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The heavy wooden front door clicks shut behind Jethro, sealing out the damp, cool September air of Alexandria. He reaches instinctively for the wall switch in the hallway, finger hovering over the toggle, but stops dead. The ground floor of his house isn't dark, but it’s completely wrong. Low, amber light flickers across the plaster walls, casting long, swaying shadows toward the kitchen. The faint, sweet smell of melting wax mixes with the crisp, dry aroma of burning oak.
"Get your hand off that light switch!" Tobias’s voice barks from around the corner, sharp and echoing off the cabinets. "You'll ruin the mood!"
Jethro lowers his hand slowly, stepping into the living room with a slow, deliberate stride. In the hearth, a modest fire crackles, sending golden sparks up the chimney. On the kitchen counter, half a dozen mismatched votive candles sit lit, their flames dancing in the draft. Tobias stands near the stove, looking ridiculous and comfortable in one of Jethro’s oversized gray fleece sweaters, the sleeves pushed up past his forearms, revealing the pale skin of his wrists.
Jethro tilts his head, his blue eyes narrowing as he takes in the display. "Mood?" he asks, his voice low, dry, and gravelly. "We're gonna make out?"
Tobias huffs, wiping his hands on a dishtowel he has tucked into the waistband of Jethro's sweatpants. "Maybe. I've set the mood for a thank-you dinner."
He gestures with a wooden spoon toward the table, where two plates sit beside a couple of sweating bottles. Jethro walks over, his boots thumping softly on the floorboards. He reaches out and picks up one of the brown glass bottles, expecting the bite of frost on his palm. Instead, the glass feels lukewarm, almost room temperature.
He frowns, shifting his gaze to Tobias. "Beer’s warm."
"The Germans like it that way," Tobias retorts without missing a beat, crossing his arms over his chest and chin lifted in stubborn defense. "They know beer!"
Jethro sets the bottle back down with a soft, hollow *clink*. He doesn't say anything; he just stares at Tobias, his head cocked slightly, watching the subtle tight tension around the older man’s jaw. Tobias holds his ground for three long seconds before his shoulders drop, the defensive posture evaporating into an exhaustive sigh.
"I tried to replace the outlet in the hallway," Tobias mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Took down the main breaker, flipped something else, heard a pop, and now the whole grid down here is dead. Electrician can't come until Thursday."
Jethro just stands there, silent, his hands sliding into his front pockets. He’s spent decades dealing with Tobias's pride, and usually, a mistake like this would bring out a dry jab or a smirk. But he sees the subtle slump in Tobias's back, the restless, caged energy vibrating just beneath his skin. Tobias misinterprets the silence entirely.
He steps closer, his voice rising, sharp with frustration. "Go ahead, say it! Tell me I'm useless, tell me I shouldn't touch your tools! I'm losing my mind, Jethro. The Bureau is sitting on their hands, the doctors won't sign off on my medical clearance, and I am stuck in this damn house all day staring at the wallpaper!" He’s gesturing broadly now, the frustration of months of recovery and forced leave pouring out in the dim, candlelight space. "I'm going stir-crazy! I just wanted to—"
Thwack. Jethro’s palm lands squarely, affectionately, on the back of Tobias’s head. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it’s firm enough to cut the rant off mid-sentence. Tobias blinks, his mouth snapping shut, his eyes widening in surprise. Before Tobias can process the sting, Jethro reaches up, cupping the back of Tobias’s neck with a calloused hand.
He pulls him in close, closing the narrow gap between them, and presses his lips firmly against Tobias’s. The kiss is deep, steady, and grounded—a silent anchor pulling Tobias out of his frantic head. Tobias pauses for a fraction of a second, his hands hovering, before he lets out a quiet breath against Jethro's mouth and melts into it, his fingers gripping the fleece at Jethro’s waist.
When Jethro pulls back, his thumb lingers against the warm skin of Tobias’s jawline. "Dinner's fine," Jethro murmurs, his voice soft in the quiet room. "Beer's fine. Stop thinking about the Bureau."
Tobias lets out a breathy, half-amused laugh, leaning his forehead lightly against Jethro's shoulder. "It's still warm beer, Gibbs."
"Then we'll drink it fast," Jethro says, a faint trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he keeps his arm wrapped around him.