Oh, The Places You'll Go

Try Your Back Pocket

Notes: This is a fluffy heap of fluff, written to cheer up villainny when she was sick. She wanted warm and fuzzy drunk!Tim and warm and fuzzy drunk!Tim is what she got. No spoilers.

Tony's not sure if this whole McGee thing falls under the umbrella of Sexual Identity Crisis or Late Sexual Awakening because it depends entirely on whether he's in the mood to play tortured soul or wide-eyed ingénue, but there's one thing he does know; back in the days when he was 100% straight (or deluded, whichever), he'd always loved the part of the evening when his date would have had just enough alcohol to press up against him, warm and soft and pliant, but not enough for Tony's vestigial conscience to kick in and start complaining about unfair advantages. He'd tuck a stray curl behind an ear, tilt up a chin with one finger and catch a slow smile or girlish giggle with his mouth, the alcohol tastes of his conquests ranging from sickly sweet to toe-curlingly bitter. And then things would progress from there, easy as pie, because no one knew as well as Anthony DiNozzo how a man loves a woman. Or, no, to be fair, how a man has sex with a woman and checks frantically for his wallet and keys before sneaking out the door because that's a mistake he's not making again in a hurry.

Unfortunately, none of this great wealth of knowledge has equipped him for now. Because, now, Timothy McGee, Specially Drunk Agent, has his head on Tony's shoulder and is explaining the technical flaws in Independence Day at great length. He keeps losing track of where he's at, though, and does this thing where he stops talking, frowns and grabs at the air as if his thoughts are escaping past him. It's making Tony's stomach do all swirly motions (it could be the drink, but he's a DiNozzo and they're no pushovers--it's not a hangover unless there's been a charcoal chaser) and he's tried, he really has, but he's running out of reasons why he shouldn't just give in already and kiss McGee right here and now. He's been nursing this crush for what seems like forever (the DiNozzo dictionary definition of forever reads "too long, too long, too long, no, really, too long") and it's not like him to be so backwards in coming forwards. Just because Probie's a guy? There's probably an -istic or an -ism that goes with that and he doesn't need to be collecting another one of those--it's the wrong kind of bingo.

He makes up his mind.

Shifting around, he pushes McGee up and off him, grabbing his shoulders and twisting him around so that they're looking at each other. For a moment, McGee looks puzzled and then he says,

"And seriously? Steve Jobs isn't God anyway."

Tony nods slowly. "I'll be sure and let God know, I'm sure he'll be relieved. Can we stop talking about the bad tech for one second?"

"Sure, Tony. Because you know, fireproof cupboards with their own oxygen supply? Um, no. It's not even poss-"

Tony's grip tightens and he gives McGee a little shake. "McGee. You are going to stop talking about anything. You are, instead, going to listen and I am going to tell you something very simple. You got that?"

McGee nods way too quickly and he stops himself, blinking and shaking his head. It's unhelpfully distracting.

"Okay. Here it is." And there are so many, many things that Tony is bad at committing to but a course of action isn't one of them. He takes a deep breath and curls his fingers tight into McGee's shoulders, soft cloth and flesh slipping over hard bone. "I am going to kiss you now. Is that going to be a problem?"

McGee says nothing at all but his eyes widen and the grin that splits his face lights him up.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," says Tony, and he can't keep the answering grin off his face, so when he kisses McGee for the first time they're smiling against each other and if Tony believed in any such crap as fates, he'd think it was a good omen.

McGee kisses him back, lips relaxing into soft pliancy. He opens his mouth and Tony can taste the beer that they've been drinking, only it's subtly altered, made unique, and he wonders whether McGee's having a similar experience: same but different. Tony slides one hand down over McGee's back, broad and firm against his fingertips. It's not what he's used to, none of this, but McGee's hand threads through his hair and McGee's tongue strokes along the inside of Tony's lip and it seems like this was exactly how it was always supposed to be, that the one exception should always have been the rule. He wishes he could line up all his English teachers over the years and tell them that, hey!, the grammar wonks got yet another one wrong. Who still gives a fuck about the Oxford comma anyway?

He leans backwards, tugging McGee down on top of him, wanting the weight of his body, strange but strangely right. Sure, McGee still has a bit of softness about him and Tony, for one, supports his right to eat carbs, but there's no yielding flesh pressed against Tony's chet, only a hardness pressing into Tony's hip and that's just- Well, that's just- Okay! That's very definitely not female. Tony feels panic begin to rise in his throat, but then McGee shifts and his erection bumps Tony's own, sending goosebumps chasing down to his toes and he thinks oh, okay then, no problem! and slips his hands over McGee's ass to press them closer together.

Things heat up, then, and there's this whole thing going on with the kissing and the grinding and before Tony knows it he's got McGee's shirt halfway up his back and his hands are attempting to insinuate themselves into McGee's pants. McGee scrabbles for purchase on Tony's chest and pushes himself up, panting through parted lips.

"God, McGee," says Tony because he should say something and it might not be the most awesomely constructed sentence ever but it beats out, "You're so fucking hot. Stay forever--normal dictionary definition," which he's really hoping will not slip out.

McGee just beams, fingers twisting one of Tony's shirt buttons.

"You can say something, McVowofsilence." Tony's thumb brushes over the invisible border between ass and back.

"Are you sure? 'Cos you said-"

"That was then, this is now, keep up." Tony wriggles his hips and McGee snorts.

"Not going to be a problem."

Tony finger-walks further under the waistband of McGee's pants and squints up at him. "We could...do stuff?" And he'd be concerned about how exactly he regressed to 10th-grade-Tony, only McGee's slipped a couple of fingers inside Tony's shirt and appears to be hypnotizing one or both of them by rubbing Tony's chest hair in small circles.

"What kind of girl do you think I am, Anthony DiNozzo?" drawls McGee, tipping his head to one side. "You want me to put out on a first date?"

Tony's fingers still against warm curves. "Not if you don't want to," he says reluctantly and has barely finished speaking before McGee's kissing him again, showing Tony exactly what kind of girl he is (the answer: exactly the kind of girl that Tony likes).

It's not entirely comfortable, trying to fit the two of them into some post-coital petting position but Tony's not moving. Not yet. He turns his head and tries not to be startled at the fact that McGee is still at eyelevel. Nope, there's only one part of him that's shrunk and that's due to a job well done. He tugs lightly at McGee's ear and kisses him. McGee breaks the kiss and looks at Tony, frowning. Tony shivers--it's late, the heating probably went off hours ago.

"What is it?" It's probably something complicated to do with echoes and acoustics that McGee could explain that makes his voice sound sharp and loud in his own ears.

"Why would they even use binary? Why? Like they'd randomly come up with the exact same two numbers we use even though have you heard the aliens? They're like Babel fish translations run through Babel fish. It's not right, Tony."

It takes a couple of seconds for the light to ping on but then Tony's laughing. "That's not the right kind of one-track mind, Probie," he admonishes, giving McGee's ear another tug.

He's going to go for Horizon Expanding, Tony thinks, because McGee's naked body is warm and soft and pliant against his own and Tony pushes a strand of hair out of McGee's eyes, pressing his lips against McGee's smile and it doesn't matter that their body parts are matching instead of complementary because they still fit in a way that Tony doesn't think he's ever going to understand. He could try, though. It might take years, but that's okay; his wallet's in the drawer and his keys are on the hook. They're good to go.

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