So this is how it starts.
He's typing away, just hitting his stride, and there's a knock at the door. An annoying, obnoxious knock. Only Tony could knock obnoxiously. He rolls his eyes and he thinks about just not opening the door for a minute, just leaving him out there all night, just to see what he'd do. But he sighs, pushes his chair back, and gets up anyway. He doesn't know why, he just does. He can't help it.
Tony is grinning when Tim opens the door, and he wants to go out, he says. Tim doesn't want to go out, he wants to stay in and sit and write and maybe jerk off and definitely go to sleep. Going to some trashy bar and watching Tony pick up women, hit on women? No. No, not so much in the equation. Not so much even near the equation.
He says as much and Tony pulls a pout, lip stuck out, head tilted, big eyes, big show pout. He rolls his eyes and says, "Stop, you look like an idiot."
To which Tony grins again and does that thing where he leans into his personal space -- five feet, seriously, would be nice -- and says you love it as he brushes passed him. Inviting himself in.
And he feels his cheeks heat stupidly in an entirely stupid way for a moment because, yeah, okay, fine, he sort of does. A lot. But... No. It's not that he... Okay... The pouting is stupid but Tony is...
Yeah.
Tony digs through his fridge, foraging for food, searching for something "yummy", and Tim wonders why he doesn't just eat his own food at his own house and leave Tim and his fridge out of it. He walks over, frustrated, wanting him gone so he can get back to his writing, but not really wanting him gone at the same time.
He starts when Tony makes a loud ah-ha! noise and reaches in deep, the sound of things he cannot see and does not want to picture being knocked over making Tim grind his teeth, and then Tony pulls back, holding a half-full six-pack that's been in Tim's fridge at least seven months in the air, triumphant.
"Great," He says and Tony grins again, like it's some amazing thing he's found, like Tim should be proud, but Tim can't seem to manage it so he just turns away. "Why don't you take it with you? Night."
"Come on, man," Tony says, putting a hand on his shoulder before he can get more than a half-step away. "Don't be like that."
"Like what? It's 10:30 at night, we have work in the morning, I'm tired." He replies. He sounds petulant. He doesn't mean to, it just comes out that way.
"Look, gimme an hour, okay? One hour and I'll be out of your hair."
"Why--" He starts. Why do you want to be here? Why are you here? Why don't you just go out by yourself, do you really need me around to be your "hey, look at how hot he is by comparison!" guy?
"One hour, come on." Tony says, his face serious and hopeful at the same time.
He sighs. "Fine."
Tony claps him on the back, shoving the six-pack against his chest and steering him toward the living room. "Let's get drunk and bond."
Tim is not really sure what exactly bonding is supposed to entail -- he always sort of figured it would require a campfire and possibly badges and he thinks that he should look in up online in the morning -- but he's pretty sure it's not watching the tail end of the censored, basic cable version of White Men Can't Jump (Is this even a sports movie? It's so bizarre. He feels embarrassed for Woody Harrelson just watching it.) and not talking.
Not that he really wants to talk or anything. He's tired and still sort of irritated and they'd probably only talk about work anyway. And Tony would probably rag on him. And he doesn't really want to talk about work or get ragged on right now.
The credits roll and he looks up at the clock, it's only been fifteen minutes, he tries not to groan. Tony shifts beside him, looks over at him, apparently completely oblivious to Tim's dismay. And Tim just looks back. For a minute anyway.
"What?" He asks, trying not to fidget in his seat.
"Nothing," Tony answers, shrugging and bringing his bottle to his mouth. He takes a noisy swig and then licks at his bottom lip, taps the bottle against it. "Why do you have beer in your fridge if you don't drink it?"
"I do drink it," He says, and proceeds to do just that. "There. Happy?"
Tony makes a sighing noise and shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "This was so much easier when I planned it."
He's not really sure if he likes the idea of Tony "planning" about him... No, actually, he's totally sure he doesn't. He tries to keep the apprehension out of his voice when he speaks. "Planned what?"
"This!" Tony says, gesturing to the both of them with his bottle. "Us. Hanging out. Being guys and watching guy movies as we drink guy beer."
"Guy beer."
"Guy--" Tony waves his beer at him, shifting closer "--beer."
"I wasn't really aware that there were gender oriented beverages."
Tony gives him a look like he's suddenly very confused about who Tim is. "Anything that comes in an ordinary, non-fluorescent and/or tropically-themed bottle is guy beer, McGee."
"Okay. That's..." Really stupid. "Okay."
"Okay?" Tony asks, eyeing him.
"Okay." Tim replies.
"So loosen up."
"And drink my guy beer."
"Yeah," Tony says, throwing his arm over the back of the couch and taking another swig. "Drink your guy beer."
So he does.
He feels awkward with Tony's arm behind his head. Tense. Afraid to lean back or... move. At all.
Tony's still wearing his coat and the leather is oddly cold where it brushes against Tim's skin. He didn't even take off his coat? It's odd and it makes Tim feel underdressed. Like maybe he should... go put on his own coat.
Or some pants.
Jesus, he's sitting here in his shorts and Tony is wearing a coat.
Maybe he's supposed to ask him to take it off? Or not ask him to take it off but ask him if he wants to take it off? Offer to take it for him?
Might I check your coat, sir?
Why is he even thinking about the coat? Why is this even in his mind?
Forget the coat, he thinks. Do not even think about the coat.
He shifts. The cold leather brushes his skin, making the tiny hairs at the back of his neck stand up as he shivers.
"Do you want to take off your coat or something?"
He winces at the sound of his own voice. He sounds stupid. And now he probably looks stupid for wincing. He suddenly hates the coat. Hates it. How many cows died for that coat? One? Ten? A million? A bovine massacre.
Wait, is it even leather? He has no idea.
"Oh, right. Jeez." Tony says, leaning forward and lifting his arm, and his thumb brushes the side of Tim's neck as it goes and he sort of twitches at the contact.
Tony pulls his coat off, switching his beer from hand to hand as he does, his eyes fixed on the television the whole time.
Guy movie, right. He has no idea what this even is? Something with martial arts? No, they're just in a Chinese restaurant. Oh, no, wait, a fight has broken out, maybe this is a martial arts movie?
Tony tosses his coat onto the coffee table and sits back. Switches his beer from hand to hand again and throws his arm back over the back of the couch. His bare forearm resting against Tim's neck.
He shifts uncomfortably. Tony's skin is a lot warmer than his coat. His might-be-leather coat. The one sitting on his coffee table. That he must stare at in order to prevent himself from thinking about Tony's skin on his skin.
Tony's skin on his skin?
Oh, come on.
He shifts again, wishing suddenly for pants. Any sort of pants. Trousers, slacks, jeans, sweats, those track pants he hates because of that stupid sound they make when you walk.
Swish, swish, swish.
It's like wearing a cat bell. Hello, I'm here, my pants have signaled my arrival, have announced me to the world.
If I'd known you were coming I'da baked a cake.
Tony lifts his arm to scratch the back of his neck, bumping Tim's head with his wrist as he does.
"Sorry," Tony says, glancing over briefly and rubbing the back of Tim's head.
"That's okay," He mumbles back, taking a hard swig of his beer, letting the bitter taste roll around in his mouth for a minute and then swallowing hard.
And he does it again when Tony's arm falls back into its place on the back of the couch. Behind his head.
It's some sort of game, he realizes. Some sick game to mess with his head. The whole "guy beer" thing is just a cover for the real plan. Which is...
What?
To drive him crazy with one arm?
He looks up at the clock. It's been forty-five minutes and he didn't even realize it. He glances over at Tony to see if he has but he can't tell. He's just sort of staring at the TV, his mouth moving slightly. Saying the lines? What? What is this? What the hell are they watching that Tony's seen it often enough to know the dialogue?
He feels like he's fallen into some kind of alternate universe. The Twilight Zone. The DiNozzo Zone.
He hates beer. He really, really does. He bought it on a whim but he hasn't even managed to make it through a whole one -- he usually gets halfway through and just loses interest, dumping it down the sink and dropping the bottle into the recycling bin. He's almost done with this one though. He must have been swigging harder than he thought.
He looks down at the bottle in his hand and leans back against Tony's thumb rubbing at the back of his neck. Small, soothing circles. Small, soothing--
He flails forward, twisting around to look at Tony, his mouth dropping open a little and his face feeling weirdly numb. Hot and numb. Not cold numb but beer numb.
"What--" He starts and stops, the words seeming to dry up in his mouth.
Tony sits for a minute and then it seems to connect. "Oh, shit. Sorry, it's a habit."
"A habit." He says, his voice flat and seeming to echo in his head like he's hearing it through headphones.
"Yeah." Tony says. Simply. Like it's simple to rub your thumb on the back of your male co-worker's neck when you show up at his apartment out of nowhere without an invitation and forget to take off your coat while you have guy beer and watch martial arts movies you can recite. "Sorry."
Tony looks back at the TV then. But Tim can't look away, feeling stunned, strange.
And then. It clicks.
He sits up straighter. "I think you should leave now."
Tony looks over at him, confusion on his face and his beer hand half-cocked toward his body like was about to take a drink but stopped at the stern quality of Tim's voice. "Huh?"
"I think it's time for you to go, Tony. I'm not interested in playing your little game tonight."
Or ever.
Tony's eyebrows furrow and he looks around the room. "Um. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Guy beer? Bonding? Do you really have that low an opinion of me? Like I'm so desperate I'd fall for this?" He practically spits it out. He feels angry, angrier than he can remember feeling in a long time. Since high school when Melinda Cartwright asked him if he wanted to go to a movie and then, when he sort of shrugged, laughed and said that she hoped he had fun.
Like he'd never seen My Bodyguard before. Like she came up with it all on her own.
"Man, okay, you lost me about three stops back there, what the fuck are you talking about? Fall for what? I don't--"
"Oh. Is this part of it? You're trying to lure me out? Get me to say it so you can get some jollies? Not gonna happen, buddy." He sneers, clenching his hands tight.
Tony blinks and then sits forward and, in a strange way, seems to sort of shepherd Tim back against the couch until he's kind of slumped back and Tony is looming over him. "Okay, first? No more beer for you. Second? Calm the hell down. Third? Why don't you tell me what the fuck is going on in that big, computerized brain of yours?"
"You came over here to screw with my head so you could rag on me." His mouth provides the words of its own will and he inwardly cringes at the sound of it.
"What? No, I didn't!" Tony laughs a frustrated laugh and looks up at the ceiling and then back at his face. "I came over here because it's my neighbor's fifth wedding anniversary and they dropped the kid off at grandma's and are currently fucking like rabbits two feet from my bedroom and I really just didn't feel like listening to it. And I thought to myself, hey, who's a guy I know who probably wouldn't mind a little company? And you're the one who came to mind first."
Tim blinks. "Oh."
Tony licks his teeth and nods shortly. "Oh."
"I--" He doesn't know. His face feels hot and his head is sort of... spinning and Tony is breathing on him and looking right at him and--
"Oh." Tony says. Quietly, adding those invisible extra Hs of surprise on the end. And then he leans over, puts his beer on the coffee table, reaches for Tim's beer that he'd completely forgotten he was holding and puts that on the table as well. And then shifts back where he was. And Tim has just enough time to think of how considerate that was before his brain clicks over to oh, this is a bad idea and Tony is kissing him.
It's not a real kiss, really. Or anything special at all. It's chaste and closed-mouthed and just sort of friendly. A hello kiss. A how's it going? kiss. A this okay with you? kiss.
And there's a part of his brain that's going hi, strange, yes but mostly it's just... stopped. Or gotten stuck. Like something's lodged in a gear somewhere and all he can process is a jerky jump back and forth between the second right before Tony kissed him and this one, right here, where he is.
Tony pulls back a little after a moment, licking at his mouth and looking at Tim's, and then he leans back in. And whatever's lodged in the gear flies loose, splintering into a thousand pieces and ricocheting off into the black, as Tony's lips part slightly over his and his tongue licks over Tim's bottom lip.
He feels a sudden lurch of heat in his stomach and his hands are reaching up and clutching at Tony's biceps, pulling him in, and his mouth opens a little and Tony's tongue slips passed his lips. Just like that. And now it's a real kiss. Tongue and teeth and spit and lips and breath and hands that keep moving. His and Tony's. His clutching reflexively at Tony's arms and Tony's slipping up to cup his face and his sliding over Tony's shoulders and Tony's slipping around to the back of his neck to pull him in even closer.
He feels drunk a little but mostly just from the rush of someone else's body this close, of kissing, of Tony. Maybe he's a lightweight but he didn't even finish a beer, he's a sober lightweight.
But Tony...
He wrenches his mouth away, panting and trying to resist the urge to just say fuck it and dive back in. Tony is sort of panting too and he makes a sound like he's upset that they're not kissing and his mouth slips against Tim's bottom lip, his top lip, his cheek, and then he's burying his face in Tim's throat, kissing and licking and biting softly, grazing his teeth. Tim thinks oh and he might have even said it but, if he did, he didn't notice because he's too busy shuddering and squeezing his eyes shut. His fingers twist up in the sleeves of Tony's short-sleeved shirt, the backs of his fingers slipping inside, pressing against Tony's skin, and it feels strangely intimate, naked, and then he remembers why he broke the kiss.
"Hey." His voice is lower, rougher -- it's his "sex voice" Katie-in-college called it.
"Mm?" Tony says. Mumbles. Murmurs. Hums. Something. His mouth working against Tim's skin, sending little sparks of lust all through his brain, and his hand rubbing roughly at Tim's shoulder, like a cat pawing furniture.
"Are-- Is this--" He takes a deep breath when Tony finds that spot on his neck that always feels so good for some reason and his eyes roll back so he just looks up at the ceiling instead of trying to fight it. "Are you drunk?"
He doesn't mean for it to sound as unsure as it does. As questioning. As worried. But it does and he winces when Tony pulls back a little to look at him.
"Why, are you?"
"No," He says, and then, "I only had half a beer."
"Okay," Tony says, and then, "I had a beer."
Like he's defending his superior, manly, beer drinking prowess or something.
"Okay."
"Okay."
And then they're kissing again.
He sort of expected it to be more awkward. Or... to be awkward at all. But it's really not. It's just sort of... problem solved, we make out now.
It's a very DiNozzo way for things to operate and he's sort of glad that Tony's here to provide that all of a sudden. But then, if Tony wasn't, this wouldn't even be happening so it's... Why is he even thinking this?
He focuses on the kissing. Kissing Tony is nice. He's a good kisser and his mouth is warm and, even though it tastes like beer, Tim's mouth tastes like beer too, so it's not bad. It's good. Really good. Great, even. It seems like it goes on and on but not in that long, drawn-out sort of way that Tim's always secretly hated, just in a... a lot of kissing sort of way.
By the time they break apart again, both of them are breathing hard, their mouths wet and red, and they've shifted down, slumped and screwed up, the arm of the couch digging into his shoulder blades and one leg falling asleep from where Tony's is pressing into it, on top of it. The fact that his legs are bare and Tony's wearing jeans makes him remember just what he's wearing suddenly.
And just how easy it must be to tell how hard he already is.
Tony doesn't notice though -- if he does, it's not in an obvious way -- because he just leans back and pulls his shirt up over his head, balling it up and tossing it over onto his coat.
Tim tries not to stare, he really does. He's seen it before, after all -- Tony's naked chest. So it really shouldn't be as exciting as it is. But he's never seen it like this and he can't seem to help himself. He licks at his suddenly dry mouth, swallowing hard, and just looks at him.
Tony sort of does this lop-sided smile and then he's reaching down for the hem of Tim's shirt and the position, the situation, the fact that they're on his couch and he's never looked particularly good without his shirt, all come rushing to mind. He thinks no, wait but Tony's already got it, pulled, and he's leaned up, lifted his arms, and it's over his head before he can get the command for usable words to the speech center of his brain.
He feels sort of awkward, like he wants to cover himself up or something but he doesn't because, one, that would be incredibly stupid and, two, it's always, in his experience, just drawn attention. And besides, what would be the point, anyway? Tony's seen it before, hasn't he? So he just sort of sits there instead, his face a little warmer than he'd like, making him embarrassed and irritated for feeling embarrassed at the same time.
Tony's hand slides over his shoulder to the side of his neck and pulls him in, kissing him in his way that is almost distracting enough for Tim to not really care that Tony is nudging, shifting, pulling, until his back is to the cushions and the top of his head is pressed right up against the arm of the couch. Tony shifts over him then, his mouth pulling back just barely as he moves, breathing against Tim's, breathing his air right back at him, and there's a buckle noise that Tim, rather dumbly, takes a few seconds to recognize actually is a buckle, and then a few more seconds to realize that his hands are moving of their own volition down to Tony's jeans where Tony is, with one hand, trying to undo them himself. He pushes Tony's hand out of the way, popping the button and pulling the zip and then pushing at the waistband until it's slipping down over Tony's hips.
How his hand gets into Tony's underwear he's not entirely clear on, but the hot, hard press of Tony's cock against his palm and the whoosh of breath on his mouth as Tony breathes out hard between his teeth at the contact, his back arching just a bit and his hips hitching forward, is enough that Tim's really not that worried about it.
He stares down at Tony's mouth through heavy-lidded eyes as he jerks him off. There's something sort of captivating about watching Tony's teeth and his tongue take their turns at his lips. And it's safer, really. It's better than looking at his eyes or trying to look at his whole face. It's better to focus and unfocus his eyes on Tony's mouth than to look for something in his eyes that might not and probably isn't there or try to memorize his expression when he might not and probably will never see it again.
He's so fucking hard, hard to an absolutely stupid degree, his cock feeling heavy and desperate in his shorts, and without even realizing it, or maybe just without acknowledging it, he's pushing with his heels and lifting his hips up, in time with the slide of his fist over Tony's cock.
He wants Tony to touch him. Wants Tony to jerk him off or at least pull his cock out. Something. Anything. He just wants to feel something that isn't him or because of him so it wouldn't feel so much like a dream. A great dream but still a dream. He wants it to feel real.
Tony's hips are moving against the movement of his hand, sliding back when pulls forward, thrusting forward when he slides his fist down, and the feel of it, the rocking push, has got to be one of the hottest things Tim's ever experienced in his life. He can't think of anything to compare it to, really, but maybe that's just because he can't really think of anything but it at the moment. He presses his right hand to Tony's stomach, feeling the muscles contract as he moves, and he has to take a shaking breath to keep from moaning.
Tony groans low in the back of his throat, biting down on his lip, and then he's moving in a completely different way, shifting his weight to one hand again and reaching down. For one breathless, heart-stopping second, Tim can only think that Tony has somehow read his mind and is going for his cock before he realizes that, no, what he's doing is pulling at Tim's wrist, getting Tim to let go, to slide his hand out, and then pushing his boxers down over his cock.
It's probably a little pathetic how quickly he leans up to stare down their bodies and maybe more than a little how his gut twists and his cock twitches at the sight. He swallows hard, taking in the whole image -- shirtless skin and Tony's surprisingly dark pubic hair and Tony's cock hard and right there, hard because of him, because of his hand, because of what he did. It's almost enough that he doesn't really notice the way is own cock is straining against the fabric of his shorts, making his end of things just sort of depressing.
"Fuck," Tony murmurs, his voice low and rough now, his own sex voice. "You're good for a southpaw."
"Practice." He says without thinking. He really doesn't mean it to sound like he's saying he jerks off a lot, it's just that people always act like it's some great trick -- his own personal Stupid Human Trick. What he actually means is just that he's been left-handed forever and he's used to it.
Tony snorts and Tim looks up at him, at his eyes, and Tony says, "I know what you mean."
And even though he doesn't really because he's probably just thinking about the jerking off, it makes it okay.
He leans up and Tony leans down and their mouths meet somewhere in the middle as his hands find Tony's hips and he pulls his down on top of him, closer. Or tries to anyway. But Tony is resistant and he makes a little nnn sound against Tim's mouth and then Tim is making his own sound because Tony's hand is pushing under the waistband of his shorts.
He gasps a little, breathy but he tries to pretend it isn't, as Tony strokes him, fingers slipping down over skin and fist twisting as it pulls back. His hips lift automatically, pushing into Tony's grip a little more quickly, easily, desperately, than he would like. His eyes closed, just feeling it, and his fingers digging into Tony's skin, breathing hard, open-mouthed, and it's good, better than good, but he wants more. He wants Tony on him, pressing him into the couch, moving against him skin-on-skin. He urges him down with his hands and his mouth, tugging at his hips and muttering c'mon, c'mon under his breath, until Tony gives in and finally settles on top of him.
Hot skin, pressed close, not room enough for one person on this couch much less two much less sex, and they both moan at the first brilliant burst of friction. Their cocks, stomachs, thighs, all rubbing together, sliding and slipping, and he can't stop his hands from squeezing at Tony's hips one last time before moving up around to his back. Pulling him down tight against him but mostly just touching what seems like miles of perfect, wonderful, smooth, hot skin. Tony's skin.
Tony's tongue is in his mouth, licking at his teeth and sucking at his tongue, the sensation of that making his hips jerk up, offsetting the rhythm, changing it, speeding it along like a good suggestion. He shifts his legs slightly, sliding them apart and bending his knees up, moving as much as he can in the space, until Tony is more between them than on them, and somehow just the slight change in angle makes it so much better.
Tony groans into his mouth, wrenching away and pressing his face to Tim's throat, thrusting against him quicker and then quicker still when Tim's hands (Shaking, why are they shaking?) slide down into the back of his underwear. Grabbing and rubbing and pulling him in fiercely, his breath hissing out between his teeth and then moaning when Tony bites at that spot on his neck again, sucking at it. He tilts his head to the side, begging for more silently and not so silently as well. He's muttering, mumbling, gasping out, and he prays somewhere deep in the back of his mind that he won't say something he'll regret, in a part not clouded with lust or blinded by what feels like a giant, blinking, neon sign indicating his impending orgasm.
Here, Now, Here, Now, Here, Now,
Here,
Now.
It's like when he was a kid and they used to set off bottle rockets on the Fourth of July. Only he's the bottle rocket and he's one of those duds, the ones that never go anywhere, just explode right in the bottle, six inches off the ground. He tenses, squeezing Tony's ass without meaning to but it makes Tony moan so it's okay. Or maybe the moan is more for the fact that his back is arching up and his foot is slipping off the edge of the couch and hitting the floor with a thud and he's coming, fuck, jesus, wet and sticky and ohfuckyes between them, coating their stomachs and Tony's cock.
Tony is still for a moment, like he's trying to see if maybe Tim died or overloaded or something, then, apparently satisfied with the panting breaths and softly urging hands, he moves again. And Tim would probably be embarrassed that he lost it first if he could but his brain dribbled out his ears right around the time the first wave of pleasure hit so he can't really manage any emotion more advanced than nngh.
It's hotter somehow feeling Tony's cock slick with his come slipping against his stomach and maybe even hotter than that the way Tony grunts through his teeth as his hips slam down, up, over Tim's, going erratic and then seeming to stick, pressing down against Tim hard. Tony makes little sounds when he comes. Gasps but louder, rougher, with more of a moan to them, and it makes Tim's stomach twist and he promises himself that he'll never forget that sound as long as he lives because it's probably the best orgasm he's ever heard and he caused it.
They lie like that for a while. He manages to pull his hands from inside Tony's underwear but can't think of anything to do with them so he just leaves them on his back, sort of petting him maybe but mostly not because he can't really move. Tony's breath is soft and warm against his throat, his hands on Tim's shoulder, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles.
A habit, Tim reminds himself, feeling a stupid, half-smile slide over mouth at the thought.
After a while, Tony shifts, looks up at him and the over to the TV and then back at him, and he grins, and says, "I love the ending."
And Tim thinks that he does too.
the end.
Story Notes:
For carleton97.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Tim doesn't want to go out. So they don't.
Chapter End Notes:
For carleton97.