her.

When the tension finally snaps, when his face closes in on hers, his Indiana eyes say nothing but home.

She shows up at his door a month after Gibbs takes off, bottle of scotch in hand.

"We need to get some things straight, DiNozzo," she opens, and he lets her in. Finds a pair of glasses and some ice.

"I'm never going to sleep with you," she says after the first swallow.

He nods. The ice melts in his drink as he holds her eyes. "And I'm never going to roll over for you, Director."

They both know they're lying. For the time being, it's good enough.

Gibbs returns before either of them can go back on their word.

Rodney paused mid-rant, mouth open, blinking like he'd just heard Sam Carter'd figured out Unified Theory.

Then he leaned in and sniffed at John's mouth.

"McKay! What the hell?" He shoved at Rodney's shoulder, but Rodney changed tactics, patting the front of John's shirt. John caught Rodney's wrist just as he was going for John's pants pockets.

"Not here, Rodney," he hissed, baring his teeth in Lorne's direction in what he hoped was a put-upon smile.

"I want it," Rodney growled. John almost gave into the urge for quality closet time, until Rodney added, "Hand over the chocolate, Colonel. Now."

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