Work Text:
Tim hated the time between cases. Not that he was hoping for a dead petty officer or a dead anyone, but time seemed to slow and almost stop when the team was working on cold cases. It was hard to stay focused and his mind had a tendency to drift which was more than a dangerous thing with Gibbs lurking about.
He opened another file from the pile on his desk, rested his chin on his upturned palm and furtively attempted to keep his mind on track.
They didn’t fit together like two peas in a pod. They weren’t a ham and cheese sandwich or even a bologna and American cheese on a roll with mayo (chips on the side, please). Tim and Tony were like one of those combinations that had people going “ew”--until you took your first bite. Fluff and Nutella with a smattering of sliced banana between two slices of Wonder bread. A deep down in your gut satisfying comfort that left you wondering where this epicurean delight had been hiding your entire life.
Yeah, that’s how Tim mentally explained their relationship. To himself. In his head, the place where it made perfect sense because if he had to explain their relationship to anyone other than his inner workings, he would be classified insane, locked away and the key would be lost for all eternity.
In the beginning there had been some adjustments (who was he kidding : some? That’s like saying the Grand Canyon was just a crack in the sidewalk).
Tony hogged the blankets, which was okay, because Tim slept in sweatpants and socks. And if he got cold (because you know Tony needed the windows opened no matter what Mother Nature threw at them), he had no problem wrapping himself around Tony’s blanket mummified body and leeching the man’s warmth.
Admittedly, once Tony was added to the mix of Tim’s life and apartment, his functional full sized bed morphed into a California King. And the nightstand drawer which had once held a box of unused tissues and a pen and paper, now held crumpled tissues, nose spray, an inhaler, lube, and a dog eared copy of the Martian Chronicles (which neither of them would admit ownership of).
Tony acquired the ability to sleep through Tim’s occasional all night gaming marathons, speaking only to remind Tim that “this better not be a school night” before heading off to bed. When the senior field agent’s paperwork threatened to bury him alive, Tim learned to adjust to Tony’s quirky nocturnal habits of napping after dinner, getting up, going back to work, coming home, falling into bed fully dressed and sleeping for another two hours before the alarm.
Once, they had a bitter argument over Tony’s running commentary of a DVD Tim had bought and Tony grabbed his coat, wallet, keys and left, the echoing of the slammed door reverberating through the apartment. Tim’s satisfaction at being able to watch the rest of the movie in peace lasted all of twenty minutes when he shockingly realized that Tony’s annoying chattering was a million times more preferable than the silence he had left in his wake.
“I’ll be quiet,” Tony solemnly promised when he returned.
“No, never. That just wouldn’t be you,” Tim remembered he had replied, though there were times later that he wished he’d replied with “Sometimes silence is golden” (like six months later when they were stuck in a car for hours on a stakeout).
Tim was OCD in both work and home. Or he used to be. Tony was organized chaos in both work and home. Or he used to be. Middle ground based on compromise was becoming a comfortable place to inhabit.
Tony was mellower at home than at work. Happier to spend his downtime with Tim, the couch, a DVD, and a bowl of buttered popcorn, clad in sweatpants, an old sweatshirt and white tube socks. Cuddling under the afghan, he often threatened Tim within an inch of his life should a picture of “this” Tony appear on social media.
Tim tolerated “work” Tony because he loved this Tony (and hid the memory card containing the one picture he did have in the dog eared Martian Chronicles, the one place Tony would never look).
At work, they buried their worry of dangerous situations under the guise of friendship and partnership. At home, they were unencumbered by such boundaries. Tim fussed like a mother hen during the winter months, every time Tony sneezed or coughed. Touching and feeling, tsk’ing and threatening to call Dr. Pitt anytime Tony reached for a tissue. Good naturedly, Tony tolerated Tim’s smothering with a side order of tea and Tylenol.
Tony loved to cook and Tim never realized what a turn on it could be watching another person julienne carrots. He had tried to watch Master Chef but it didn’t stir the same type of reaction as a bare chested, jean clad Tony did chopping carrots on the cutting board in his kitchen. Strange.
Tim loved to read, and while he was a technical nerd in every sense of the word, there was nothing like the feel of actual pages between his fingers. He didn’t find it rude nor distracting for Tony to watch a DVD, with headphones of course, on the 52 inch while he read.
Tim watched Tony play basketball and by osmosis the rules of the game began to sink in. He learned to cheer like he meant it. At first, he begrudgingly allowed Tony to read his newest manuscript, tempering down his anger at Tony’s suggestions, eventually listening, understanding, and finally accepting Tony’s help. Feeling ashamed for believing that Tony wasn’t a smart man. Guiltily happy at being proven wrong.
Tim learned how to be a good agent from Tony. To observe and anticipate. To think outside the box. He also learned to laugh from Tony. To be stupider and sillier than he’d ever been, even as a child. And his contribution, lately there was a peace and calmness around Tony that Tim could only hope was his doing.
Tim was brought out of his revelry by a piece of corn muffin hitting him squarely on the cheek, then rebounding to his monitor before landing in an explosion of crumbs over his keyboard. “Tony!” he yelled, grabbing his keyboard and flipping it over, dislodging the crumbs.
“Huh?” Innocently Tony looked up from the file he was studying, a confused expression on his face. “Something wrong, McGee?”
“Wrong?” he sputtered. “Wrong. Yes, there’s something wrong.” He shook the keyboard again for emphasis, corn muffin crumbs continuing to rain on the carpeting.
“Don’t you just hate when you drop a corn muffin? They break apart into these tiny little pieces—“
“Tony!”
“What?” He blinked at Tim. “Oh, you thought I chucked the muffin at you?”
“Don’t play innocent—“
Tony stood, spun in a circle then picked up the file he had been studying. “No muffin. Zilch. Nada.” Dropping the file back on the desk, he sat, throwing his hands up in submission. “Sorry, but it wasn’t me—” He smiled broadly at Tim.
He was annoyed, but unable to hold back his own smile. He’d get to the bottom of this, he knew he would. There may not be a muffin in plain view but it was somewhere. With one last shake of his keyboard he sat down.
They were so different but like Fluff and Nutella they were just so damn good.
And with the help of a memory card hidden in the pages of one Martian Chronicles, Tim was pretty damn sure he’d get Tony to admit to tossing the corn muffin at him.
The end