Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: D. Anthony, M. Timothy
Series:NCIS
Rating: M
Word Count: 2,254
Length: One-Shot; possible Two-Shot
Warnings: Mentions of murder, swearing, M/M, touching, drug addiction, mentions of abuse
Prompt: "It's the quiet ones you have to look out for; we all come undone at some point."
Sixty-seven...sixty-eight...
Ninety...ninety-one...
One-eighteen...one-nineteen...
Tim was only just realizing exactly how many holes there were in his ceiling. He normally never noticed; they were so small you could barely see them, but he spent the last two days staring at them nonetheless.
He didn't know-didn't care-how long he'd been staring at the ceiling now. When he'd started, it had been morning. Now, it was so dark...All day he'd been debating, sending occasional glances towards his broken bedside drawer.
Mom would have been ashamed.
Mom is dead.
Dad would be angry.
He's always angry.
He'd taken today and the day before off; he couldn't bear to look at this team. He was supposed to have the flu. He didn't have the flu. He'd never had the flu. This would never be because of the flu.
His hand tightened on his stomach as another pang of hunger ravished his abdomen. He didn't even keep food in the house anymore. It'd been almost a week since he last ate, but he was so used to the constant pain now that he was barely affected.
He didn't know when he'd gotten thrown into this cycle. He wasn't sure if it was because of Sarah and Penny's deaths in that 'car accident', if things had just piled up, or if he was just too damn weak to save himself. He wasn't sure of much, lately.
Too weak.
Too weak.
Too weak.
He was assaulted by the same mantra of words over and over and over again. He was too weak, wasn't he? Too weak to save Penny. Too weak to save Sarah.
Too weak to save himself.
The next pain came at him full force, and before he could even register what he was doing, he'd ripped open his side drawer and swallowed a few of his lovely tablets dry. He felt the guilt surround him almost immediately, shame crashing down on him. He'd been too weak to stop himself again. He should be used to pain, not be running from it...
He eventually laid back in the position he'd been in for the last forty-eight hours, staring up at the ceiling once more. He thought a lot about his team. How would they react to the helpless child he'd become? How would they react when they saw how weak he was?
Tim's constant state of pain duller much quicker than expected, but he brushed it off. The sooner, the better, right? He'd be less weak, then. He'd be happier. He'd be as complete as he'd ever get.
Tim couldn't help but smile bitterly as he began to feel more relaxed; more comfortable in his own skin. His eyelids began to drift shut and he allowed them to. Maybe he'd finally get some sleep...
Too bad Timothy McGee never gets what he wants.
He wasn't sure of what had woken him up, but he had not a single clue what was going on. He tried opening his eyes, and was rewarded with swimming vision. He could definitely hear voices. He couldn't keep his eyes open; it was like the world was spinning. Like many other things, it was making him sick.
The voices were getting closer and closer; louder and louder. Soon, it was like there was an argument going on right beside him, but he knew, despite how out of it he was, that wasn't possible. He knew no one was there with him.
Suddenly, the voices were recognizable; took the form of something he never wanted to hear again. He was sure no one was there with him. Not anyone with those voices, at least. Not anymore.
You fucking slut!
Brian, calm down, I-
Shut the fuck up!
Dad was angry.
T-Tim, honey, go back to bed, please.
Mom was scared.
No, let your son hear what a fucking tramp you are!
Dad, don't grab me like that, you're twisting my arm.
Brian, you leave him alone!
Excuse me, bitch? How dare y-
Oh no.
You know what? Fine! Both of you, get out! Now!
It'd be fine...he'd take us back in a couple of days. He always did.
Time didn't know when the pain had come back, but it hurt so much worse than it did before. It felt as if the fabric of his clothing was sandpaper; cutting and chafing his skin with every movement, and his pillow was burning the side of his face. He tried to shift, and let out a groan, his vocal cords on fire.
He was so disoriented he was barely sure of where he was anymore. He didn't know how much time had passed. He couldn't find the energy to move. He couldn't ignore the pain. This was supposed to have helped. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It hadn't been like this before, why was it now?
It felt as if the walls were closing in on him like that time his dad locked him in the attic when he was fifteen. It was like someone was sitting on his chest; he could barely get enough air.
So there he lay, curled up on his side shivering and shaking for god knows how long. He didn't know when he'd started to cry, honestly. It could have begun in the very beginning, or maybe it was during the fight with his parents. He couldn't explain how much pain he felt. He was hard- god, he was so hard, and it hurt. He wasn't aroused, no, not in the slightest. He was anything but.
It hurt.
It hurt.
Make it stop.
After some indecipherable period of time, many hallucinations later, he heard the faint sound of a door opening. He knew the sounds, but he wasn't coherent enough to understand what it entailed. He heard footsteps beside his bed, the anxiety doubling. He was hyperventilating. He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to see the face. He knew who it was. He heard his name being called, but he coldn't respond. He couldn't open his mouth.
Just as he thought he was going to be left alone again, he reached out, despite the pain and fatigue. He loosely grabbed the soft fabric of what Tony was wearing, unable to even make a fist, hoping he would stay.
He didn't care how weak DiNozzo thought he was. He needed him to stop the pain. He knew he could stop it. He had to be able to.
After a short pause, he felt the bed shift beside him, DiNozzo's body coming to rest beside his own, barely brushing. He felt the coolness of Tony's breath as he turned on his side, probably staring Tim in the face. Tim still couldn't look, and as he felt one of Tony's hands reach underneath his cheek that was rested upon the pillow and place itself there, he was informed of how painfully hard he was. Physical contact was not helping, but it wasn't like Tim could resist. It wasn't like he wanted to.
Don't look at me.
Tim's head was pounding, his own heartbeat in his ears much louder than whatever words Tony was whispering. He felt tears being wiped away by a cold hand, and he couldn't help but take slight comfort in it. He moved his weight ever so slightly on the bed, attempting to hide his erection from his friend, but he couldn't help but let out a groan of pain as he rubbed against the checkered blankets.
Please...just don't look, Tony.
Please.
I'm disgusting; don't do it.
He could tell Tony had noticed by the sharp inhale of breath, and if Tim hadn't already, he would've wished he'd have dived off a bridge rather than submit to this sort of humiliating torture. He wasn't sure that he'd wanted to say it, but he seemed to be no longer in control of his emotions, body, or thoughts as Tony gave in to the request.
Touch me.
He felt nimble fingers slowly go from his cheek, tracing the skin down to his collar bone, before it was quickly replaced by a mouth. They were only short, closed-mouth kisses, but their coolness helped to calm part of Tim's feverish skin for a fractions of time. It was enough for him.
He felt those same fingers of Tony's slowly trace his way down his side as he leaned back up and placed a kiss on Tim's cheek. He continued those small, sweet kisses, simply seeking to comfort him. He felt teeth accidently nip him as DiNozzo gasped silently, reaching a part of his hips that was uncovered by his ridden up shirt.
Tony circled his fingertips there, hoping to give Tim more than enough time to gather the energy to tell him to stop if need be. That never came, though. Tim allowed whatever he did without a complaint. Anything Tony could offer to soothe his pain was accepted.
Tony leaned his head into Tim's neck, blowing cold air onto the areas he had kissed, making Tim release a sound he'd never heard himself make before. He couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain, really, but Tony's fingers stilled for a moment and his breath hitched, as if expecting Tim to tell him to get up and tell him to leave.
Not like he had the energy to, but some small part of him told him that he wanted this. Not just because of the ecstasy that he'd taken, not the fact that he'd taken too many high-dosage tablets and had made everything backfire, but that he'd want it anyone. Even out of this situation. And you know what? Tim didn't deny that. He was done lying to himself.
When Tony recieved no negative response from there, he slid the tip of his thumb underneath the waistband of Tim's sweatpants, slowly moving them closer and closer to the front and farther from his hip. Tony was taking things slow, and through the daze of thoughts Tim found that to be slightly pleasant, though unnecessary.
Please, do something...
Tim felt Tony slowly slip his fingers, for the most part, into his sweatpants, staying above the thin layer between Tim's erection and his hand, as provided by Timothy's underwear. Tony massaged the area just above it, sending odd jolts of pleasure and pain up Tim's spine at random intervals.
Tim found himself using both hands to grasp the front of Tony's shirt and hide his face ever so slightly, the tears coming back silently at full force. He grasped onto Tony like a lifeline as he began to slowly knead him, muttering words in Tim's ear in between kisses. Tim couldn't remember what he said, but whatever it was had been good, he knew it. So very good.
Tim found himself hanging onto those words, those kisses, that touch, and he found himself climaxing faster than he ever remembered having before. Much faster than those times in highschool, and any of the other times he'd been underneath the influence of the drug that was currently ruining his life.
He came with a choked sob, clutching onto Tony with as much force as his lead-filled fingers would allow. He felt so guilty. He'd practically forced this onto Tony, hadn't he? They'd both crossed so many boundaries, he didn't even want to know what would happen when the drug wore off.
So for that moment in time, Timothy McGee clung to Anthony DiNozzo as if his life depended on it, crying not-so-silently the entire time before he fell unconscious. He'd felt Tony remove his hand from his lower extremeties and place it behind Tim's shoulders to cradle him close as he muttered words to him. Tony gave Tim a kiss on the forehead, rubbing small circles on his back as he fell asleep once more. Whatever their relationship was, or would be, could be dealt with in the morning. They were both just caught up in a situation that they never expected.
Not that either of them really minded, deep down.