Wherefor you knowing it?

Parts 1-4 here




5. What Really Happened

"Why are you making him stay here?" asks Kate.

"Because I can."

Because fucking with newbies is fun and this one is so fuckable. With. Fuckable with. (Stupid slippery prepositions and their inability to stay where they're put.) With his mask and cap and his big, round eyes and big, round cheeks and his "yes sir's and his newfound Gibbs-fear, it's almost too easy.

Tony grins at Kate--who was a lot of fun in college--and then yells a "Be safe," over his shoulder. Might as well keep the guy on his toes.

There's a crash behind them and Tony whips around, one hand on his gun. It's too dark for details but he can make out the shape of a case that's split open and its innards are rolling shadows all over the tarmac. McGee isn't picking them up, though, he's standing absolutely still and staring in their direction. Jumpy or what?

"Don't just stand there, Agent McGee," yells Kate. "That's valuable equipment."

The kid snaps out of it with a visible shudder. "Yes ma'am. Sorry. I'll just..." He gets on his hands and knees and starts picking things up.

Tony and Kate exchange looks and resume their walk back to the car.

"If he's that clumsy now, think what he'll be like tomorrow on no sleep," says Kate.

Tony simply grins.

Never let it be said that Tony is completely made of evil, though. He's not above doing the odd solid for his inferiors, and besides, he'd had a great night's sleep, so a cup of coffee is the least he can do.

"Thank you, sir," says McGee, grabbing the cup with both hands. He sounds pathetically grateful. Gratitude is one of Tony's favorite emotions to work with. He's gotten everything from his homework finished to some of the best sex of his life through gratitude. Tony figures that for the coffee he'll get, at the least, complete obedience until the caffeine wears off. He wonders what he'd get if he threw in a donut.

They get into a rhythm, him and the kid. It's pretty plodding, no syncopation, and some beats get dropped, but McGee's trying so Tony gives him props for that. After all, he was green once, too.

The red head in the personnel office is hot. She's all buttoned-up and starched and competent, but Tony's willing to take bets she owns at least one non-regulation set of handcuffs and isn't afraid to use them.

"Uh, sir?" The bubble containing the naked Lieutenant doing very, very dirty things to Tony pops and he's left with the reality of Agent McGee. It's not quite the same.

"Yes."

"May I ask the Lieutenant a question?"

"McGee, you don't need to ask permission to ask a question. Unless you're thinking of asking her on a date."

"No sir, not my type."

Not his type. Huh. Hot body, attractive, strong. How is that not every man's type? What is McGee doing being so picky? Tony frowns, puzzled. Still, it's not his job be concerned about the kid's sex life, or lack of it, they've got an impostor to catch.

If Tony were going to have a secret entrance to a center of crazycakes operations hidden behind a bookcase, he wouldn't have a DSL cable leading behind it and not coming out again. The guy may be an evil genius for all Tony knows but he's shitty at not being obvious. He thinks about telling this to McGee but McGee's already attacking the keyboard as if it had insulted his mom.

"You've taken computer classes."

"Masters in Computer Forensics, MIT."

"I see."

There's something. There's something that's itching Tony softly at the back of his brain and he can't quite- And then McGee's sounding all Ruh-Roh, Shaggy, and spouting words with way too many syllables and Tony's having to admit he was a Phys Ed major to what looks like a certified genius and it's not polite to scratch in public anyway.

Tony relays the news of the eco-cell to Gibbs and Kate and then flops down on the porch steps. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a crumpled paper bag. The yum yum is more of a mmhmm? being as how it's all squashed, but he splits it in half anyway and passes a piece to McGee who's hovering next to him.

"Sit down, McGee, you're making me nervous," he says.

McGee sits and looks at the pastry in his hand like it's the Second Coming. "I haven't eaten since yesterday," he says tipping his head back against a post and wrapping his mouth around the yum. He makes an obscene, happy grunt and closes his eyes.

Wow, is it really necessary to be pornographic over pastry? Does he want people to think he's good with- Oh.

Ohhhh.

Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.

Oh.

The quiet itch is full on hives now. He knows this. He knows it. All the pieces slot into place like a perfect game of Tetris and, as much as Tony really wants to be wrong, he knows he isn't. This is Tim, the boy Tony debauched, all growed-up. All growed-up and eating cake in a way that is making Tony feel queasy and maybe not for all the right reasons.

Tony leaps to his feet, bits of pastry fluttering around him as he squashes it in his hand. He's all sticky now and that's just- In the circumstances that is so wrong.

"Okay, break's over!" he says with his best cheery voice. "Gotta get the delivery system back to Abby and it's a long drive. Come on." He tries to surreptitiously wipe his hand off on the porch railings.

McGee gives him a funny look and hands him a handkerchief. Tony drops it as if he'd been scalded because what if it's the same one? The one that McGee--Tim--the kid--McGee--oh god he is so dead--had cleaned up on. How is Tony supposed to know the statistics on the longevity of handkerchiefs?

"Are you okay, sir?" asks McGee and Tony tries to figure out if McGee knows and if he knows Tony knows but there's nothing except real concern in his expression, so maybe it's going to be just fine. Maybe Tony will drop McGee back on base and then head on back to the Navy Yard and their paths will never cross again.

"So what’s Agent McGee like?" Abby asks, and Tony has to refrain from saying "Gay. Precocious. Good with his mouth. Not that great with personal safety."

"Ah, like most newbies. Quiet, green, gullible." Safe ground, Tony. Nice work.

"Bi?"

What? What is she doing? Reading his mind? Because what kind of question is that to ask? Maybe she'd picked up a vibe over the phone. Women were supposed to be good at that sort of thing, right?

"I don’t think so," Tony says, and doesn't add, "Because he's gay. Gay, gay, gay as a unicorn dancing on a rainbow, dressed like Liberace and singing 'Tiny Dancer'."

Abby gives him a look and more or less tells him he's an idiot. It's a fair assessment.

And then the case is done, Gibbs and Kate are finally off the submarine and Tony has a brief second of believing that things can get back to normal. Of course, he should never have forgotten that the definition of 'normal' got struck from his dictionary the second he joined NCIS because here's McGee all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and way too chirpy for it to be good for anyone. He's here to torture Tony, that's not a report on the case he's handing Gibbs, it's a detailed description of that night in Washington, he's here to take revenge on the man that took his innocence, he's here to...to date Abby?

Okay, so that's an interesting tactic. How does dating Abby get back at Tony? And getting a tattoo on his ass, surely that's a step too far? Tony stares after him, speechless. He'd better watch himself that's all. Abby's the kid sister Tony never wanted and if McGee hurts her he's going to need all the excellent health benefits the government provides.

Turns out the no paths crossing was too much to hope for. Point of fact it is verging on ridiculous how much random path crossing is going on. Are there no other agents at Norfolk any more? He'd think it was deliberate but McGee can only spread computer viruses, not real ones, and besides, he never does a single thing to suggest he's out to get Tony. Maybe he doesn't know. After all, it was a long time ago and it was dark. Tony's still surprised he recognized McGee after all these years, what with the floppy hair and the gangling both being long gone. McGee had just been a scared kid, he's probably repressed it all or something.

When McGee's promoted to the team, Tony considers either laughing or drinking himself sick but by now that seems like an overreaction. He likes the kid. Okay, so Tony might be a little mean to him here and there. Okay, okay, so a lot mean, but it's only because he doesn't want McGee getting ideas, especially after the whole shemale incident. It's kind of weird how vague McGee seems to be about his sexuality, though, what with the whole Abby thing, but Tony's not vague, dammit. (Dreams about a particular Probie's mouth do not count. It's not like Tony can help what his subconscious chooses to remember, although he can't decide if he's grateful or not that it's updated the incident to the present day.) Even if McGee doesn't know Tony is that Tony, he still can't miss the fact that Tony is hot. And awesome. There's a reason Gibbs has Rule #12 and Tony doesn't want to have to do awkward explaining.

So things settle down and Tony's just keeping a watchful eye on McGee who, for some reason, keeps expressing an interest in women. He has dates. And talks about reading women's magazines to get to know women. Tony, of course, knows he reads women's magazines because he is one, but it seems to be working on Agent Melankovic. Jane. And, really, someone should tell her she's barking up the wrong tree. It wouldn't take a lot for Tony to be persuaded to climb down from his branches, he's just saying.

And it's not exactly like McGee's doing a lot to hide his gayness beyond the odd reference to the female form. Tony's seen his apartment. There's not even a couch there so clearly he's having sex with guys because straight-to-bed-do-not-pass-go-do-not-have-to-cuddle-or-make-conversation-on-the-couch is living the dream, but only another guy is going to get that. Also, jeez, no self-respecting female (or even self-loathing bad hair day one) would let herself get laid among that tangle of wires and dinosaur cereal.

Then there's McGee's disclosure of the 'girlfriend' who collected Barbies. 'Girlfriend', Tony's ass. What self-respecting straight guy uses the word 'pumps'? Outside of it being related to iron and big muscles and sweaty men in the gym and, okay, this train of thought needs to be derailed. Luckily there's the Scott Baio incident to help with that. And really? Tony has to wonder if this is McGee's subtle way of coming out because whether it's Chachi or Charles in Charge that gets them going, it's the girls who are supposed to be screaming over Baio, not six-foot something field agents with a pleasing baritone and a penchant for shooting up pixels on a screen.

Add to that the muffins--poppyseed, really?--and McGee wiggling his ass and wanting to be judged--which, okay, maybe Ziva's right about the 4 out of 5 thing, it’s not Tony's place to say--and the evidence is pretty solid. So gay. So very gay.

Not that it matters, because McGee's a good agent and a good guy. It's not like his sexuality is important. It's not that Tony really cares who McGee prefers to do, it's just that, well, so the Abby excuse is long behind him but Tony can't help wanting to know. And he can't help wondering why it's such a big deal to keep it hidden. They're all friends, aren't they? Why can't McGee just say something?

And then the Probie kills a cop. Tony can't stand to see the way he can barely bring himself to stand up straight under the weight of it. So he goes over to the Apartment of Doom with the best of intentions, if McGee wants to play it straight then they'll hit on women, if he wants to 'fess up to something way less depressing than his first kill, Tony's got a list of gay bars ready to go. But when McGee is looking up at him big eyes all shiny and wet with unshed tears, lower lip jutting out and only just not quivering, Tony gets this urge out of nowhere to kiss him better. He doesn't, of course, it's just misplaced sympathy. He tells him about the pant-wetting instead. It's equivalent. Kinda.

It's okay, though. It's not like Tony's worried about his own sexuality just because of the wanting to kiss thing. He has that explained away, no problem, and it's not like it recurs. And the thing where he noticed the Director's haircut and Gibbs didn't? It's all about using his powers of observation. That's all.

And he isn't at all disturbed when the beautiful Agent Larson asks out McGee. Okay, yeah, he is disturbed by that. But only because McGee is his beard. No. Not his beard. His moustache? His something. Anyway, whatever, she was supposed to want Tony and not McGee. There is something fundamentally flawed with the universe if Tony's brilliant plan of brilliance brought about this weirdass conclusion.

Only this is when it starts getting annoying. Because there's Larson and then there's the hot chick on the iPod and, fine, fine, whatever, it has to be McGee's sister on the iPod because a) she's a first draft pick to Probie's minor league substitution and b) McGee is gay. Tony's not telling Ziva that, of course, the whole out and proud thing is up to the Probie. But, god, it's starting to drive Tony crazy.

It gets worse when McGee actually takes Agent Larson out. WHAT IS WITH THAT?

"Real men always kiss and tell," says Tony, but even that doesn't goad McLiar into the truth. WHAT WILL IT TAKE? WHAT? And seriously? If every time he looks at McGee he's going to be thinking in capslock, it isn't going to take Tony long before he loses it, calls McGee a cocksucker and means it literally.

That night Tony gets very drunk and jerks off angrily to the dirtiest porn he owns then gives himself a stern talking-to about workplace boundaries. He hopes he's listening.

It works for a few days. In fact, Tony's just getting a handle on respecting McGee's personal space when McGee calls him boss and it's. Wow. It's, no. It's not hot. Hot is what it's not. It's just. McGee's been all growed-up and they're this team now, even if Tony still rags on him and it's. Yeah. Wow. Boss. It makes Tony feel- Actually, he has no clue how it makes him feel apart from inarticulate. Boss. A man given to self-reflection would maybe try to figure out why that simple word provoked such a strong reaction. Unfortunately, Tony gives mud a run for its money in the reflective department, so that's not happening then.

And then Tony finds the face cream. And really, isn't this the signal that McGee's ready to step out of that closet he's been in for the last who knows how many years? Must be pretty cramped by now. So he brings it up to Ziva.

"Maybe the Probie is gay," he says.

But McGee denies it. Again.

"Bicurious," tries Tony and goes off on one about sensitivity and feminine glows and forgets to listen for the answer. Dammit. Listening. Should be in the top three of his ninja skills. Maybe he'll put it on his performance management for next year.

So he tries again. Tells McGee he's setting off gaydar across the entire Atlantic seaboard. It sounds like needling, it is needling, but he's trying to say look, come out, come out COME OUT before I have to kill you or fuck you over the desk in front of Gibbs and everyone to prove what you are. But McGee denies it. What is this? McGee as Peter the disciple? Because Tony doesn't remember much about Sunday School, but he remembers a cock crowing and it kind of seems relevant to the situation in hand--mouth--hand. Oh god. He's going insane.

And then Tony finds himself touching McGee's face and it's a good thing Gibbs comes in when he does because it really is soft like a bunny and he just wants to keep going with the touching and the stroking and McGee all obliging and close-eyed for that brief second before the boss turned up. It makes Tony go kinda weird inside.

Okay, Tony thinks, obviously McGee is happy in Narnia and this whole thing is getting all confusing for a DiNozzo so he backs off and tries to reconstruct the boundaries that he's smashed into pieces.

Then Gibbs blows up.

"Handkerchief," Tony demands, nose bloodied.

"I don't have one," says McGee and that's almost as shocking as the man launching himself out of the elevator and knocking Tony over.

"But you always have one," Tony wants to say. "Since you were sixteen."

But what if McGee's changed? What if he doesn't carry handkerchiefs anymore? What if Tony is using a really bad linen-based metaphor for McGee's apparent gayness or lack thereof? Why is this even a problem?

Then he hears about the slapfight between Abby and Ziva and forgets all about it. After that there's the whole Gibbs Goes To Mexico crisis and then it's two months later and Tony can't remember the last time he tried to out McGee or the last time McGee wasn't anything but exactly what Tony needed him to be.

They're heading back from the Naval Observatory after investigating the unexplained death of Seaman Apprentice Carlew. Turns out the butler did it. That is, Jeb Butler, the ex. They'd gotten the phone-call from the District Police just as McGee was getting over-excited about the size of the telescopes. ("It's not how big they are, McHubble, it's what you do with 'em," Tony had said.) The guy, Butler, is all remorse, apparently, and had turned himself in. The LEOs will keep him overnight and release him to NCIS in the morning. Job done.

The car breaks down exactly one minute after Tony says, "That was easy, we'll have you in bed before 10, McGee." He considers spending a half hour pretending he knows how engines work but McGee gives him a look and says it's not a '67 Chevy, Tony, it's complicated and if the onboard chip is fried there's nothing either of them can do to fix it. Tony refrains from making a snippy remark about the awesome simple complexity of the Chevy engine and calls the fleet pool.

"Well, thank you, too, Chuck," says Tony acidly, and flips his phone shut with a snap. He turns to McGee. "We're not high priority. We have no breasts and we're in a built up area with public transport. So we can wait with the car or we can start walking."

"How long?"

"Couple hours at least."

"I vote walk then, boss. I have to be home by 9."

"You know you don't have to impose your own curfew, McGee, you're a big boy now."

"I'm meeting some people. Online. For a game. Shut up."

"I said nothing," says Tony, lifting his hands in his best display of sincerity. "Come on. Cab or bus, whichever comes first." He sets off without waiting.

"I think this is the wrong way, Tony," says McGee after a couple of minutes. "Shouldn't we be headed south east?"

"Think? Should? Those words have no place in your vocabulary, McGee," says Tony, continuing to walk. Don't change your mind, that's a sign of weakness. No, wait, isn't that an apology? Screw it, Gibbs isn't here and Tony gets to change up anything he wants.

"Wrong really needs to have a place in yours," mutters McGee.

"What's that, McMumble?"

"Nothing, boss," says McGee and falls into step beside him.

This is, of course, the second that the threatening clouds stop threatening and get on with the business of heavy pounding. The rain is torrential and in seconds they're already drenched. Tony points at a building a couple hundred yards up the street. It has a porch running the length of its side.

"Run."

They run. From under the safety of the stone porch Tony peers out at the dark clouds.

"That does not look good," he says, and turns towards McGee, shaking himself like a dog. Water droplets fly everywhere.

"Thanks for that, Tony," says McGee. "I'd be pissed only it's like throwing a cup of water into the ocean." He pulls off his jacket and whacks at it ineffectually.

Tony grins. "You look like an unfinished wet shirt competition. Like, oh no! Protect the nipples!" He makes circular motions in the air with his fingers.

"What are you-? Oh." McGee looks down at himself. There's a wet stripe down the middle of his shirt but the rest of it is dry. He looks back at Tony. "You're no better. I can see exactly where you've been putting those extra donuts."

"Hey! More respect for the boss." Tony checks himself out. Huh, McGee is such a liar, Tony's shirt is clinging to him in just the right way. He's still got it.

"Sure. Sir." McGee shrugs back into his jacket.

"Thank you." Tony leans back against the wall, watching the rain pound down against the gravel. Some of it bounces back, some of it soaks right in. It would probably be a metaphor for life or something but Tony's not feeling philosophical right now, he's feeling tired. He leans his head back against the stone.

It takes him a full two minutes to realize the only things he can hear are the rain and the odd vehicle passing by. McGee is completely silent, Tony can't even hear him breathe. He opens his eyes and seeks McGee out. He's about six feet away and staring at Tony, white-faced. When Tony catches his eye he blinks away quickly.

"What's wrong, McGee?"

"Nothing, boss." McGee shoves his hands in his pockets and twists his lips. Yeah, right, nothing.

"I was just thinking we could probably face the rain. It's not so bad," McGee adds after a few seconds.

"Shut up, McGee."

"Got it, boss."

Tony surveys their situation. They could face the rain but this is an expensive suit and he's not ruining it so McGee can get home and play at being elves and fairies. And besides, it's not so bad here in this porch type thing. It's cool and out of the rain and, you know, nice arches. Very churchy, come to think of it. Oh!

"We could go in to the church, McGee. Get dry. Maybe get the priest to break out the bread and wine."

"It's not a real church, Tony," says McGee, refusing to meet Tony's eyes. "It's converted."

And just like that Tony knows where they are. And Tony knows that McGee knows and if he doesn't stop staring like one of Ducky's corpses, McGee is going to know that Tony knows and that Tony knows McGee knows and it was a whole 'knowing' thing that started this whole nightmare in the first place.

"Uh," he says, and that's when he realizes his mouth's hanging open.

"Oh god," says McGee, going slack-jawed himself. "You-?"

"U-huh. And you-?"

"Obviously."

"How long have you-?"

"First day on the job when you yelled at me to be safe. You?"

"The next day. You with the-" Tony waves his hands around in an attempt to describe just how disturbing the yum yum incident had been to his delicate psyche.

McGee inflates like someone stuck a bicycle pump up his ass. "You've made me walk on eggshells for two and a half years waiting for the other shoe to drop and you knew all this time. What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you, McGee? You can't mix egg and shoe-related metaphors, it can't be done. And besides, I was the one guilty of a federal crime. Excuse me for not introducing you around as Agent McGee-who-had-my-dick-in-his-mouth-when-he-was-but-a-lad. Are you insane?"

McGee deflates a little, but looks thoughtful. "Is that why you rag on me the whole time?"

"No," says Tony. "That's because I love it when you pout, McGee."

McGee narrows his eyes.

"Okay, okay so a little bit, yes. I didn't want you to go getting ideas."

"Ideas about what?"

"You know about what. What about. What." Tony growls. Dumbass prepositions.

"No," says McGee, mouth set in a stubborn line, even though Tony knows he knows.

"Me. I didn't want you getting all ideas about me."

"Because."

"Because I'm not gay."

"And neither am I." McGee has his 'I'm talking to a mental patient voice' on and Tony thinks he might kill him.

"What do you mean, you're not gay? Might I just say, McGee, I beg to differ."

"And how exactly would you know, Tony?"

"Well-" starts Tony and the flash of sense memory he gets is vicious. McGee's lidded eyes, his mouth stretched and shiny around Tony's dick, the smooth strands of hair tangled in Tony's fingers. It's all he can do not to double up under the force of it.

"Sexuality is not an either or option," McGee is saying. "You should know that, Tony, you had gay sex and you liked it. Doesn't make you gay."

McGee's hair is slicked back with rain, his eyes big and dark and his lower lip is stuck out just about as far as it goes. He's not sixteen any more, he hasn't been for a long time. He's the guy Tony relies on every day of their working lives. He's the guy that gives as good as he gets and makes Tony laugh or roll his eyes or clap his hands in glee at his smarts. Sure, Tony's awesome, but McGee? He's just as awesome in his own way. And Tony finally gets it, that what happened all those years ago, however McGee defines his sexuality now, it’s not important. Because McGee is McGee and that's all that matters.

Only that's not entirely true. Without letting himself think about what he's doing, Tony takes a few steps towards McGee, getting in nice and close. It's not that Tony doesn't understand the concept of a personal bubble, he just chooses to ignore it. He puts out a hand.

"Show me your handkerchief, McGee," he says.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

McGee reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean, folded handkerchief, putting it into Tony's open palm. For no reason Tony wishes to explore right this second, he is ridiculously relieved.

"Ha, ha! Handkerchief, I knew it!" he says, closing his fist around it.

"Um, okay," says McGee, taking a step backwards. He jerks a thumb in the direction they'd come from. "Did you leave your sanity back in the car, boss? Because I could go and get it if you want. No problem."

"No," says Tony, "See, it's proof." He takes another step forward, closing the distance between them again.

"Proof of what?"

"That you haven't changed. Not really. You're just the same, only with less hair and more padding. You're still you." He squeezes McGee's arm and doesn't add, "You still want me."

"Tony, don't-" says McGee and tries to pull away, teetering on the edge of the porch before over-balancing and pulling them both into the rain. Tony makes a grab for a pillar and McGee grabs at Tony's tie and somehow they manage to stay upright, pressed up against each other and it's the easiest thing ever for Tony to finish the job, to lean in and kiss McGee as the rain washes the world clean.

Tony's barely had a chance to register the warmth of McGee's lips, to slide his hand through the wet strands of hair when McGee is shoving at his chest and stepping away, wiping his mouth and shaking his head.

"You're my boss. We can't- I can't- I had this figured out, Tony. Don't."

"McGee." Tony reaches for him but he sidesteps away.

"I...I...I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow, boss. It's okay, this never happened, we're cool." He turns on his heel and flees.

"Not cool," says Tony, knocking his head off of the stone pillar. "Not cool at all." He turns up his collar, glares up at the clouds and sets off back to the car. The breakdown service should be there any hour now.

He's on his third beer wondering if there's such a thing as a bicurious epiphany when the knocking starts. He briefly considers ignoring it, but he just knows it's a whole Schrödinger's door issue. If he doesn't answer it, it will be three Playboy bunnies looking for a little help in fluffing their tails and he'll have missed out on the most awesome sex of his life, if he does, it'll be Mr. Margolis from next door wanting him to unblock the drain again and Tony's beginning to develop a phobia of beard clippings.

"Coming," he says. And then, "Door number three," as he opens it to reveal McGee, dry and nervous-looking.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

"Guess so."

McGee takes a couple of steps into the apartment and then hovers. It should be annoying, it almost is.

"What is it, McGee? I'm tired." Tony pinches his forehead between forefinger and thumb and rubs. Bad enough that he's only just admitting to himself that he wants what he can't have without the guy doing the withholding standing in his apartment looking like seven different flavors of ice cream. There are probably laws against it. And if there aren't, there should be.

"I think I...Can we have sex, now?"

Tony laughs, startled and hopeful. "What, no conversation and cuddling on the couch? I was so right about you."

"Huh?" And, okay, if Tony's not supposed to use cutesy adjectives on a grown man, then McGee needs to not look like that when he's confused because there's no manly equivalent for adorable.

"Never mind. Didn't you blow me off earlier?"

McGee takes a step towards Tony and plucks at his t-shirt. "I had this thing where I was worried about breaking the rules but then I remembered I already messed with a marine's coffee so-"

"So," echoes Tony, sliding a hand around McGee's hip. His heart thuds a little faster. Must be the beer catching up with him.

"I'm really crappy at casual sex, Tony."

"That's not how I remember it."

McGee pulls a face. "Bad time for flippancy, DiNozzo."

"One step at a time, okay?"

"Okay." McGee nods, determined, with that so familiar pout, and Tony can't understand how he's managed to resist that mouth for so long. He kisses McGee for the second time. Only now there's no rain in his eyes, no hands pushing him away, instead there's the faint taste of mint and that lip, that full, expressive lip sucked into Tony's mouth, soft and warm.

"Step one," says Tony, breaking the kiss and pulling McGee with him into the bedroom.

Tony's given up being surprised by what he wants, it's his own fault for not paying attention, so when step two turns out to be him on his knees, unfastening McGee's pants it doesn't come as any kind of shock to realize how much he wants it. It seems reasonable, even, that they've come full circle.

McGee's hard, ramrod straight (the irony is not lost) and flushed dark. Tony has never been this up close and personal to an erection before (he's tried, but he's never been that bendy) and it's kind of exhilarating, a little scary and a lot hot at the same time. Tony knows that while he may be inexperienced he's never lacked enthusiasm and one way or another he's going to give McGee a good time. He wraps a hand around the shaft and gives the head an experimental lick. McGee hisses an inward breath and Tony jerks his head up to see if he's doing wrong. But McGee's looking down at him, eyes half-closed, a smile edging his lips so it's all good.

He reapplies himself to McGee's dick and sucks it in, cheeks hollowing around the head, tongue pressing it up, up against the roof of his mouth. And here's the thing, it feels great. It feels incredible. Its not just the noises he's pulling from McGee, the moans and the panting and the chanting streams of babble, it's the physical sensation of McGee's dick distorting Tony's mouth, it's knowing McGee trusts him not to fuck this up. Only a guy can understand how attached another guy is to his penis, it stands to reason. Only a guy can really appreciate what a blowjob really means. Tony can't believe it's the first time he's ever figured this out.

He needs to touch himself so badly it's killing him. He's humping the air as he sucks and licks and strokes and, dammit, he should've worn jeans because the sweats he's in aren't giving nearly enough friction. McGee's hands squeeze Tony's shoulders hard and there's a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Really. Close," McGee pants.

Tony lets go of the shaft and presses his palm flat but gently against McGee's balls. His mouth is flooded with warm, thick liquid and Tony's automatic response is to gag and spit it out, but no way is McGee getting the better of him on this one. He swallows and sucks until there's nothing left, running his tongue lazily over the tip before he lets it fall from his mouth. He looks up, grinning and wiping his mouth with one hand, the other already in his pants.

"Let me help you with that," says McGee, pulling at Tony's shirt.

"No time." And really, there's not, because it's maybe five strokes, possibly ten, and Tony's coming in sharp, bright pulses, curling his toes. "Good thing it's laundry day tomorrow," he says, rocking back on his heels and pulling out his spunk-covered hand. "I should really buy some handkerchiefs if I'm gonna be spending more time with you, McGee."

"Step three," says McGee, swiping the tissues from beside the bed and handing them to Tony, "Shut up, DiNozzo."

"Linen ones with embroidered initials," says Tony, and ducks.