Author's Note: A McNozzo ficlet written for the NFA Tipsy challenge.
Out Loud
"You know what? I like you," Tim says, slurring as he lolls on the end of the couch. He's had one too many mojitos, and they're already sloshing around in his veins. The "one too many" is half-drained on the end table, missing its coaster and no doubt leaving a ring-shaped stain on the wood.
Tony grins in amusement. He's experiencing his own quiet buzz, although he keeps himself tucked away on the opposite end of Tim's new couch. He hadn't remembered there being a couch here. What happened to the messy desk, books and stray papers thrown everywhere, collecting dust? "I guess you're all right, McHammered."
"I am not," Tim protests.
Tony smirks. "Not what? All right or McHammered?"
But now Tim is confused. "What?"
"Forget about it." Tony stretches out his legs and stares at his socks. They're a bit off white with darker stains near the toes. Maybe he should start using bleach in the laundry.
"We should stop," Tim then says, breaking the momentary peace. They had shut off the movie; they aren't watching it anymore. It's only a filler of space between the both of them, like packing peanuts or wadded up newspaper. Tim is all over the place in thought.
When Tim drinks, he becomes loopy and happy, but when Tony drinks, he becomes mellow and quiet. Tony is all too familiar with his own states of drunken catatonia. He likes to travel there when he's alone or in pain - whether it's physical or emotional, it makes no difference. It's easier to feel nothing than to feel everything at once. Just like it's easier to stave off reality than to actually live it.
Tony glances sideways, almost afraid of what Tim will say next. "Stop what?" he prompts. His curiosity will always get the best of him.
"Drinking," Tim answers simply. He's shutting his eyes for five seconds at a time. He licks his lips and appears ill during every closed-eye stretch.
Tony hides a strange and sudden surge of relief. He says, "Oh."
"When I shut my eyes and everything spins around me in the dark- That's when I know I've had too much to drink," Tim explains.
"So don't shut your eyes."
"It's not so simple."
"Yeah, it is, Tim."
Tim opens his eyes. He stares at Tony, and the loopy smile fades from his face. In its place is something serious. Distress. Sorrow. He has one thing to say: "Why you weren't enough for her, I'll never know." And then his ears turn red and he has to look away, because he just said that out loud and he said it to Tony.
But Tony watches him. He's curious. Halfway alarmed yet…. "Hey," he starts.
"I didn't mean that. I meant-" Tim mumbles as he tries to sink through the couch cushions and down to the floor. "I meant-" Every time he thinks about Ziva, he gets confused and then he sees how Tony is now. He's changed, moping around like the newly rejected, and Tim doesn't know why because Tony is funny and good looking and…
"Come again?" Tony prompts.
And, yet again, Tim has just said that out loud.
Tony is upset. "If you're trying to make fun of me or something-"
"What?" Tim sputters in disbelief. "No?" He never would have expected Tony to say such a thing. It seems wildly out of character, and - currently gripped in this inebriated state - he wonders if he's drifted into some other reality. He knows he shouldn't feel this way, but Tony's insecurities make him feel normal and completely in control of his own life. He has a sudden urge to reach out and say something profound.
But the words don't come, and maybe they never will.
So he settles for blunt reassurance: "I'm not making fun of you." And because he's a nice guy, it's the truth.