Oh, The Places You'll Go

Fill the Lovin’ Cup

This is part of the Band Heroes 'verse, taking place about a year before the epilogue. You don't want to read unless you've read Feel My Needle Hit the Groove first. Trust me. Written for Porn Battle X. Prompt: hands-on. Eyes by soupytwist (and very pretty eyes they are, too). Apologies to Steve Miller for stealing the title from him.

"Hi," says Tony, leaning an elbow on the sparkling white counter. He grins and pushes his sunglasses down his nose, looking over the top of them at the austere-looking, grey-haired woman sitting behind a monitor. "We're here to make a deposit."

Tim, hovering beside him, rolls his eyes.

"Name, please," says the woman without looking up.

"I'm Anthony DiNozzo, and this glowing specimen of manhood here is Timothy McGee." And, okay, he'd been expecting something at that, some flicker of recognition at least. Maybe even a girlish giggle. But no, nothing. Just a few clicks of the mouse and a nod of the head.

"Ah, yes, I have you both here. You're...oh, I see." She does look up then, but her gaze is shrewd and curious, not excited or even--Tony's particular favorite--awestruck, and he knows exactly what she's thinking. He grits his teeth.

"You'll need to fill in these forms," she says, handing over two clipboards with forms and pens attached. "I'll call Angelique and she'll bring you down."

"Thank you..." Tony squints at her name badge. He swears they deliberately make the writing small these days. "Lowra. C'mon, Tim."

"Good luck!" says Lowra, the thin line of her lips morphing into an unexpectedly sweet smile.

Tony takes off his sunglasses and smiles back.

The waiting room is small and empty. It looks the same as pretty much every waiting room ever--quiet, neutral colors, potted plants, chairs that are comfortable for no more than seventeen minutes tops, coffee table with magazines that have been fanned with such precision that Tony thinks no one would dare read one and spoil the display. Tim sits down and starts filling in his form immediately, but Tony paces around the room a few times, clipboard clenched under one arm.

"What?" says Tim. "Go on. What?"

"I'm getting in practice," says Tony and a slow flush covers Tim's cheeks.

"We're really doing this, aren't we?" he says, curling a corner of his form between finger and thumb.

"Yeah, we are." Tony stops in front of Tim and kneels down. "You're still good with it, right?"

"Right." Tim's face shines and Tony has to lean in and kiss it. There are rules. Okay, so he made up all the rules, but when Tim looks like that, what else is he supposed to do?

He only means it to be a short, sweet kiss, but apparently his tongue has ideas of its own and is licking the crease between Tim's lips, opening him up. He presses harder, letting the kiss get a little sloppier, putting a hand on Tim's knee to steady himself, his thumb rubbing in small circles. His head starts to swim. They've been together years now, and he can still get light-headed just from this, just from the slide of Tim's mouth on his, the taste of him, his lazy, curling tongue and the soft, springy resistance of a bottom lip that begs to be sucked or nibbled.

Tim's hand on Tony's shoulder slips down to his chest and pushes him away. Tony rocks back, blinking. No fair.

"Fill in your form," says Tim, matter of fact, but Tony can see his eyes are dark and smiles smugly to himself. "Save it for later."

"Good point."

Tony's signing the form with a flourish when the door opens and a tall, black woman wearing pink scrubs walks in.

"Okay, boys," she says, "I have this whole spiel that I can roll out if you want, but you know what you gotta do, right?"

"Would I be right in guessing it has something to do with the plastic cups you're holding?" says Tony. "Because I'm a little confused. I thought I was here to deposit the inheritance check from dear old Grandpappy DiNozzo."

"Tony," warns Tim.

The nurse--presumably Angelique--turns to Tim and smiles. "One of those, huh?" she says.

"You don't even know the half of it."

"I'm sorry," she pulls a mock-serious face, eyes gleaming behind round glasses. "If it helps I can put him right down the other end of the hall."

"Hey," says Tony. "Standing right here."

"Come on," says Angelique. "Let me show you to your accommodation. All mod-cons, no expense spared, view of the pool, yadda yadda." She leads the way down a curved hallway that gives the impression of being never-ending. There are a lot of photographs of babies on the walls. Babies of all shapes and sizes: smiling, crying, cute, faces only parents could love and then only on weekends. The words, 'Our Babies' hang over the top in hand-cut, silver lettering. Tony doesn't know if it's supposed to be encouraging or off-putting.

"Here," she says, stopping outside a door that looks exactly the same as all the others, a sliding sign on it currently reading 'vacant'. She slides the sign across to 'in use' and opens the door. "This one's for you, Mr. McGee. Mr. DiNozzo, you're across the hall. Want me to walk-talk you around it, or have you done this before?" She holds out a plastic cup.

Tim stammers, "W-w-well, I-" and Tony cuts him off to end the misery.

"She means the porn, Tim. She wants to know if you want her to show you the porn."

Tim flaps his mouth in a way that reminds Tony of a landed fish and he shakes his head, turning to Angelique. "I'm sorry," he says, with the best sly grin he can muster because they're going in different rooms over his dead body. "I don't think you've got what we're looking for."

He flashes a hot look at Tim who rolls his eyes.

"Are we going to have the same-sex relationship does not have to equal gay conversation again?" Tim asks. "Because your crush on ScarJo is still going strong after all these years. I've seen the bad movies to prove it."

"Point," agrees Tony. "But, Tim, is that the kind of start you want our baby to have? That we were looking at other women? I don't...I don't even know what to say to that." He puts his hands on his hips and raises his chin.

Tim looks at Angelique, raising his hands in a gesture that clearly says, "Sorry, I can't control the crazy person."

She shakes her head. "I suppose there's nothing in procedure to say... Okay, okay, you can go in the same room. Just..." she winces. "Don't get stuff mixed up, if you know what I'm saying."

They know what she's saying.

"Oh, three more things," says Angelique. "You can use KY to, ah, loosen things up, but please don't get it on the sample. Also, wash your hands with the soap provided and dry thoroughly. We want to give you the best shot possible." She stops, pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing as she realizes what she has said, and hands the cups over.

"What's the third?" asks Tim.

Angelique blinks. "Label. Clearly," she says, her voice catching. "Have fun, now. Hit the bell when you're done." She turns on her heel and disappears down the hall.

Door closed behind them, Tony looks down at the cup in his hand and then back up at Tim. "So," he says. "Let's make some sweet, baby-making love."

They crack up.

After washing their hands and labeling their containers, Tim perches on the paper-covered gurney that stands against the back wall of the room and Tony flops into the chair, flicking through the available porn. It's surprisingly varied, but these days Tony has to be in the right kind of mood, and it doesn't seem right when they're here for such an intimate, personal reason.

He gets up and goes to sit next to Tim.

"So. We get to come in a cup, huh?"


"Exciting times."


"So, I'm gonna..." Tony unbuckles his belt.

Tim does the same.

Tony undoes his fly.

Tim does the same.

Tony pushes his jeans and shorts down around his thighs.

Tim does the same.

They sit there in silence, gripping the edge of the gurney. Tony doesn't even want to look down. This is strangely hard. Or not hard at all, which is exactly the problem.

"It's worse for Ziva," says Tony, when he can't stand it any more. "They suck the eggs out of her with a vacuum. Pop!"

"No, they don't, Tony. They use a needle. Also, she's asleep for the retrieval."

"Still. Pop!"

Silence descends again.

Tony supposes that touching himself would be a start. He takes himself in hand and gives a couple of experimental strokes. There's a half-hearted interest, but nothing much and it reminds Tony of Jethro when he came back from the vet's that one time and even the smell of his favorite food couldn't get him to do more than open one sleepy eye for a second or two before closing it again.

"Is this working for you?" asks Tim, after what feels like at least a couple of decades. Tony swears that when they step outside the fashions will all be return to the return to the return to the 70s.

"Not really," he says, relieved. "Want me to give you a hand?"

"Yes," says Tim, sounding as relieved as Tony feels. "I mean, we're in the same room, right? As long as there's no..." he screws up his face, "...cross-contamination we should be good."

"Oh, thank fuck," says Tony, grabbing Tim's thigh and giving it a shake. "Let's get this party started." He twists around and looks at the narrow shelf behind the gurney. There are two boxes on it. One contains sachets of KY and the other latex examination gloves.

"Ooh, hand condoms!" he says, pulling one out and snapping it in front of Tim's face. "Are you ready for your close up, McGee?"

Tim grins. "I'm really not. Give me that."

They tussle over the glove and Tony stands up to get the advantage of height. Only he's forgotten his pants are around his thighs and they slide down his legs, tangling him up as he tries to take a step backwards. His balance shakes and he instinctively reaches out to grab Tim to steady himself. As rescue operations go it's a total failure, Tim being already half on his feet, and they wind up collapsed against the wall, Tim's face smushed on Tony's shoulder and his knee wedged between Tony's legs a mere hair's breadth away from destroying any potential Tony has to be a father.

"Oh, god," laughs Tim against Tony's neck. "We better not suck this much as parents."

And then he stills, and Tony does, too, because they're going to be parents. They're here in this stupid clinical room, with the stupid hygiene paper that's way too rough on the butt, with the stupid crappy porn and the sachets of KY--sachets!--because they're trying to make a baby. Their baby.

"Tim," says Tony, wondering why his voice has dropped half an octave. He clears his throat and tries again. "Tim, I think you probably need to kiss me now." He pauses. "And also to move your knee very, very carefully."

Tim snorts hot breath through the cotton of Tony's tee, but he repositions himself (very, very carefully), straddling Tony's legs and taking Tony's face in both his hands, tipping it up and kissing him. It's the barest brush of their lips and yet Tony feels it through his whole body, every hair he has standing on end. Tim's fingers massage Tony's scalp, his thumb stroking across Tony's cheekbones, his breath warm pulses over Tony's lips, which throb in anticipation of a harder touch. Tony can't resist, doesn't need to, and cups a hand around Tim's neck, pulling them together.

Tim makes an inarticulate, needy noise in his throat as they close. Tony's hardwired for sound and it goes straight to his dick as it always does. With the tip of his tongue, he caresses the sensitive skin behind Tim's teeth to hear it again. He's not disappointed. He is light-headed again, though, blood pooling in his groin as he feels himself harden. He presses harder against Tim's mouth, harder still, as if they could make this whole process easier by merging and becoming one, right here, right now. And it's like Tim knows because he's pressing back, gripping Tony's skull tight in his hands and Tony would think that he was drowning in it--in Tim--only it's not drowning, it's the opposite. It's not a little death they're reaching for.

With extreme reluctance he pushes Tim away and shoves his hand in his face. "Lick," he demands.

Tim licks and Tony drops his wet hand down to Tim's groin, wrapping his fingers around Tim's dick, hard and thick and familiar against his palm. Tim shudders, breath hitching, and then slides a hand out of Tony's hair and holds it in front of his mouth. Tony licks it from base to tip, once, then twice, sucking at the tips of Tim's fingers at the same time as jacking Tim slow and easy. Tim shudders again, the tips of his ears pinking and Tony has a brief moment of regret that he can't fuck him until his whole body is the same shade of pink except the darker flush of his nipples and his dick. But then Tim's hand is on him--his right hand--and it's so perfectly strange--the right pressure, the right speed, the right motion all flipped in the horizontal plane--that Tony forgets to be anything but there in the moment.

Tim bends to kiss him again, sloppier this time, concentration splitting three ways. Tony feels it, too, the selfish pull of his own pleasure, the rising thrill of bringing it about in someone else, the need to connect in as many places as possible. He digs his fingers into Tim's shoulder and holds on. Tim switches rhythms, and Tony tries to match it. He's breathing hard through his nostrils, now, and he can't keep his focus. He breaks the kiss, but rolls his head against Tim's so their foreheads are pressed together, reluctant to lose the connection.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, the warm scent of musk and sweat and sex trapped between their bodies filling his nose and mouth as he heaves in ragged breaths. He's spilling precome over Tim's hand as it draws him closer and closer to the edge. And then Tim's hand is gone, and he's peeling Tony off him, stumbling to his feet, lunging awkwardly at the gurney for a cup.

"Other hand!" yells Tony. "Don't spoil the sample!"

"Yours!" Tim bites out, tossing it at him.

Tony grabs it out of the air, scrambling to his knees as Tim hooks the other cup, tearing the lid off, as he drops to his, barely needing to touch himself before he's spurting into it. It shouldn't be hot, watching Tim come in a plastic cup with his jeans around his ankles and the torn paper from the gurney flapping behind him, but it is--it really is--and, even left-handed, Tony only needs a couple of strokes before he's coming too, legs shaking with the intensity of it, cup carefully placed so as not to miss a drop as the world drops out of focus.

When Tony is done, checking three times that the lid is on securely, he looks up to find Tim gazing at him part fond, part dazed, part sardonic, and something deeper in his eyes, something amazed, even awestruck. And that's Tony's particular favorite, even though he knows it's not directed at him, but at this incredible thing they're doing together.

"So undignified," he says, shuffling over on his knees to kiss Tim again. "What a start for the future President of the United States."

"There's no dignity in sex face, Tony," says Tim, kissing Tony back and then rocking back on his ass, tugging his jeans up. "So if you think about it all babies have a pretty undignified start in life. Also, I see you've called dibs on the pushy parent role."

"Always with the earth logic," says Tony, secretly trying to see whose cup holds more--his or Tim's.

"Oh my god, are you sure you're not the baby?" says Tim, snatching his cup up and shoving it behind his back. "Hit the damn bell, DiNozzo."

Tony gets to his feet, yanking up his pants and planting a kiss on the top of Tim's head. His hand hovers over the bell. "Are you sure we're ready for this?"


"Just checking." Tony grins and hits the bell. "Okay," he says, "Let's make a baby."

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