Oh, The Places You'll Go

An Interesting Proposal

Notes: Consider this spoilery for the entire season 8 so far, takes place up to post 806. Given the once over by villainny for which many thanks.

"We should get married," says Tony.

And Tim says, "Buh?"


Tony doesn't know how it started. No, scratch that, he totally knows how it got started--with him dragging Tim by the tie into the storage closet--he just can't explain why.

They're walking down the hallway and Tim is enthusiastically saying, "No, Tony, you don't understand. The best thing about poutine is..." and his hands flail in front of him as if he can't get the words out and his eyes are shining and the closet is right there. Before Tony even registers what he's doing, he's got Tim's tie wrapped around his fist, is backheeling the door open and yanking Tim through it. It's stuffy and it smells like something died in there and someone really botched the attempt at cleaning it up, but he kicks the door shut, backs Tim up against it and kisses him as if it's the only thing that will save the world, Batman.

He pulls back, and it's too dark in there to read Tim's face, but he can hear the heavy breathing and he figures, go for it, why the hell not?

"Yes?" he asks.


If Tony had to pick an emotion from that single syllable he'd go with surprised--which, maybe not so surprising. And so he goes, with only the slightest twinge (thanks, physio lady) to his knees.

When he's done--when they're done--he looks up at Tim, now a shadowy outline to his dark-adjusted eyes and says, "Still want to go back to Canada, huh?"

Tim says, "What? I never... Tony, what?" but Tony has his finger to his lips and is telling Tim to count to 100 after Tony's gone before following.

Tony smoothes down his hair, adjusts Tim's tie and takes him by the shoulders, moving him gently away from the door. He opens it a sliver, through sheer force of willpower managing not to do a Dracula-style recoil from the harsh fluorescent light, and peers out. Coast clear. He's sauntered halfway down the hallway when it hits him. He just had sex. With Tim. He had sex with Tim.

He rounds the corner and it's all he can do not to sprint his way to the men's room. He just. Had sex. With Tim. No amount of water splashing his face is going to make it not be true. Tony dabs at his face with a paper towel and stares at himself in the mirror. He swallows hard, tasting Tim on his tongue, on the back of his throat, and puts a hand to his stomach as it tries to flip its way to an Olympic medal. It's fine, it's cool, everything's smooth. It was a fun little trip down Memory Highway to Bi-Town, but now he's back. It's not like anything has to change. It's not like they're going to do it again.

Only Intern Conrad pisses Tony off, and not only because he's a spoiled rich kid who doesn't get it. At least when Tony'd been a spoiled rich kid he'd still wanted to get the girl and kill the baddies and had had both the plastic handcuffs and the cape to prove it. Conrad's over-privileged, vest-wearing ways are bringing out the alpha-McGee, though, and before Tony can stop himself he's making a crack about Tim's sex life (or lack of). Tim doesn't even have the decency to be hurt or offended, he just looks at Tony with amused contempt and suddenly Tony's jonesing so hard for Tim's dick he almost forgets how to breathe.

The second Gibbs and Ziva are gone, Tony snarls, "Conference," at Tim and stalks off without checking he's following. He's at Tony's shoulder in a couple of seconds, though, asking questions. Tony holds up a hand to shush him. They get to the storage closet. Tony stops and checks both directions before opening the door and ushering Tim in with a flourish.

Tim doesn't make a move to enter, only tips his head to the side and gives Tony a quizzical look.

"Don't make me beg you, McMark." says Tony through gritted teeth.

Tim nods and walks in.

There's not enough time for everything Tony wants to do, so he gets to business and shoves his hand down Tim's pants as they kiss. Tim's dick swells in Tony's hand as he strokes it, thumbing over the head. It makes him feel powerful--superhuman even. Tim tries to return the favor, but he's left-handed and it's awkward with both arms trying to occupy the same space. Tony bats his hand away, tugging his own belt undone and his pants open, mirroring his efforts on Tim. Tim has one hand splayed on Tony's back and his tongue doing strange, yet awesome things to the underside of Tony's lips and it's so hard for Tony to think straight that he's proud of the fact that he's somehow managed to wind up with both his and Tim's dicks in his hand. He twists and pulls and--jesus, fuck--it feels so good he doesn't even notice when they stop kissing and stand, foreheads and noses squashed together, panting out harsh breaths into each other's mouths. Tim's fingers dig into Tony's back and he grips Tony's forearm with the other hand, the strength of it not letting Tony tire.

Tim's fingers spasm and Tony feels the crease of Tim's eyebrows and the rippling pulses along his shaft as he comes, the thick wetness sliding over his fingers. Tim releases Tony's forearm and grabs him by the scruff of the neck, tipping their heads upright for another kiss. The slick slide of Tim's lips over his and of Tim's come over his dick is enough to send Tony over the edge.

"Oh god," he says, lips squashed against Tim's, and comes hard, knees shaking and eyelids fluttering.

Always practical, Tim turns on the light and locates the boxes of TP, ripping into a roll and handing over a wad of paper to Tony. He flicks his eyes up from where he's taking care of himself and says, "Could have been worse."

"Yeah," says Tony, pulling at his stained boxers. "At least it's laundry day. I could've been wearing Armani silk." He shudders with exaggerated horror.

"So you wanna?" says Tim, gesturing to the door when they're put back together again, still avoiding proper eye contact.

"Ladies first," says Tony, and totally deserves the headslap he gets as Tim sneaks out past him.

This time he doesn't even pretend he doesn't want it to happen again.

And it does. Because bombs are totally hot, and because McGinty shouldn't look at British guys that way and because arguments about baseball should always wind up in frantic sex. And because it's Tuesday and because Tony's always had a thing for stripy shirts and because Tim keeps twisting a coin between his fingers and they're just. So. Long. Somewhere in there they start to fuck with the light on and Tony has about every shelf of the closet memorized along with the exact expression on Tim's face the second before he comes.

Outside of the closet everything's normal. Or what passes for normal in Famiglia Gibbs. At least, that's what Tony wants to believe. And if Tim never sits next to him on movie nights these days and their diaries are too oh-so-full to make dinner plans, then it's mere coincidence. They're a great team, they bring the banter, Gibbs is totally in the dark, everything is capital F Fine; it's copasetic. What happens in the closet stays in the closet. Only there's this nagging feeling that there's something out of whack, something not there that should be, and it's driving Tony crazy.

Then there's the hot chick with the hot tub and Tony's waving his fingers at her and telling her he's married only they don't wear the rings and it sparks something in him. And, later, when he's sucking Tim off because apparently sperm is a great healer and Tony's throat really hurts, it hits him with all the speed of a Smokey Joe Wood fastball. It's crazy, but it's so crazy it might just work. After all, it worked for The Master of Disguise. Well, okay, not the exact same situation, but in degrees of craziness they are as brothers. He can't speak for 24 hours, though, might as well give the idea time to bed down.

In the end it takes a week and change. It's not that Tony's avoiding the issue; he's looking into the specifics and figuring out how to make this thing watertight. Be prepared, isn't that Timmy's Wee Willy Webelos motto?

He asks Tim around for a special movie Fright Night on Halloween.

"What, no date with Ethel, Tony? Or should I say, Tony?"

Tony waves the unnecessarily smug smile away, pretending he's not hurt by the fact that Tim doesn't appear the least little bit put out by the 'dating' thing. They're still doing the dirty in the closet and Tim hasn't asked a single question. It makes Tony falter in his tracks a little, but he plows on, regardless.

"No date," he says simply, resisting the urge to spin some tale of Ethel's secret life as Delta Force that's taken her on a moment's notice to deepest Afghanistan.

"Sure," says Tim, tugging out a desk drawer and rooting through it. "Want me to bring anything?"

"Nah, I got it covered," says Tony. "See you at seven?"


Tony hovers for a few more seconds, but Tim's not going to look up and if he stays there any longer he could probably be arrested for loitering. He heaves the world's tiniest sigh (it goes off to live a happy life with the world's tiniest violin), spins on his heel and wanders back to his desk to pretend to work for the twenty-six minutes left before he can haul ass out of there.


"We should get married," says Tony.

And Tim says, "Buh?" And, "Seriously? Isn't this more Linda Blair than Freddie Krueger?" He points at the screen where Freddie is frozen mid-slash.

"I'm not possessed, McTim." Tony swings his legs off the couch and sits up. "I think we should get married."

"I don't follow."

Tony sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. This had gone so differently in his head. "Look," he says, "It's pretty simple. This is all...well, not wrong exactly, but it's not right. You know, back in the day you used to sit on the couch with me--I had the bruised ribs from your stupidly abnormal startle reflex to prove it--and now we're, ah, fucking furtively in closets with really painful shelf corners, you're way over there. Like we can either have our hands down each other's pants or we’re pretending we're one step up from nodding acquaintances. Tell me the last time we even went on a dinner date since we started on the extracurricular protein shakes."


"You can't!" says Tony, triumphant. "Because we haven't and it's all because we live in fear of Gibbs and his stupid rules."

"But you love Gibbs's rules, Tony."

"Not all of 'em. Number twelve stinks. Well, so what? He doesn't have a rule about not marrying your co-worker, so let's do that. Then we can fuck somewhere less...ammonia-y. And softer."

Tim leans forward, the leather chair creaking underneath him, and rests his chin on steepled fingers. His brow is furrowed and Tony can't decide if he looks slightly scary or deeply hot.

"Let me get this straight. You want to get married so we can have sex in a bed? Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"Yes," snaps Tony, "That's exactly it. It's all about springy mattresses and goosedown". His voice softens. "I love you," he says and clamps down around the word 'man' that wants to tack itself on the end there to diminish the importance of this, to protect him. "I want to marry you because I love you. Am in love with you. And I'm tired of pretending it's less than it is because someone else's rules and regulations want to keep us at arm's length. Screw it, McGee. Marry me."

Tony doesn't think he's ever seen Tim's eyes so wide before. Not even the time he got a broom handle somewhere unexpected during one of their closet assignations.

"And Ethel?"

"Now you ask," says Tony, leaning back. "Ethel is seventy five years old, widowed for the last two and a half, moved into my building three weeks ago and makes the best oatmeal raisin cookies I've ever tasted. I cheer her up, apparently."

"I bet you do," says Tim wryly, but his smile is warm.

"I was using her for subterfuge, McClouseau. I thought Ziva was onto us so I went for the misdirection tactic. I would have told you about it if you'd asked."

Tim straightens up, his hands falling to his knees. "Are you pissed at me for not asking? Because it's not like I didn't want to know, believe me. It's just we've...we've never talked about us and I wasn't ready to stop yet. I thought if I asked you'd maybe feel like you had to choose..." He falters to a halt and Tony hears the unspoken half of the sentence anyway.

"You thought I wouldn't choose you? Over someone called Ethel who wanted me to dress up as Tony Manero? And I thought you never touched illegal substances."

"Back in college-"

"You didn't inhale, Tim."

"Hey, just because you and Kate decided-"

"Can we get back on topic, now?" Tony slides off the couch and knee walks across to Tim, nudging his legs apart and kneeling up between them. He reaches up and takes Tim's chin in his hand. "I do now, and I will always, choose you, Timothy McGee. You make me feel like I've been spinning in circles for hours. The part before you throw up, that is. You make my heart beat faster, you make me proud, you make me laugh, you make me so crazy I can't figure out if I want to noogie you, glue you to an office implement, or make you come so hard you forget all your McNames. I will always choose you. Marry me and let me prove it."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Jeez, Tony, you had me at hello."

Tony laughs so hard he collapses forward, head colliding with Tim's chest. Tim pushes his fingers through Tony's hair and says, "Well, duh," and Tony takes that as a solid yes.

"I've got it all figured out," he says, into the warm cotton of Tim's shirt. "All the details of how we can do this and stay on the team and..."

"Details, schmetails," says Tim. "Later, okay? Fairly sure we're supposed to be kissing at this point. Also, there should be a diamond, but I'm willing to let that tradition slide if you'll let Jethro be in the wedding."

Tony pushes himself up. "Why am I marrying you again?" he asks.

"Because I'm the only one that'd have you?"


Tim tugs at Tony's hair, tipping his head backwards, then leans down and kisses him, soft and hungry at the same time. Tony's dick stirs, already at orange alert, and Tony wonders if they'll even make it to the bed this time. It doesn't matter, he thinks, because they've got from here until the end of their lives and if he wants to make it a life's goal to do Tim on every appropriate surface and some that are entirely inappropriate, then he can do just that. As long as Tim agrees, of course.

Somewhere, way back in the parts of his brain that haven't been taken over by the creeping red mist of lust, Tony starts to put together another proposal.

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