Ficlet: Sneaky Kisses - Not Quite (NCIS, McGee/DiNozzo)
Title: Sneaky Kisses - Not Quite
Author: tigerlady (that's me!)
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: McGee/DiNozzo
Rating: Pretty PG
Spoilers: none
Cumber's attic is worse than his Great Aunt Helen's basement and the lost claims department of the IRS combined. Tim shoves a broken wooden rocking chair to the side, then squints his eyes mostly shut against the geyser of heavy dust that bursts up around him. Forget cleaning. The place needs to be condemned. But first, it all has to be searched and catalogued, just in case evidence is lurking under the faded copies of National Geographic.
Something lands on the back of his neck. Something small and ticklish. Tim brushes at it, but he can't tell if anything is still there, so he strips off his jacket, reaches up under his T-shirt. He really doesn't want to die an agonizing death as the result of a brown recluse bite. He brushes out his hair, wriggles his shirt, wipes the back of his neck one more time, but he can't find anything.
He eyes his jacket suspiciously. It's pretty warm up here. Suffocating, even, without any fans to move the air. Best to leave the jacket--and any hitchhikers it's carrying--off for now.
He rubs the back of his neck one more time, then pushes his way towards the rear of the attic, where a stack of boxes reaches wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Old-style cardboard boxes with the faux wood-panel finish. The kind typically used to store files. Tim figures they're his best bet for finding something incriminating.
Somebody coughs.
"Good God! Hitchcock wouldn't be caught dead in this place."
"Hitchcock's already dead, Tony," Tim says, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to see Tony wrinkle his nose at the grey-brown pile of something in the middle of the only clear square foot of floor.
"Yeah, I know. And you don't see him anywhere in here, do you?"
"Not yet, anyway," Tim murmurs. The boxes are stacked haphazardly, half of them squished and leaning. It's a disaster waiting to happen if he goes about this the wrong way. Kind of like Jenga. He's always been good at puzzles, though, so he reaches for the one on the top right. He's got it halfway out when he realizes there was something on top of the box. He tries to ease it down carefully, but the box shifts in his grip. All he can do is stare in horror as an old Nike-winged trophy careens towards his face--
And is caught half an inch from his nose.
"Winning move, there, Probie," Tony says as he inspects the trophy. "First place, Georgetown Nerd League. Sounds about your speed."
"Ha, ha, DiNozzo." Tim blows out a sigh of relief, then pulls back on the box. Except the one to the left shifts with it.
"Got it," Tony says, grabbing the second box. Tim doesn't hesitate with his, dropping it to the floor before any thing else can fall. He turns back around to see Tony stretched out, one long arm propping the box in place, the other reaching beyond it, shirt riding high to bare a tiny strip of skin. Tim licks his lips, taking a safe second to admire what he usually has to ignore.
"Well, don't just stand there. Help me!"
"Uh, right. Sorry." Tim's not sure what Tony's doing, but he guesses there's another trophy or something on top of his box. He steps in, plants one foot between Tony's, and stretches up, reaching for whatever it is.
Whatever it is turns out to be a trunk of some kind. Small, but heavy, and Tim is having a hard time getting a firm grip on it. He doesn't want to pull it down on top of their heads, after all.
"Come on, Probie. Hurry up."
"Give me a sec--" he starts, but then Tony turns his head. They're standing so close that Tony's lips graze the underside of Tim's arm. Featherlight against his bare skin, but it seems to last forever. Goosebumps break out over his forearms, and the sweat on the back of his neck goes chill. He's completely frozen by the almost-kiss.
And then Tony tips his head back, breaking the connection. "McGeeee!"
"Right," Tim says, snapping into action. He tugs on the trunk, even though he still doesn't have a good grip. It slides forward, gaining speed as it overcomes the coefficient of friction, and tumbles over the edge. Tim grabs it out of the air and swings it to the floor. Tony thunks his box down right next to it.
"Sometimes I really hate this job," Tony says as he lifts the lid, then shudders. He acts like nothing happened a second ago--except the nape of his neck is sunburn red.
"Oh, I don't know," Tim says, squatting down between the boxes. Their knees just happen to brush together. "I'd say I'm having a pretty good day."
Author: tigerlady (that's me!)
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: McGee/DiNozzo
Rating: Pretty PG
Spoilers: none
Cumber's attic is worse than his Great Aunt Helen's basement and the lost claims department of the IRS combined. Tim shoves a broken wooden rocking chair to the side, then squints his eyes mostly shut against the geyser of heavy dust that bursts up around him. Forget cleaning. The place needs to be condemned. But first, it all has to be searched and catalogued, just in case evidence is lurking under the faded copies of National Geographic.
Something lands on the back of his neck. Something small and ticklish. Tim brushes at it, but he can't tell if anything is still there, so he strips off his jacket, reaches up under his T-shirt. He really doesn't want to die an agonizing death as the result of a brown recluse bite. He brushes out his hair, wriggles his shirt, wipes the back of his neck one more time, but he can't find anything.
He eyes his jacket suspiciously. It's pretty warm up here. Suffocating, even, without any fans to move the air. Best to leave the jacket--and any hitchhikers it's carrying--off for now.
He rubs the back of his neck one more time, then pushes his way towards the rear of the attic, where a stack of boxes reaches wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Old-style cardboard boxes with the faux wood-panel finish. The kind typically used to store files. Tim figures they're his best bet for finding something incriminating.
Somebody coughs.
"Good God! Hitchcock wouldn't be caught dead in this place."
"Hitchcock's already dead, Tony," Tim says, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to see Tony wrinkle his nose at the grey-brown pile of something in the middle of the only clear square foot of floor.
"Yeah, I know. And you don't see him anywhere in here, do you?"
"Not yet, anyway," Tim murmurs. The boxes are stacked haphazardly, half of them squished and leaning. It's a disaster waiting to happen if he goes about this the wrong way. Kind of like Jenga. He's always been good at puzzles, though, so he reaches for the one on the top right. He's got it halfway out when he realizes there was something on top of the box. He tries to ease it down carefully, but the box shifts in his grip. All he can do is stare in horror as an old Nike-winged trophy careens towards his face--
And is caught half an inch from his nose.
"Winning move, there, Probie," Tony says as he inspects the trophy. "First place, Georgetown Nerd League. Sounds about your speed."
"Ha, ha, DiNozzo." Tim blows out a sigh of relief, then pulls back on the box. Except the one to the left shifts with it.
"Got it," Tony says, grabbing the second box. Tim doesn't hesitate with his, dropping it to the floor before any thing else can fall. He turns back around to see Tony stretched out, one long arm propping the box in place, the other reaching beyond it, shirt riding high to bare a tiny strip of skin. Tim licks his lips, taking a safe second to admire what he usually has to ignore.
"Well, don't just stand there. Help me!"
"Uh, right. Sorry." Tim's not sure what Tony's doing, but he guesses there's another trophy or something on top of his box. He steps in, plants one foot between Tony's, and stretches up, reaching for whatever it is.
Whatever it is turns out to be a trunk of some kind. Small, but heavy, and Tim is having a hard time getting a firm grip on it. He doesn't want to pull it down on top of their heads, after all.
"Come on, Probie. Hurry up."
"Give me a sec--" he starts, but then Tony turns his head. They're standing so close that Tony's lips graze the underside of Tim's arm. Featherlight against his bare skin, but it seems to last forever. Goosebumps break out over his forearms, and the sweat on the back of his neck goes chill. He's completely frozen by the almost-kiss.
And then Tony tips his head back, breaking the connection. "McGeeee!"
"Right," Tim says, snapping into action. He tugs on the trunk, even though he still doesn't have a good grip. It slides forward, gaining speed as it overcomes the coefficient of friction, and tumbles over the edge. Tim grabs it out of the air and swings it to the floor. Tony thunks his box down right next to it.
"Sometimes I really hate this job," Tony says as he lifts the lid, then shudders. He acts like nothing happened a second ago--except the nape of his neck is sunburn red.
"Oh, I don't know," Tim says, squatting down between the boxes. Their knees just happen to brush together. "I'd say I'm having a pretty good day."