NCIS (television): The Deep Midnight
Title: The Deep Midnight
Fandom: NCIS
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Minor sexings.
Word Count: 1,575 words.
Summary: Tim is thinking of giving this writing thing a serious try. What Gibbs thinks is something else different, though.
A/N: Written for qzee in the ncis_ficathon.
When Gibbs came home that evening, he knew something was amiss. Tim was pensive and less willing to prattle on about this, that, and computers the way he usually did. Banned from the kitchen as per usual, he floated around the perimeter, never quite crossing over as he watched Gibbs prepare their supper for the night. Jethro could feel his gaze on the back of his head, worrying in its intensity.
Tim couldn't see his face from that angle, which was why Jethro permitted himself a frown. Something was obviously bothering his subordinate.
He ran through the memories of the day the same way that librarians thumbed through card catalogs. It had been a light day that they had used to square away paper work and other things that needed their direct attention. Now that he thought about it, Gibbs was fairly certain that he had seen Tim using the hours to sneak calls to his editor.
He glanced over his shoulder at Tim, who had shifted to the couch. He had tucked his knees under his chin, and was directing his gaze at the silent television.
Well, something was definitely bothering him. Jethro furrowed his eyebrows at his partner, weighing the merits of shaking him out the funk versus waiting it out.
If it was important, Tim would have told him, right?
Remember who you're thinking about here...
Gibbs shook his head and turned back to preparing the chicken breast. He would just have to leave it be for a while. Subtle probing had never been his strong suit, and pressuring Tim about it wouldn't do anything except make him clamp his mouth shut tighter than FBI intel. He scowled at the now-mutilated poultry, the knife still gleaming from the juices. He had never been very good at patience, either.
Irritated, he threw the chicken back into the marinating dish, and shoved it into the refrigerator. Being so close to McGee had its advantages, but also its downsides -- he never used to mutilate food, for example, each and every single time Tim was upset about something --
"So, no chicken tonight?"
Gibbs grunted in response, pushing (gently) past McGee, who had been heralded only by silence. "Not unless you want chicken strips. We could cook some rice and --"
"Um." Tim looked at the floor and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm not all that hungry, actually."
This is it. At least he hadn’t had to wait very long.
“Well, finally,” he grumbled. “You’ve been walking around with that pole-axed expression all day. Out with it.”
Tim grasped a chair by the back and swiveled it around backwards, straddling the seat and resting his arms on the back with one smooth motion. “That obvious, huh?”
“Hard to miss. Especially with the way you kept sneaking off with your cell phone.” Gibbs grinned at the flush that rose up in Tim’s face, and ruffled his hair with ease born from long familiarity. “Easy Tim, I won’t throw you out.”
“I’m not really worried about that,” he replied quietly. “I’m just...not sure what I should do...”
Well. That did sound serious.
Jethro perched on the edge of the table, watching as Tim drew patterns on the table top. Waiting.
Finally, the younger man let out a frustrated sigh and clenched his hand into a fist.
“The science fiction short stories have been selling really well. Sandra thinks I should move on to full novels, especially since they’ve have been getting longer and longer. She thinks I have enough mileage for a complete series.”
“She thinking about a trilogy?”
“Hexalogy. A six-book series,” Tim corrected, smiling just a little at Jethro’s expression. But the smile quickly faded. “I’m...I’m pretty sure I agree with her, too.”
Gibbs let out a breath through his nose. He rubbed a hand through his hair to hide his discomfort -- unsuccessfully, judging from Tim’s expression. His subordinate was getting better and better at reading his face lately.
“Six books? That’s going to take a lot of dedication, even if you have a leisurely timeframe. Where would you find the time for that? NCIS isn’t exactly a nine-to-five job...”
McGee looked at him with a guilty look in his eyes. “Th-that’s, uh, kind of the catch. Sandra was hoping to make next year’s winter sales’ quarter, and um...”
“Next year’s quarter?” Gibbs was appalled. “Even you can’t churn out three hundred pages that quickly, forget how long the editing will take.”
“Sci-fi novels tend to be a lot longer than three hundred pages,” Tim pointed out. “It kind of comes with the territory. I, uh, think we’re looking at five hundred or six hundred.”
Gibbs almost wished he had his glasses on. His incredulous expression would have been completed if only it were directed over the rims.
“Don’t look at me like that,” McGee replied. “Look, its half done already. And if I can keep this pace up, I can have it finished by November.” He set his chin onto his arms with a defiant huff.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, I take it?”
“I...well...” He looked at the ground. “It’s...I like it. The writing, I mean. Its better than the mystery novels. Its fun.” His leg began to jiggle nervously, and it seemed that he stopped only through force of effort. “I started writing the novel as...kind of a private thing, but then it grew and grew, and Sandra wanted to see it and she was excited about it...”
“And started seeing dollar signs.”
Tim grinned at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Gibbs crossed his arms. “Tim. I’m happy for you, really. But I’ve also seen you when you’re just trying to finish just a short story. Six books is a massive project, especially with the way you work. Where are you going to find the time for this?”
Tim let out a soft breath. Jethro felt his expression soften a little. The light above the table was a pale yellow, casting its sun-like brilliance over them both.
McGee had always been beautiful, but there was something special about him when he was in Jethro’s house. A softening around his eyes, a relaxed stance to his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, a slow and steady dance. Even the way he sat was different: more fluid, despite his stillness, the tilt of his neck a study of grace. He was like a bird in some ways: the same fragility, the same resilience.
Tougher than he seems.
Jethro held on to that thought.
“I was thinking of...not quitting. I can’t quit. I won’t.” McGee frowned, and nodded, as if he had made the decision on the spot. “I won’t quit NCIS, Jethro. My life is there. My family.” His leg began to bounce again. “But...it would be nice to...well, I was thinking...”
Something that had been tightening in Jethro’s stomach began to unravel. A smile was threatening to break out on his face. “Tim. Are you suggesting a sabbatical?”
“Something like that,” he agreed shyly. He ducked his head and looked up at Gibbs through his eyelashes. “But only if you come with me.”
His hands fell to the table, loose limbed and a little lively, the ends of his fingers twitching from time to time. Jethro reached out with one hand, and settled one finger-tip against Tim’s.
“Director might not go for it,” he said thoughtfully. “Especially if it’s a long time.”
“Depends on how you define ‘long’,” McGee replied. The corners of his mouth were turning up, up, up and his eyes... “Besides, he’s been telling me I should go on vacation. Maybe even an extended vacation.”
“How extended? I don’t want to stay cooped up for very long.”
“Six months, maybe?” Very carefully it seemed, his fingers slowly entwined with his lover’s. “And I know you wouldn’t get bored.”
“Is that a threat, Special Agent McGee?”
“A promise. Special Agent Gibbs.”
He raised his head and looked Jethro square in the eye, and it was like...
...jumping out of a plane, or balancing on a wire, or staring down a hungry wolf...
...or falling in love...
Jethro’s hand tightened around Tim’s, and he pulled the younger man across the table (or at least the very small section that separated them) and into a rough kiss. McGee moaned into his mouth, and with some awkward scrambling, sat himself in Gibbs’ lap with a happy sigh.
“I’ll take this as a yes,” he groaned, as Jethro placed kisses and small bites up and down his long neck.
“Not sure if I have enough leave,” Jethro mumbled. Tim’s soft skin was too tantalizing for him to continue the thought, however, and he was rewarded with a high-pitched squeak and a lot of squirming as he hit that spot on Tim’s neck.
“I can share my sick days with you,” McGee said eventually. “Though I’d be surprised if you didn’t have enough, with the way you accumulate leave...”
“The way we accumulate leave,” Gibbs corrected. He reached between Tim’s legs and squeezed, making the younger man moan and wriggle in his lap, hitching his arms around Jethro’s shoulders. “Mmm. So, you want an extended vacation?”
“Ummmph. Yes. With you. In bed. Ohgod...”
They didn’t make it to the bed. Fortunately, the table was sturdy, and Jethro was able to show Tim just how much he was warming to the idea.
Fandom: NCIS
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Minor sexings.
Word Count: 1,575 words.
Summary: Tim is thinking of giving this writing thing a serious try. What Gibbs thinks is something else different, though.
A/N: Written for qzee in the ncis_ficathon.
When Gibbs came home that evening, he knew something was amiss. Tim was pensive and less willing to prattle on about this, that, and computers the way he usually did. Banned from the kitchen as per usual, he floated around the perimeter, never quite crossing over as he watched Gibbs prepare their supper for the night. Jethro could feel his gaze on the back of his head, worrying in its intensity.
Tim couldn't see his face from that angle, which was why Jethro permitted himself a frown. Something was obviously bothering his subordinate.
He ran through the memories of the day the same way that librarians thumbed through card catalogs. It had been a light day that they had used to square away paper work and other things that needed their direct attention. Now that he thought about it, Gibbs was fairly certain that he had seen Tim using the hours to sneak calls to his editor.
He glanced over his shoulder at Tim, who had shifted to the couch. He had tucked his knees under his chin, and was directing his gaze at the silent television.
Well, something was definitely bothering him. Jethro furrowed his eyebrows at his partner, weighing the merits of shaking him out the funk versus waiting it out.
If it was important, Tim would have told him, right?
Remember who you're thinking about here...
Gibbs shook his head and turned back to preparing the chicken breast. He would just have to leave it be for a while. Subtle probing had never been his strong suit, and pressuring Tim about it wouldn't do anything except make him clamp his mouth shut tighter than FBI intel. He scowled at the now-mutilated poultry, the knife still gleaming from the juices. He had never been very good at patience, either.
Irritated, he threw the chicken back into the marinating dish, and shoved it into the refrigerator. Being so close to McGee had its advantages, but also its downsides -- he never used to mutilate food, for example, each and every single time Tim was upset about something --
"So, no chicken tonight?"
Gibbs grunted in response, pushing (gently) past McGee, who had been heralded only by silence. "Not unless you want chicken strips. We could cook some rice and --"
"Um." Tim looked at the floor and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm not all that hungry, actually."
This is it. At least he hadn’t had to wait very long.
“Well, finally,” he grumbled. “You’ve been walking around with that pole-axed expression all day. Out with it.”
Tim grasped a chair by the back and swiveled it around backwards, straddling the seat and resting his arms on the back with one smooth motion. “That obvious, huh?”
“Hard to miss. Especially with the way you kept sneaking off with your cell phone.” Gibbs grinned at the flush that rose up in Tim’s face, and ruffled his hair with ease born from long familiarity. “Easy Tim, I won’t throw you out.”
“I’m not really worried about that,” he replied quietly. “I’m just...not sure what I should do...”
Well. That did sound serious.
Jethro perched on the edge of the table, watching as Tim drew patterns on the table top. Waiting.
Finally, the younger man let out a frustrated sigh and clenched his hand into a fist.
“The science fiction short stories have been selling really well. Sandra thinks I should move on to full novels, especially since they’ve have been getting longer and longer. She thinks I have enough mileage for a complete series.”
“She thinking about a trilogy?”
“Hexalogy. A six-book series,” Tim corrected, smiling just a little at Jethro’s expression. But the smile quickly faded. “I’m...I’m pretty sure I agree with her, too.”
Gibbs let out a breath through his nose. He rubbed a hand through his hair to hide his discomfort -- unsuccessfully, judging from Tim’s expression. His subordinate was getting better and better at reading his face lately.
“Six books? That’s going to take a lot of dedication, even if you have a leisurely timeframe. Where would you find the time for that? NCIS isn’t exactly a nine-to-five job...”
McGee looked at him with a guilty look in his eyes. “Th-that’s, uh, kind of the catch. Sandra was hoping to make next year’s winter sales’ quarter, and um...”
“Next year’s quarter?” Gibbs was appalled. “Even you can’t churn out three hundred pages that quickly, forget how long the editing will take.”
“Sci-fi novels tend to be a lot longer than three hundred pages,” Tim pointed out. “It kind of comes with the territory. I, uh, think we’re looking at five hundred or six hundred.”
Gibbs almost wished he had his glasses on. His incredulous expression would have been completed if only it were directed over the rims.
“Don’t look at me like that,” McGee replied. “Look, its half done already. And if I can keep this pace up, I can have it finished by November.” He set his chin onto his arms with a defiant huff.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, I take it?”
“I...well...” He looked at the ground. “It’s...I like it. The writing, I mean. Its better than the mystery novels. Its fun.” His leg began to jiggle nervously, and it seemed that he stopped only through force of effort. “I started writing the novel as...kind of a private thing, but then it grew and grew, and Sandra wanted to see it and she was excited about it...”
“And started seeing dollar signs.”
Tim grinned at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Gibbs crossed his arms. “Tim. I’m happy for you, really. But I’ve also seen you when you’re just trying to finish just a short story. Six books is a massive project, especially with the way you work. Where are you going to find the time for this?”
Tim let out a soft breath. Jethro felt his expression soften a little. The light above the table was a pale yellow, casting its sun-like brilliance over them both.
McGee had always been beautiful, but there was something special about him when he was in Jethro’s house. A softening around his eyes, a relaxed stance to his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, a slow and steady dance. Even the way he sat was different: more fluid, despite his stillness, the tilt of his neck a study of grace. He was like a bird in some ways: the same fragility, the same resilience.
Tougher than he seems.
Jethro held on to that thought.
“I was thinking of...not quitting. I can’t quit. I won’t.” McGee frowned, and nodded, as if he had made the decision on the spot. “I won’t quit NCIS, Jethro. My life is there. My family.” His leg began to bounce again. “But...it would be nice to...well, I was thinking...”
Something that had been tightening in Jethro’s stomach began to unravel. A smile was threatening to break out on his face. “Tim. Are you suggesting a sabbatical?”
“Something like that,” he agreed shyly. He ducked his head and looked up at Gibbs through his eyelashes. “But only if you come with me.”
His hands fell to the table, loose limbed and a little lively, the ends of his fingers twitching from time to time. Jethro reached out with one hand, and settled one finger-tip against Tim’s.
“Director might not go for it,” he said thoughtfully. “Especially if it’s a long time.”
“Depends on how you define ‘long’,” McGee replied. The corners of his mouth were turning up, up, up and his eyes... “Besides, he’s been telling me I should go on vacation. Maybe even an extended vacation.”
“How extended? I don’t want to stay cooped up for very long.”
“Six months, maybe?” Very carefully it seemed, his fingers slowly entwined with his lover’s. “And I know you wouldn’t get bored.”
“Is that a threat, Special Agent McGee?”
“A promise. Special Agent Gibbs.”
He raised his head and looked Jethro square in the eye, and it was like...
...jumping out of a plane, or balancing on a wire, or staring down a hungry wolf...
...or falling in love...
Jethro’s hand tightened around Tim’s, and he pulled the younger man across the table (or at least the very small section that separated them) and into a rough kiss. McGee moaned into his mouth, and with some awkward scrambling, sat himself in Gibbs’ lap with a happy sigh.
“I’ll take this as a yes,” he groaned, as Jethro placed kisses and small bites up and down his long neck.
“Not sure if I have enough leave,” Jethro mumbled. Tim’s soft skin was too tantalizing for him to continue the thought, however, and he was rewarded with a high-pitched squeak and a lot of squirming as he hit that spot on Tim’s neck.
“I can share my sick days with you,” McGee said eventually. “Though I’d be surprised if you didn’t have enough, with the way you accumulate leave...”
“The way we accumulate leave,” Gibbs corrected. He reached between Tim’s legs and squeezed, making the younger man moan and wriggle in his lap, hitching his arms around Jethro’s shoulders. “Mmm. So, you want an extended vacation?”
“Ummmph. Yes. With you. In bed. Ohgod...”
They didn’t make it to the bed. Fortunately, the table was sturdy, and Jethro was able to show Tim just how much he was warming to the idea.