Ficlet: The Hell With Plans, Anyway (NCIS, McGee/DiNozzo)
Title: The Hell With Plans, Anyway
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Tim/Tony
Rating: Not porny at all, sorry.
Spoilers: Set after the season 5 finale
Summary: Two months into his assignment on the Reagan, Tony gets called back to DC.
Notes: This was IM fic I rattled off a couple weeks ago to entertain kageygirl, working on the question "so who do you think would make the first move?" Prettied up for your enjoyment (I hope). 1000 words.
The day after he 'celebrates' his two-month anniversary afloat, Tony is notified that his testimony is urgently required in the Jonas appeal.
His testimony--which would be in court. Which would be in D.C.
Oh, he's perfectly happy with the thought of escaping the Reagan for a few days, don't get him wrong. He's not wild about the fact he's going to be in the air eighty percent of the time he's free from his shipboard purgatory, but hey, it's a change of scenery. The problem is that there are people in D.C., people he's not sure he's ready to face yet. He could barely face Gibbs right afterwards, and two months of reliving that day in his head still hasn't changed the fact that Jenny is dead.
So yeah, definitely going to avoid Gibbs. There's no chance of running into Ziva, of course, but the others... He'd love to see Abby and Ducky, but he knows that seeing them will just make going back all that much harder. And McGee-- He definitely doesn't want to see McGee, because, well, he doesn't. The reasons aren't important.
The plan, then, is simple. Land, get to court, do his best to make sure the bastard goes back where he belongs, pick up a few essentials, and get his ass back in the air without anyone ever knowing he was there.
His plan works perfectly--until he steps out of the courtroom to find the probie, er, McGee, waiting for him. He's gotten a haircut while Tony's been gone. Not short-short, thank God, but just enough so it doesn't do that awful bad-toupee flopping that McGee seemed to think was cool. No, his hair looks good now, the best Tony's ever seen it, and McGee's taste in clothes has taken yet another step upwards. Must have had time to surf fashion trends while he's been cooped up with the geek squad.
McGee cocks an eyebrow, and Tony realizes he's just been standing there, staring. Evaluating how good he looks. (Which is good. Very good.) But hey, in his defense, McGee had been staring back, too. Tony knows he should say something. Something on the lines of look what the cat dragged in, only witty and slightly cutting, something that emphasizes McGee's geekitude. Except he can't think of anything. He's out of practice. He's about to go with "I didn't expect to see you here," when McGee smiles and shakes his head, all grown-up and confident. Like he's the master and Tony the student.
"Come on. I know you've got to be dying for real food." McGee turns before Tony can say yes or no. He's a bit affronted by that, at McGee's cocky assurance--but the hell with it. McGee's right. Tony hasn't been starving on the Reagan, but the mess cooks sure haven't been trying for any Michelin stars. He falls into step beside McGee, and just that quick it's like they've never been apart. Except Tony's still stupidly fascinated by the way Tim's hair falls over his ears, and the insults don't seem to be coming as quickly and easily as they should.
McGee, it turns out, really is a genius. Beyond genius, whatever that superlative is, because he takes Tony to a new pizza place that opened up sometime in the last two months. And it's gooood. Genuinely gut-sticking, artery-clogging, mouth-orgasming good pizza, the kind he'll still be able to taste weeks from now. He's almost looking forward to returning to his post, because he knows he'll be able to lick his lips and remember sausage and pepperoni hot on his tongue, garlic deep in the back of his throat.
He's stuffed down his third big piece and is staring at a fourth, wondering whether it's better to make himself sick for the joy of gluttony now or to save it until it's cold and greasy and spawning botulism in his backpack, when McGee clears his throat.
Tony looks up, because it's a nervous probie tick, something that doesn't match up with the wise Jedi who's been accompanying him through lunch. McGee's not looking at him at all. He has, in fact, become deeply fascinated by the grease-stained paper from his straw. He's twisting it between his fingers like he's trying to make the Olympic origami team. Tony almost asks, but it's not his place to worry about McGee anymore. They might still work for the same agency, but they're not teammates, and in a few hours he's going to be back on a plane, flying to catch the sun and whatever is left of his career.
God, he's maudlin sometimes. Might as well add indigestion on top of it, he thinks, and reaches for the slice.
"Do you have plans after this?" McGee asks, and for some reason--the grease, probably--Tony's fingers don't connect with the crust. "I mean, before you have to leave."
"Sheets," Tony blurts, because suddenly his entire shopping agenda has collapsed into a messy jumble, and he's unable to sort it into a logical explanation. He gropes for his napkin and somehow manages to come up with his brain again in the process. "I mean, I was going to shop for a few things that I missed. Good sheets, good chocolate, The Dark Knight on bootleg."
"I don't think you're going to find that in any stores, Tony."
Tony smiles and leans in close. "Yeah, but I bet you can work a little magic for me, McGee. Baby."
It's not until the words finish coming out of his mouth that he realizes how flirty they sound. He tells himself it's not a big deal. Flirty is his standard operational mode. McGee's used to it by now, surely.
Except McGee's (Tim's) eyes have gone dark, and he's leaning forward. "Okay," he says, like he's answering a question Tony didn't ask. "Come back to my place, and I'll take care of you."
Tony scrambles for his water. He has to force his muscles to swallow the liquid, even though he's burning up inside and out. Tim absolutely did not mean that that way. He couldn't have. Not at all.
"Tony?" Tim asks, and sounding first-year nervous again, and oh, wow, he really did mean it that way.
Tony sets his water down. "Yeah," he croaks out. "Oh, yeah. Let's go."
Tim flushes all the way down to his collar, but his smile is as confident as Tony's ever seen it. Tony grins back at him, and together they turn towards the door. He's going to have to face life on the Reagan without a new set of Egyptian cotton sheets to warm his bunk--but he's pretty sure that getting to see McGee's will more than make up for it.
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Tim/Tony
Rating: Not porny at all, sorry.
Spoilers: Set after the season 5 finale
Summary: Two months into his assignment on the Reagan, Tony gets called back to DC.
Notes: This was IM fic I rattled off a couple weeks ago to entertain kageygirl, working on the question "so who do you think would make the first move?" Prettied up for your enjoyment (I hope). 1000 words.
The day after he 'celebrates' his two-month anniversary afloat, Tony is notified that his testimony is urgently required in the Jonas appeal.
His testimony--which would be in court. Which would be in D.C.
Oh, he's perfectly happy with the thought of escaping the Reagan for a few days, don't get him wrong. He's not wild about the fact he's going to be in the air eighty percent of the time he's free from his shipboard purgatory, but hey, it's a change of scenery. The problem is that there are people in D.C., people he's not sure he's ready to face yet. He could barely face Gibbs right afterwards, and two months of reliving that day in his head still hasn't changed the fact that Jenny is dead.
So yeah, definitely going to avoid Gibbs. There's no chance of running into Ziva, of course, but the others... He'd love to see Abby and Ducky, but he knows that seeing them will just make going back all that much harder. And McGee-- He definitely doesn't want to see McGee, because, well, he doesn't. The reasons aren't important.
The plan, then, is simple. Land, get to court, do his best to make sure the bastard goes back where he belongs, pick up a few essentials, and get his ass back in the air without anyone ever knowing he was there.
His plan works perfectly--until he steps out of the courtroom to find the probie, er, McGee, waiting for him. He's gotten a haircut while Tony's been gone. Not short-short, thank God, but just enough so it doesn't do that awful bad-toupee flopping that McGee seemed to think was cool. No, his hair looks good now, the best Tony's ever seen it, and McGee's taste in clothes has taken yet another step upwards. Must have had time to surf fashion trends while he's been cooped up with the geek squad.
McGee cocks an eyebrow, and Tony realizes he's just been standing there, staring. Evaluating how good he looks. (Which is good. Very good.) But hey, in his defense, McGee had been staring back, too. Tony knows he should say something. Something on the lines of look what the cat dragged in, only witty and slightly cutting, something that emphasizes McGee's geekitude. Except he can't think of anything. He's out of practice. He's about to go with "I didn't expect to see you here," when McGee smiles and shakes his head, all grown-up and confident. Like he's the master and Tony the student.
"Come on. I know you've got to be dying for real food." McGee turns before Tony can say yes or no. He's a bit affronted by that, at McGee's cocky assurance--but the hell with it. McGee's right. Tony hasn't been starving on the Reagan, but the mess cooks sure haven't been trying for any Michelin stars. He falls into step beside McGee, and just that quick it's like they've never been apart. Except Tony's still stupidly fascinated by the way Tim's hair falls over his ears, and the insults don't seem to be coming as quickly and easily as they should.
McGee, it turns out, really is a genius. Beyond genius, whatever that superlative is, because he takes Tony to a new pizza place that opened up sometime in the last two months. And it's gooood. Genuinely gut-sticking, artery-clogging, mouth-orgasming good pizza, the kind he'll still be able to taste weeks from now. He's almost looking forward to returning to his post, because he knows he'll be able to lick his lips and remember sausage and pepperoni hot on his tongue, garlic deep in the back of his throat.
He's stuffed down his third big piece and is staring at a fourth, wondering whether it's better to make himself sick for the joy of gluttony now or to save it until it's cold and greasy and spawning botulism in his backpack, when McGee clears his throat.
Tony looks up, because it's a nervous probie tick, something that doesn't match up with the wise Jedi who's been accompanying him through lunch. McGee's not looking at him at all. He has, in fact, become deeply fascinated by the grease-stained paper from his straw. He's twisting it between his fingers like he's trying to make the Olympic origami team. Tony almost asks, but it's not his place to worry about McGee anymore. They might still work for the same agency, but they're not teammates, and in a few hours he's going to be back on a plane, flying to catch the sun and whatever is left of his career.
God, he's maudlin sometimes. Might as well add indigestion on top of it, he thinks, and reaches for the slice.
"Do you have plans after this?" McGee asks, and for some reason--the grease, probably--Tony's fingers don't connect with the crust. "I mean, before you have to leave."
"Sheets," Tony blurts, because suddenly his entire shopping agenda has collapsed into a messy jumble, and he's unable to sort it into a logical explanation. He gropes for his napkin and somehow manages to come up with his brain again in the process. "I mean, I was going to shop for a few things that I missed. Good sheets, good chocolate, The Dark Knight on bootleg."
"I don't think you're going to find that in any stores, Tony."
Tony smiles and leans in close. "Yeah, but I bet you can work a little magic for me, McGee. Baby."
It's not until the words finish coming out of his mouth that he realizes how flirty they sound. He tells himself it's not a big deal. Flirty is his standard operational mode. McGee's used to it by now, surely.
Except McGee's (Tim's) eyes have gone dark, and he's leaning forward. "Okay," he says, like he's answering a question Tony didn't ask. "Come back to my place, and I'll take care of you."
Tony scrambles for his water. He has to force his muscles to swallow the liquid, even though he's burning up inside and out. Tim absolutely did not mean that that way. He couldn't have. Not at all.
"Tony?" Tim asks, and sounding first-year nervous again, and oh, wow, he really did mean it that way.
Tony sets his water down. "Yeah," he croaks out. "Oh, yeah. Let's go."
Tim flushes all the way down to his collar, but his smile is as confident as Tony's ever seen it. Tony grins back at him, and together they turn towards the door. He's going to have to face life on the Reagan without a new set of Egyptian cotton sheets to warm his bunk--but he's pretty sure that getting to see McGee's will more than make up for it.