Tony should be enjoying a lazy Sunday, but he already promised his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Hastings, that he would babysit her visiting granddaughter for a few hours. While the elderly neighbor played her weekly game of Texas Hold 'Em, Tony would be keeping her granddaughter, Sasha, out of trouble. He made the promise, sight unseen, a few weeks ago. Based on the way his neighbor talked about her granddaughter, he expected Sasha to be a teenager with no concept of personal hygiene.
When Sasha knocked on his door, Tony had to ask her name three times. She is petite woman around his age with dark red hair and come-hither eyes all wrapped up in the body of a cheerleader. And best yet, she isn't local. She doesn't even live on the East Coast. Sometime next week, she will hop on a plane and fly back to Juneau or San Diego or Fargo or wherever she is from. Then, he'll never see him again. All told, she is the perfect distraction.
Tony figured he would have to call Mrs. Hastings back from fleecing her nursing home friends. Instead, he checks with Barrows, who tells Tony to enjoy his day off and to stop calling. Stop thinking about work, Barrows says, and enjoy your weekend.
He is trying to.
Tony stands in his kitchen while sipping on a glass of red wine and watching Sasha work through his space like a pro. She wears his Nonni's old apron—a red and white checked affair that he never uses, but keeps for nostalgia's sake—over a tight, bodycon dress. Of course, Miss Perfect's day job is a personal chef to a celebrity.
"You know, Tony." Sasha has this cute little accent that Tony can't quite place. "You should try keeping some basic ingredients stocked. I can't keep running back to Yaya's apartment. It cuts down on our time."
The way she says that word leaves him picturing what they'll be up to later. He takes a sip of the red wine. It's going straight to his head, making him heady with anticipation.
"What am I missing this time?" he asks.
"Vanilla." Her lips pull into a perfect smile. "How could you not have vanilla?"
He sips more wine. "I'm not much of a baker."
She tilts her head towards his kitchen "Well, you can't be a cook either because your fridge is empty."
"I'm more of an eater," he says, shrugging.
Taking a full step back from the counter, she lets herself soak up a full view of him. Her eyes rover over his body as if she might be already picturing what's underneath his jeans and sweater. When he notices how deeply she checks him out, Tony holds out his arms. Then, he turns in a tight pirouette. He pauses for a long moment to let her enjoy the view of the back. When he turns around, he is grinning at her.
Sasha laughs, deep and throat, but lust is dancing in her eyes.
"You don't look like an eater either," she says.
His gaze darkens. "Then what do I look like?"
With that question, her eyebrows sneak upward until they're almost comically arched. She flicks her lower lip between her teeth. Tony can't remember the last time he wanted someone so badly. He smiles at her, intention clear.
She shakes her head. "Cookies first. How else will we keep ourselves entertained while they bake?"
"It'll take longer than that," he says.
One eyebrow creeps even higher as that side of her mouth pulls into a smirk. "You sure sound confident." Her smirk deepens. "We'll see."
"Maybe you should let me show you," he offers.
"You'll just have to show me later." Her smile nearly kills him. "But I doubt it.
And Tony has never wanted to prove someone wrong so much in his life. His body responds the way it was supposed to, the way it was meant to. He'll have to deal with it later. He plies it with another slug of wine to buy himself more time. He tries to remember how his Nonni used to make cookies. Vanilla was always somewhere near the end, right?
Oh G-d, I hope so.
Sasha pulls on the apron ties as though she is removing an article of clothing. It's so slow and painful that Tony nearly breaks the stem of his wine glass in half. She slides it aside, careful and cautious. Tony wants to pounce on her, right here and now. Except that it's a game, seductive and gradual, to see if one of them will crack first.
He smiles at her. She fixes him with her eyes. He hadn't noticed they were brown.
If this is her idea of foreplay, I'll play right along.
"Vanilla and cookies first," she says. "And then…"
"We'll just end up with burnt cookies."
"I guess we'll just have to see how long it takes."
When Sasha's voice trails off, the raw anticipation makes every hair on Tony's body stand at attention. It's as if he is suddenly made of gooseflesh. She rakes her hand along his arm, letting her fingers linger for a second too long. Her touch is scorching. As she leans towards his face, her lips haunt the space beside his ear.
She is going to send me over the edge. Right now.
"I'll be right back," she promises.
And with that, she slips out of the kitchen. Her heels click clack against the hardwood floor as she goes. Her fingers have left indents on his skin, an indelible heat that will not reside. He wants that all over his body. Right fucking now.
Tony downs the rest of his wine before refilling his glass.
Sasha couldn't have been gone for more than a few minutes before the doorbell rings. Tony chuckles to himself. She could have just come inside because he left the door unlocked. Maybe it's another game she's playing. Maybe it's some kind of weird game to get even more in the mood. If today continues the way it has, Tony might just ask her about the next time she'll be coming back to town.
Tony whisks his wine with him on his way to the door. When he yanks the door open, his smile is out in full force. He is nearly laughing, buoyant and cheerful.
He starts, "Why didn't – "
The rest of the words die on his tongue when he notices the man on his doorstep. Tony comes crashing straight back to earth.
"McGee?" he asks.
And Tim McGee looks so unlike what Tony expected that he recoils. Tim is wearing a pair of blue jeans and a ratty old hoodie with MIT stamped across it. His hair is mussed and the dark bags under his eyes hang down his face. The bruise on the right side of his face has healed to a dull-green yellow. He looks like he hasn't slept in a few days. He looks like hell.
Tony has no idea what to say, so he settles for: "Hey."
"Hey," Tim parrots back.
Based on the way Tim is blinking, he appears not to have expected ending up here. Tony just stares back until he realizes that Tim might want to come inside. Tony doesn't him to.
"Why are you here?" Tony asks suddenly.
As soon the words are out, Tony regrets them. They came out far harsher than he ever intended. Tim visibly wilts in front of him, arms crossed and eyes glancing back towards the elevator.
"Are you okay?" Tony asks.
Tim shakes his head. "Not really."
Pressing his lips together, Tony slides out of Tim's way as an invitation. Tim sets his jaw before nodding as he heads through the door. They both move into the living room. While Tim carefully appraises Tony's apartment, the older man drinks his wine. The silence between them feels like fingers, slowly wrapping around them into they're choking.
Tim speaks up first. "What happened?"
"When?" Tony asks, tilting his head.
"When I was undercover," Tim says. "I called for help and you…you never came. You and Ziva were supposed to be there. I was on my own. Robins and his friend jumped me. I didn't even know what was going on until I woke up in the hospital."
Tim has to already know what happened. Someone, probably Gibbs, already briefed him, play-by-play, as to what transpired. Or he read Tony's report from the day of the incident. He probably still wants to hear it straight from the source. Straight from Tony. If it happened to him, that's exactly what Tony would do.
Tim has his back to Tony. He keeps one hand on Tony's baby grand piano, the other on the injured side of his head. It feels weird for Tony to be talking to the back of his partner—maybe his former partner, he doesn't know yet. He used to looking Tim in the eye. It shouldn't unnerve Tony, but it does.
"Ziva turned off the listening device." Tony recounts the words as though he is talking to Harris. Detached and emotionless and removed. "When I got the mic back on, I heard you call for back-up. I came as quickly as I could, McGee. I found you in the dumpster."
That makes Tim wheel around. Based on the look on Tim's face, he didn't know that detail. His brow is furrowed, eyes wide and head tilted.
"I waited with you until the ambulance arrived," Tony continues. "I helped the paramedics pull you out. I came by later with Gibbs. To the hospital. Don't you remember?"
"Of course." Tim sounds like he doesn't.
He just stares at Tony and his eyes slowly take on a hollow, worried quality. It shouldn't pull at Tony's heartstrings like it does. As much as he hates to admit it, Tony has a soft spot for Tim. The man he hounded Gibbs to put onto their team. The man he trained from a bumbling probie who couldn't find a bullet if it was in his own weapon into the capable and confident agent he is now. Or the agent he could've been…if he hasn't destroyed his career.
"How did it even happen?" Tim asks.
"It's a risk we take by going undercover," Tony explains. "At any time, you could be compromised. Your cover blown. You can get injured or worse."
"I know that." Tim sighs, long and low. "It's just…I got back from medical leave and suddenly, Ziva is suspended. You and I, we're reassigned. Gibbs won't even look at me. Then, there's that creepy IA guy who keeps asking me questions like I've done something. I'm supposed to talk to him again tomorrow with my association rep."
Pursing his lips, Tony ditches his wineglass on an end table. "You have to know what its about."
Tim pauses, mouth open and shoulder slouched. He rubs at a spot on the back of his neck. His eyes are locked somewhere on the bookshelves full of DVD cases.
Tim's indifference lights a fire inside Tony.
"You had to know they were going to find out some day," Tony says.
Tim's face pulls into a mask of confusion. "Find out about what?"
"Dereliction of duty, McGee. You left me in the dark too."
The way Tony says it is as simple as though he recites an order at the grocery store. He should be more incensed, more upset about it, but he says it with an odd sense of detachment. Like he fully expected it to happen. The words themselves are so much worse.
Tim flinches as though he's been shot. Shock blasts across his open face. He works his hands into fists as he turns to give Tony his full attention.
"What are you even talking about, Tony?" he asks.
"When Ziva cut the mic while you were undercover, she said it wasn't the first time."
McGee and I, we do this sometimes.
Tony should be angrier than he is. Instead, he feels oddly adrift in the moment. There is a flicker, a kernel of recognition, in Tim's eyes. He can't school it away, so he turns back to the bookshelves instead. Tony's free hand turns into a fist.
"Did you turn it off?" Tony asks.
Tim reels backwards, stumbling over his feet until he bumps into Tony's piano hard enough to make the strings rattle. Tony didn't know what to expect, but he didn't think Tim would act so guilty. Tony squares his shoulders, pulls himself to his full height. Now that he said it out loud, he wants answers.
"Did you do it, Tim?" Tony's voice is getting louder. "Did you stop listening while I was undercover? I don't care if you lie to IA, but I want you to tell me the truth."
When Tim looks back over, his eyes are glassy. "I can't believe you would think I could do that to you. You're my partner." Then he adds, voice almost a whisper: "You're my friend. Do you really think I could do that to you?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," Tony says honestly.
"You're my partner," Tim repeats.
"Answer the damn question!" Tony shouts.
Raw emotion flashes across Tim's open face, damaged and distressed and stung. He tries to chase it away, but it is stuck there like a bleeding, gaping wound.
"I never stopped listening." Tim's voice sounds like a child's.
"But Ziva said – "
"Ziva said. Ziva said!" Tim's face twists in anger and he throws his hands out. "How could you believe Ziva over me?! I trusted you with my life so many times. So many times. I always had your six, Tony. I even followed you to Somalia when you didn't have a plan."
"Of course, I had a plan," Tony shoots back.
"'Make the bad guys take us to Ziva' was not a real plan!"
Tony throws his hands out. "No one asked you to come, McGee!"
"I had to, Tony." Tim's shoulders hitch as he breathes hard. "I had to. The only thing you learned how to say in Arabic was 'Yo momma's like a bicycle. Everyone gets a ride.' You were going to get yourself killed."
"I would've been fine." When Tim stares at him, Tony relents. "Maybe you're right…maybe I'm glad you had my six."
Tim half-nods. "I trusted you enough to go to Somalia with terrorists and no plan because you're my partner. I put my life in your hands. How could you not trust me now?"
The way Tim tilts his head, he seems to expect an answer. All Tony can do is stand there as if he's been slapped. Blinking and eyes wide, head reared back and hands at his sides. When Tony doesn't say anything, Tim curls back his lips and hugs his arms to his chest. His shoulders are heaving.
The silence settling around them is so strange, stretched out and all wrong as though something snapped between them. As if whatever they had before isn't the same and it might never be.
Suddenly, Tony's front door flies open. Sasha totters back in on her heels, bottle of vanilla in one hand and a small duffel bag in the other. Confusion settles across her face as her eyes dart between the men.
Tony completely forgot about her.
Her face pulls into a shocked smile. "Am I interrupting something?"
Tim is already moving towards the door. "No, I was just leaving."
Tony starts, "McGee – "
He shakes his head, throwing his hand up over his shoulder as he goes. "Enjoy your date, Tony."
