[Missing Series] Bring Him Home Again

[jack-infinitude.livejournal.com]

Title: Bring Him Home Again
Fandom: NCIS
Rating: PG
Warning(s): DiNozzo/McGee slash, mentions of a past relationship
Word Count: 1,177 words
Summary: Tony can pretend all he wants, but Tim is sick of the lie. Slash. [Missing Series]
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.
A/N: This is the earliest story of the series (chronologically). I'll have a list-timeline up for these soon!



“This has got to be some sort of horrible cliché,” Tim says as he crawls forward.

“Reminds me of --” Tony begins to say, but stops talking with a grunt when McGee hits his calf in annoyance.

“Can we just finish this, please? I feel like the ceiling is about to fall on me.”

“Want to add ‘claustrophobia’ to that list of irrational fears, Probie?”

“Very funny.”

They continue to crawl through the tunnel. Tim wishes that Gibbs had not sent him and Tony to enter the complex this way; neither of them is on the small side, and where Ziva would have been far more adept their combined bulk makes the dark, tiny space an even tighter fit.

The fact that Tim’s nose keeps occasionally brushing against Tony’s ass doesn’t really help things; he’s making a point now to stay back a little. Tony has made it very clear that he isn’t comfortable with McGee being anywhere near his ass.

Tim can still feel the embers of anger burning in his stomach, and it is only through a massive effort that he doesn’t deliberately fan the flames. There can be time enough for that later; he doesn’t dare do anything, not when Gibbs is listening in.

Suddenly, Tony comes to a halt -- Tim registers the noise, but can’t stop, and ends up knocking his head against DiNozzo’s rump.

“Geez, Probie,” Tony mutters, and Tim deliberately decides to say only, “What is it, Tony?”

“We’ve hit a dead end; it must be that trap door that Abby was talking about -- crap. I can’t reach my flashlight.”

Tim can understand why; the tunnel offers no room a person to reach for a belt pouch. “I’ll get it,” he volunteers, shifting forward carefully. “Which side?”

“Left hand side, second pouch. Hey -- that’s not my belt, McGee.”

“Sorry,” Tim says, not meaning it a bit, as he continues to keep a firm hand on Tony’s can. Being left-handed really does come in handy, as he proves when he fishes the flashlight out of Tony’s belt pouch and sends it skittering along the ground between his legs.

“Very funny,” Tony mutters and picks up the flashlight.

The light shows a trap door, like Abby said. It is rusty and corroded, and probably won’t even need the key they unearthed at the crime scene. Nonetheless, Tony slides it into the padlock, and twists.

The key takes care of the padlock, but the door still does not give way. “You’ll have to push,” Abby says through their ear pieces.

“I hate this,” Tony says bitterly. “McGee, back up.”

As Tim backs up, he can feel a headache beginning to form right between his eyes. Fortunately, this is not a long tunnel; the entrance is less than six feet behind them. The air supply is good, and Tony would not have needed his flashlight if McGee had not been blocking the sunlight. As it is, Tony does need the flashlight, as well as room to maneuver.

The move requires a lot of bumping his head on the ceiling, as well as quite a bit of swearing, but Tony finally ends up getting himself on his back. For a moment, Tim can see his eyes looking up at him, two glittering gem stones set in a pale face. For a moment, Tim is transported back to the cold days of February, when he had held Tony as tightly as he could for three nights in a row, trying to get him through the nightmares about Jeanne.

He banishes the memory as quickly as he can, and concentrates instead on the present. Tony is kicking at the trap door, his powerful runner’s legs making sizable progress with every blow. At first, the kicks are even and measured, using both feet -- but as McGee shifts forward into his partner’s line of view, the kicks become less rhythmic and more random. Finally, Tony simply hammers the trap door, his kicks a frantic mass of near-hysteria.

His efforts pay off; the trap door finally gives, flung off its hinges into the darkness.

“Finally,” Tony mutters, and flips onto his stomach, gripping his flashlight.

“Tony?” McGee asks, but Tony is already sliding backwards as quickly as he can.

“Catch you on the flip side,” he says with a smirk, before slipping out the door.

McGee hears a brief scream, followed by the thump of Tony’s body hitting the ground.

Tim takes his time crawling forward, feeling carefully with his hands until he can trace the edge of the trap door’s opening. Gripping the edge, he leans out carefully, and squints in the dark, trying to see Tony. “You okay?”

A faint, “Peachy,” brings a dark smile to Tim’s face. He is just bitter enough to be taking some unwarranted pleasure in Tony’s pain.

Schadenfraude, he thinks as he flips himself onto his stomach. Then he begins backing up -- slowly -- searching for stable ground with his feet. At last, he finds himself hanging by his fingertips, with no sign of it under his feet.

“Tony?” he calls out. “You still alive?”

“Don’t tell me you’re about to drop on me, Probie --”

“Then turn on your damn flashlight and move out of the way!”

A startled silence meets his ears, and a few seconds later the golden beam is casting hideous shadows on the grimy walls.

“This is disgusting,” Tony grumbles. “We must be near a sewer line, I can smell --” He cuts himself off with another brief scream as McGee lands half-on top of him. They both lay there for a while before he says, faintly, “McGee, I asked you not to drop on me.”

“No you didn’t,” was the muffled reply. “You just said I shouldn’t tell you that I was about to.”

“How --” And then Tony works it out, and he groans and pushes McGee’s legs off his stomach. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Except I think my back is broken, but no one cares about that.”

“Your back is fine,” Tim says in annoyance. He sits up and then deliberately puts his legs back on Tony’s stomach, just to annoy him. “You never complained about being underneath me before.”

Tony chokes on his own breath, and Tim punches his own leg in anger. That is why not, he thinks furiously. Saying stupid stuff like that is why he says “no.” Stupid stuff like that is why not --

“Get a life, Probie,” Tony says harshly, as the static crackles in their earpieces. They are too far underground for Gibbs to hear. “You really need to get out, meet a girl, and be part of something special --”

And that hits Tim like a punch in the gut; the idea that what they had had, screwed up as it was, was worthless, inconsequential, good for nothing.

“I was part of something special,” McGee says before he can stop himself. And because he feels reckless, he adds, “You can’t pretend you don’t love me.”