They say that, after divorce, moving house is the next most stressful event in a person's life and, after four days of sorting and wrapping and packing, I'm inclined to agree.

Sorting through my own stuff had been easy: most of it had gone into storage years ago, when I started spending more time at Gibbs' house than in my own apartment, and most of what was left wasn't worth keeping anyhow. I mean, how many pairs of ragged out old jeans, tatty paperbacks and scratched DVDs does a guy need?

Gibbs house is a different matter entirely and even he's been forced to agree with me that taking the whole week to pack things up was a good idea. It's not so much the things that we're keeping, have to be wrapped and boxed for transportation across the city that are the problem, it's the twenty or so years of accumulated junk that has to be sorted and bagged and, given the levels of security that come with our respective jobs and the nature of our private lives... not that we're careless... it's just better to do it ourselves. Anyhow, the arguments over what constitutes trash, what can go to goodwill and what Gibbs insists we have to keep, even though it is of no apparent use, have almost brought us to blows on more than one occasion...

Today is day five and we've finally reached the attic, and if I thought packing up the basement, with Jethro's vast collection of hand tools, boat plans and – stuff - was bad, the attic is ten times worse, not least because of the legion of spiders and other creepy-crawlies lurking in every dark corner.

I don't like bugs.

I seal yet another box and slide it towards the trapdoor, where Gibbs is perched on the ladder, waiting to carry it away and add it to the pile of 'keepers'. My watch is down in the bedroom, so I ask the time.

"A little past noon,' he says. 'Why?"

"Because I'm hungry," I complain. It's hours since breakfast and that was only a bowl of 'Cap'n Crunch'. "I'm hungry and I'm tired; I've got dust in my nose and cobwebs in my –"

"Will a beer help?" Jethro asks placidly, giving me one of those little quirky half-smiles that I love. "I think there's a couple left in the cool box."

I grin, and I can feel the dirt cracking into the folds of my face. Still, we'll have fun later trying to clean each other up in the big-enough-for-two tub in the new house. I can't wait to try it out... "Now I remember why I fell in love with you," I say, and lean closer, stealing a dusty kiss.

Gibbs shakes his head. "Good to know you're so easy to please." He disappears from view, the box balanced precariously on his shoulder as he makes his way down the ladder.

"A sandwich would be good!" I yell after him. His only response is a grunt.

Thinking that work will help me forget the grumblings of hunger emanating from my deprived stomach, I move deeper into the attic and drag out a box that's been hiding in the corner. Most of the junk we've been sorting has been in cardboard cartons of the kind picked up at the market or, in one case, the leftover packaging from Gibbs' ancient and now redundant portable television. This box is different. It's an old steamer trunk, Victorian or maybe Edwardian. It's sturdy, with strong clasps and metal reinforcements at the corners and it speaks of age and permanence. There is a thick layer of dust on the top and I can't help thinking it hasn't been opened in years, maybe even decades, so I pick up a rag and carefully wipe away the grime from the brass nameplate screwed to the lid.

'Property of Margaret W. Jackson.'

'Who in the hell is Margaret Jackson?' More to the point, what is her trunk doing in Gibbs' attic? I wonder, does he even know it's there? Maybe it's not even his and it's been there since before he moved in and somehow went unnoticed all this time. Twenty-five years is a long time and until we began moving things around this part of the attic had been barricaded from view by the dozens of newer boxes. On the other hand, maybe it belonged to some ancestor of one of the ex-wives, overlooked during the heat of an acrimonious divorce.

Of course, the mystery trunk appeals to my curiosity and I'm in there in a heartbeat, tracing the lock with a fingertip and wondering what secrets lie within. All my life I've been fascinated with sealed documents, locked boxes and barred doors – anything that hints at hidden treasures or puzzles waiting to be solved. Maybe that's why I became an investigator, because I love a mystery. It was certainly what drew me to Gibbs in the first place – that, and his beautiful blue eyes... and the killer smile... and the way he refuses to back down when he knows he is right.

Okay, getting a little off-topic here.

The clasps of the trunk are dull with lack of use and there is a suspicion of rust at the hinges but it looks only superficial so I try the latches: they hold fast at first, a tribute to the craftsmanship of an earlier age, but a little more pressure and they give way, popping open with a loud snap!. A quick glance around, listening intently for any sound of Jethro's return, I carefully pry up the heavy lid.

The first thing that hits me is the scent of age, the dusty, slightly musty perfume of old flowers, of lavender and roses and the faintest whiff of Channel No.5, faded and distant as a long forgotten summer's day. It reminds me of my grandmother's rooms in the house on Long Island, all those years ago, and I close my eyes for a moment as the memories, the only sweet ones from my otherwise mediocre childhood, wash through me. But the mystery of the trunk soon gets the better of me, drawing me back to my quest with promises of treasures to be uncovered.

There's a velvet cloth resting on top of the contents of the trunk; in the dim light I can't quite make out the colour, but it's dark and soft, the nap dragging across my fingertips as I lift it aside and lean into the box.

Books – old ones, leather bound and tooled in gold and silver that has tarnished with age. I open one, a bible, and read the dedication: To our Darling Eileen on her birthday, with love from Mamma and Papa'.

The date beneath the inscription is May seventh, eighteen fifty-two.

A shiver of excitement runs through me at the thought of holding something so old, and again I'm wondering who 'Eileen' might be, and who she was in relation to Jethro that an item of such obvious sentimental value has found its way into his possession.

I put the bible and the other books on top of the velvet cloth and did deeper, lifting out leather covered box. Inside, on a bed of white satin that's just starting to yellow around the edges, sits a triple strand of pearls and a matching pair of earrings. I figure they pre-date the book because my mom owned a set just like them, handed down to her by her grandmother. I wonder if they, like the bible, belonged to Eileen, or if this belongs to yet another strand of Jethro's ancestry?

I can't hold back the sigh of regret that slips from my lips. It hurts to know that even after almost a dozen years together there are still things that Jethro feels the need to keep hidden. I know it's not that he doesn't trust me with his secrets; he just can't seem to let his guard down after so many years of keeping that part of him shut away. When we met he already had three failed marriages under his belt and each one of them had torn out a piece of him and that, coming on top of the loss of Shannon and Kelly, had come close to breaking him so, to protect himself, he turned the anger and hurt and disappointment in on himself. It's not so much that he doesn't trust me; more that he just doesn't trust himself to trust.

Does that make sense?

Back to the trunk.

There's an old cookie tin under the jewel case. I take it out and I know I shouldn't be doing this, because my hands are shaking as I open the lid. I should stop, now, before he catches me and I start another fight, but I can't seem to back off. As much as I know my digging into his past will disappoint him, I have to go on. I have to know...

The tin is like millions of other tins and boxes and albums all over the world: filled with photographs and greeting cards, a lifetime of birthdays and anniversaries, of holidays and family events. Inscriptions to 'Our dear Son' or 'My Darling Wife' depict a loving family and suddenly I feel ashamed of what I've done. Ashamed and – guilty. I know I was never meant to see these – if I had been, Jethro would have shared them with me long ago. This is the most private part of his life, guarded even more closely than the memories of his wife and daughter, and I've barged in with no thought to the consequences. If Gibbs ever finds out...

I quickly return the cards to the tin and try to close the lid...

... but a hand reaches down and grasps my shoulder, and a voice murmurs 'It's okay, Tony...', and – God! – it's so gentle and understanding that I feel even more guilty than I had before.

"Boss!" Funny how in times of stress I fall back into the old ways. "I-I didn't mean..."

I try to stand, but my feet are scrambling for purchase on the wooden boards and I can't get any leverage, and then suddenly my injured knee decides to give out and I go down, hard, on my damaged hip. I swear I can feel the steel pins holding my leg together grind against the bone and it's enough to make me cry out. Guess it's nothing more than I deserve and I feel myself flinch when Jethro's hand presses me back down, commanding me to stay where I am.

"Easy... It's okay." Reassurance repeated as he hunkers down at my side and takes hold of my hand, his own knees popping in protest at the sudden pressure on them. 'Take it slow, love. Yeah... that's it..." He shifts around me and helps straighten out my leg, supporting the weakened joint with one hand and massaging the muscle with the other. Magic Hands...that's what I called him after I got out the hospital and he took over my physiotherapy. Always knew exactly where to touch and how, and for how long. And yeah, I admit, there were times I played it up just to get him to touch me because I knew we both needed to be reminded that I was still alive.

"Better?" he asks, and it is. Like I said – Magic Hands.

I start to apologise, but he shakes his head. "Not all the memories in there are good, but there's nothing I'm ashamed of." His smile is wistful and so full of love that for a moment I can't bear it and I look away. Ever noticed how fascinating dust bunnies can be?

"Doesn't mean I've got the right to go prying through your life."

He sighs and clips me lightly on the back of the head, more a caress than an actual blow. "You were not prying. And even if you were, you've got every right."

"I do?"

"Yes." In one smooth move, he captures my chin and brings it around until I'm looking deep into his eyes, where I can see the sincerity clear as day. "You're my lover, Tony. You're my best friend, my partner... my husband, if that's how you want to think of it – they all mean the same thing, and they all give you the right to share the memories from my past as much as the ones we make together."

I look down at our joined hands and notice the casual way Jethro's thumb is moving lightly back and forth over the twisted rope of gold and platinum that encircles my ring finger. We never made a big thing of it, no big public declarations, just me and Jethro and a few loyal friends, and two words as we traded rings: Semper Fi. We didn't need anything else.

Lover... Partner... husband...None of them sounds right and all of them are inadequate when used to define what we share. Who needs labels anyway? We are what we are and the world can make of it what it wants.

'You really don't mind?' I ask. He tugs my hand to his lips and promises: 'I really don't mind. Then he gives another one of those quirky little smiles that turn my legs to jelly and adds 'Matter of fact, there's a pizza with your name on it in the kitchen, along with a couple of cold beers.'

'You ordered pizza?' And just like that the trunk is forgotten. What d'you mean – 'shallow'?

'You can have that sandwich if you prefer...'

'No! No, pizza is fine. Pizza is good. I love pizza...' Okay, so maybe shallow is right...

He smirks. 'So why don't we haul this downstairs, and when we've done eating we can go through it – together.'

I want to accept, I really do, but a part of me can't help thinking that maybe Jethro is just doing this because I've got him boxed into a corner. Doing it because he thinks he should, not because he wants to. I offer - 'We don't have to...' – but he shakes his head.

'Not doing this because I think I have to, love,' he says, with his usual unnerving insight. 'Doing it because I want to share this with you. It's time.'

He pushes to his feet and holds out a hand to me, and between us we get me back on my feet and manoeuvre the trunk down to the kitchen. This time I go down the ladder first, bearing the bulk of the load – not because I have to, or because I think Gibbs can't manage it: I want to do it. I guess in some way I see it as atonement for my perceived invasion of his private life.

The living room has been stripped almost bare now, everything either packed away for storage or already transported across town to the new house. Only the old, uncomfortable sofa is still there and we share the pizza and beer, sitting side by side, using the trunk as a makeshift table. While we eat we talk about the work we still have left to do, and where this picture or that piece of furniture will go in the new house, and how the heck are we going to get the latest boat out of the basement... I wonder if we're both working to hold off the moment when we open the box.

But the moment comes when we've eaten all the pizza and the beer bottles are empty, and there is not more excuse to delay. So we meticulously wash every last trace of grease from our fingers and Gibbs opens the trunk once more, setting aside the folded velvet – which is actually a deep emerald green –and turns to look at me with an openness of expression that sets my pulse racing.

'So,' he begins. 'What do you want to know?'

I struggle to answer the question at first. Do I want to know about the books...? Or Eileen...? Or the pearls, maybe...? Or the tin of photographs...? Or is there something else in the box, something even more important?

Gibbs waits patiently, his gaze shifting between my face and the contents of the trunk and back again, and still I can't decide where I want to begin – or how much I really want to know. And when I do eventually open my mouth to speak, I snap it shut again before something inane slips out to embarrass us both, and just – shrug.

'You know you can ask me anything you want...'

'Yeah, but... I can't think of anything...'

He smiles at me and it's tender and understanding and reassuring. In fact it's everything I love about the man that the rest of the world never gets to see.

'Okay, why don't we come at this from another angle?' He reaches into the trunk, takes out the jewel case and the books and sets them carefully aside, then he leans further into the box to pull out a large photograph album that has certainly seen better days. Shifting closer, he places the album into my hands and opens it to the first page. For a moment he's thoughtful, tracing the face there with the tip of a finger, and then with a sigh he says softly: 'Anthony DiNozzo... Say hello to my great grandmother, Elizabeth Gibbs...'

End