Frozen.

“Tony, I swear if you hit that corner at seventy I will empty my stomach on your lap.”

Tony’s lips pursed in disgust and reluctantly, he eased off the gas. Ziva vomiting on his Armani trousers? He didn’t think so.

“I’m just being practical,” he reasoned, eyes back on the road. “We got a potential McFreakout on our hands here; we don’t want him to crack to pieces before we arrive on the scene.”

He almost trailed off at that last part; no sarcasm infected his voice, no inflection was present in the nickname use. He felt the cell in his pocket throb uncomfortably, reminding him of the call he’d gotten just minutes before. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, thumb worrying the leather in a rhythmic fashion. When his nail absentmindedly started carving a nick into the material, he felt Ziva’s hand on his wrist.

“We won't get there full stop if you drive like a madman for much longer. Are you alright?”

Tony grumbled. The least he could do was smile, and offer a few words to back up his explanation. Sure, why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like it’s Probie himself out there, dying on us. Just some chick he met up with a few times. But he couldn’t. The nick in the leather might as well be carved into his chest.

He squinted through his shades, eyes flitting round for any sign of McGee and the girl - no point looking for Kai, as the shooter would most likely be on the other side of town by this point, from what the team had come to expect. He cringed as a sharp blow to the back of the head hit him – seriously, what now? – and slammed on the brakes automatically. Swearing under his breath, he almost went through the screen as the right-hand tyres mounted the sidewalk outside a coffee shop, swerving just short of a tree. He glanced back and caught Gibbs’ all-knowing eyes reproach him, before the passenger doors of the vehicle opened and the others evacuated. Tony froze in his seat, car door half open, looking after Ziva as she and Gibbs ran towards the crowd gathered around a man in a beige jacket. A man kneeling on the floor, clutching his head in his hands.

Tony had seen McGee scared plenty of times. The first time he killed somebody with a gun, Tony had witnessed the guilt practically welling up against the inside of his corneas, shining at him from every crease in those watery greens. It was the kicked-puppy look, the look a kid gives you just before they burst into tears, and all he could think to do was to embarrass himself in front of the junior agent to give him a boost. Still can’t believe I was the one to pee my pants on their first shooting, and not Probie. I must never give him an excuse to blackmail me.

But the thing that freaked Tony out, the shudder that really hacked to his bones, was that McGee wasn’t scared when he rang Tony for help. He couldn’t hear tears clogging his throat, there were no sniffs, whines, hysterics, anything – bar a few stammers, it was just a clean, monotone instruction to get Gibbs, Ziva, Ducky and the van. It was a bad line, Tony admitted that, but as soon as McGee hung up he didn’t move for a whole five seconds. The voice echoing in his head from the other end of the line was heavy enough to pin him to his seat. It was distant. Broken. Adult. And most definitely not the McGee he was expecting to deal with, considering his girlfriend had just been shot in his arms.

“DiNozzo! Over here, now!”

“On your six, boss!”

The stench of panic was nothing Tony wasn’t used to, and before he could direct his attention to a figure he wasn’t sure he would cope with seeing at that moment, what with the totally un-DiNozzo-like thoughts running through his head, he assisted Ziva in pushing wide-eyed customers and passers-by out of the café seating area. Nothing like a puddle of blood to draw in the spectators, huh? It was as though the scene had turned into the gallows, noose creaking around a snapped neck as a warm body swung from side to side, and the audience didn’t know how to react except to keep on watching.

Tony looked over his shoulder, leaving Ziva to deal with the last of the nosing adolescents; Gibbs and Palmer were helping McGee up. The junior agent’s eyebrows were pushed together, wrinkled in the middle like a pummelled pillow, eyes dark and hollow as he kept them on the floor, on the crumpled redhead that lay broken at his feet. Tony’s eyes lingered on his pout, the way his lower lip protruded from his upper as though it was about to quiver, coated with tears. But it didn’t. It was like McGee didn’t quite know what to do with himself, and Tony couldn’t really blame him. He didn’t know who was swinging in the noose; Amanda or McGee. Fuck it, Kai. Why’d you go and break my Probie like that, huh? Why’d you have to shoot the person that put the spring in his step?

And did I really just refer to McGee as ‘my’ Probie? Huh.

“DiNozzo! At least have the decency to look like you’re helping!”

“On it, boss,” Tony said, jerking out of his thoughts. He stepped around Amanda, careful not to tread on the halo of hair that splayed out over the ground, and laid a hand on McGee’s jacket. Cream with a blood-splatter design. “C’mon, Probie, sit in the van while we sort this out. Staring at her won’t bring her back.”

McGee just twisted his head up at Tony, as if presuming his senior held the answer to why Amanda’s blood was pooling in the cracks of the flagstones – and for once, Tony had nothing to say.

-

The light in the hallway was flickering, buzzing like a dying fly. Tony rubbed his arms, muttering under his breath; it wasn’t cold, but the goose pimples wouldn’t flatten. He didn’t know what time it was and he didn’t really care, but he swung the carrier bag in his hand impatiently. Juggling the pizza boxes in his arms, getting a whiff of the hot salami scent that his tongue yearned to taste, he knocked again.

“C’mon, McGee, I know you’re still up,” he called, cheek almost touching the door. “I can see the –”

The sound of the key scrabbling in the lock silenced Tony, and as No.3 creaked ajar he was met with the inhabitant of the apartment, wearing almost the same expression he chose for when Tony took his jokes one step too far – only this time, the darkness of his pupils made the visitor shift around on the spot.

“What do you want, Tony?” The skin round McGee’s eyes was like dying fuschia leaves against the stark contrast of his puffed up, snowy cheeks. It was the look of an ill man. “I was just going to bed.”

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” Tony pointed out, allowing his eyes a quick trip over McGee’s grubby Star Wars shirt and plaid underpants so that he’d get the message. You have good style when you’re sleeping, McGee. Or at least, the top half of you does. A pink flush crept up McGee’s neck, and Tony just had to chuckle at his embarrassment. “Don’t worry, McModesty, I’m not checking you out.”

The younger agent huffed slightly, before turning away from the open door and half-jogging back through his apartment. Tony took this as an invitation to enter, closing the door softly behind him and glancing around the darkened room.

“What time did you go home, McGee?”

“’Bout nine,” McGee yawned back, and Tony detected the melancholy tone among the creaking of drawers. He was stuck for words once more, because part of him felt just too awkward to bring up what he came over to discuss. He opted for small-talk instead.

“Where’s your couch?” he shouted, balancing his offering of pizza and beer precariously on the computer desk.

“Don’t have one,” was the grumbled reply, and Tony chuckled, rolling his eyes. He’d casually suggested to McGee many times that he should make his house a home instead of NASA Base One, but he guessed that he couldn’t really tell him how to live in his own apartment.

“Gosh, McGee, how on earth do you charm women without one?” he asked, opening one of the pizza boxes and peeling off a slice of salami to satiate the watering of his mouth. “What do you do, offer them a swivel chair and a round of Tekken Five? Or are you really a stud in disguise – not that I get why you’d hide that from us, mind you – and is this part of your plan? Y’know, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, no couch – make yourself at home in my bed.’ Is that how the text-message temptress warmed to you so fast?”

The words were out before the foot in Tony’s mouth could stifle them. McGee emerged from his bedroom wearing a pair of slacks, pout unnaturally straight and eyes boring into Tony. He’d come to make things better after the day’s events, not worse, but the teasing was such familiar territory that he’d slipped back there without even realising how McGee might take it.

It was how the pair of them worked. Jab after jibe, joke after jest. The comments rolled off Tony’s tongue and McGee worked with them, most of the time, and boy was Tony glad he did because poking fun at someone who couldn’t take it wouldn’t be half as satisfying. But now, the slumped McGee in front of him, the hollow eyes and the dejected lips and the plain angry look on his face – this was a whole new galaxy. Something Tony was scared of, and what usually came from his brain and through his mouth was now balled up in his throat, choking him.

“I’m sorry, Probie,” Tony mumbled after a few seconds, the sentiment coming straight from the heart that beat uncomfortably beneath his ribcage. “Jeez, me and my big mouth. I –”

“I really am Tired, Tony,” McGee stated tonelessly over Tony’s apology. “I know you’ve come all the way over here with food and everything, but I’d quite like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“C’mon, McGee, just sit and have a beer. I’m sorry, alright? Besides, if what you just said were true, you’d still be in your ever so attractive boxers and I’d be out in the corridor. Isn’t that so?”

There followed a silence, pregnant with the tension that had been growing and developing since Tony’s brain had decided to abscond. The two men stared at each other, ten feet apart on either side of what seemed like a fuzzy ball of hot air, teasing sweat from Tony’s brow. It made McGee’s expression seem cloudy, unreadable, as if all the characters that he usually formed information from had melted together to look the same. Bland. Emotionless. Y’know sometimes, you’re McGreek to me, Probie. He couldn’t even laugh at his unspoken joke. Oh, DiNozzo. Get a grip.

He reached into the bag and brought out two bottles of beer. Robotically, McGee turned for the kitchen in search of a bottle-opener and Tony followed, seating himself comfortably at the table in front of two dirty mugs. One had a lipstick mark at the rim.

“Her real name was Juliet Tippon,” McGee stated blankly, handing Tony the bottle-opener and picking up the mug. His lip quivered, eyes focused on the cup as if wishing to wash away the trace of femininity with his stare. As he sat down, it was as though his backbone melted away to leave him helpless and slumped over at the table. Tony simply stared down at his hands. He already knew the spy’s back story, but he had a feeling that McGee wasn’t repeating it just for his benefit. “Trust me to fall for a girl who was going to kill me.”

“Her pulling a gun on you wasn’t set in stone, McGee,” Tony sighed, taking a swig of his Bud. “She was just desperate for the information on Kai, she probably thought you’d have caved by then –”

“So, I’m just easy to break, huh?” McGee suddenly snapped, and it was as if the thundercloud had finally let rip on the world below. That emotion that had been plastered over? It was more than sadness, more than grief - it was violent, liberated, so very un-McGee-like anger. “I’m the weak link in NCIS? Count on old McGee to be hoodwinked by some foreign spy, because he can’t do anything right!”

“No, Probie, I didn’t mean it like that.” Tony gabbled; he could see the capillaries swell in the raw pink of McGee’s eyes, and he felt his own blood pump up to his cheeks. All of a sudden, I’m panicking over upsetting him? It’s like I’ve turned into McGee himself. “It could’ve been any of us. You think I would have turned down that pair of legs if she’d have walked into my life and offered herself to me on a plate? You’re a man, McGee - even more of one in my eyes after this week. I told you, didn’t I? You sniffed something fishy and acted on your agent’s instincts, even though it meant you could lose Amanda.”

McGee was silent, but the dam had been washed away. Tony’s eyes lingered on the way his nose had gone shiny and flushed, his lips chewed and swollen and the tears that were glazing over his eyes. He was taken aback when McGee let out a small sob, so very oxymoronic to the way his fist threatened to crush the beer in his hand. His eyelids squeezed together, lips twisted in fury, and Tony knew he was trying so damn hard not to let go right in front of his co-worker. A friend.

Tony wasn’t too experienced with comforting crying men. He’d only dealt with breakdowns from members of the opposite sex, and he doubted the technique he used to console women would have the same effect on McGee. Not that I really intend on doing that, of course. Instead, he settled for resting his palm on McGee’s wrist; it was icy and soft in contrast to Tony’s rough palms and heated skin, and this surprised him. Cute.

“It’s not about her being shot, is it?”

McGee shook his head, and a tear dropped from his chin onto Tony’s finger. “I… it was at first. This morning, it was chaos. I knew s-something was up when she suddenly knew where I worked, because I n-never tell anyone that, ever… it was strange. She denied and denied, but then she started asking me questions in this weird accent - ‘where is Kai? Where is she, Tim?’ – and then Kai came out of nowhere… I was so confused, and then suddenly there were sh-shots and she was on the floor, and – Jesus Christ…”

He broke off, trying to regain control of his voice. Tony had an urge to smooth down the frown lines between his eyes, wishing it was as simple as just rubbing your thumb over the problem to erase it completely. But he doubted this wouldn’t go down too well – Tony, get a grip, he’s aguy that youwork with – so he settled for gulping his drink. The alcohol was a familiarity in his throat amongst all these alien urges running through his mind. He sipped again.

“But I still knew something was up, as soon we set off back to HQ in the van,” he continued, not looking at Tony and avoiding staring at the lipsticked mug, as if it would make him do something drastic. “It just sunk in that she wasn’t who I thought she was… she was a spy, Tony, a fucking spy – and she lied to me. She didn’t want me…”

Tony only realised that his breath was stuffed into his lungs like cotton wool when the silence amplified his pulse, throbbing in his eardrums. He cleared his throat and removed his grip from McGee’s wrist, which was mapped with the veins on the back of his hand as he clung onto the bottle for dear life. He could feel a cocktail of he-didn’t-know-what radiating from the other man in waves, pulsations that made Tony’s mind wander again with the proximity at which he suddenly found them.

“I…”

“It’s not even her so much. It’s women in general. Just – ugh. I don’t know why I’m pouring all this out to you. You’re not going to understand. I’m sorry.”

Tony frowned, setting his already empty bottle on the table. World record time for finishing a beer? I think so. He hiccupped. “Try me, Probie. I just sat and listened to your woes, and it’s what I came over for. I may act like a dick most of the time when we’re at work, but I’m not made of steel.”

McGee almost smiled; his mouth twitched up a little at the corner, stretching his lips, and it gave Tony a stupidly funny feeling of satisfaction in his stomach. “Sure - because you, womaniser of the whole Naval Criminal Investigative Service, are going to relate to a computer geek like me who can hardly get a girlfriend, never mind keep one?”

Once, Tony might have smiled, taken McGee’s comment as a compliment, and strutted around for the rest of the day like he had the title pinned to his chest on a badge. But that waver in McGee’s voice, and the overall way he looked in the dim light with full lips and angry eyes and tears drying on his face, made Tony bow his head. His heart was beating irregularly, the pulse jolting his whole body. His voicebox was throbbing and he squeezed his eyes shut to find one face flash in front of his retinas. Too much.

“It’s not what you think, y’know, McGee,” Tony murmured, barely flexing his vocal chords with the almost-whisper. “I’m not a fucking Casanova anymore. I like women, sure – and I used to like the challenge of trying to take them home. Notch on my bedpost, you know the drill. And when I was younger – I guess it was less of a challenge than it is now. It was a stupid habit, almost an addiction… and I’m getting tired of that, but I don’t know how to just… ugh.

“Women look at me, and all the intelligent ones, the people I could strike up an actual conversation with, they see right through my Zegna jackets and my hairstyle and that grin that gets less and less flirtatious giggles in return as the years go by. They see a chauvinist, a kid, and jeez - who wants to get serious with someone so fucking… I don’t even know. But y’know, I’m kind of sick of the women that sleep with me for my smile and that boyish charm people always talk about, McGee. I want someone who wants me for me, jokes and everything… but I can’t seem to get that. Not since…”

Tony, you’ve gone too far, buddy. His mouth paused on the letter he almost pronounced. This was just like the time Tony told McGee he’d wet himself when he first shot at somebody, but he hadn’t actually meant to spill all this. He stared at the clock, determined to keep his eyes on the little ticking hands that just counted down the time until he’d have to wave away McGee’s comfort. I don’t need his sympathy. He may need mine, but I don’t need his. I know that I’m crying, but I just haven’t talked about this with anyone for a long, long time. I don’t need that hand on my shoulder, or the concerned look in those eyes that replaced the anger - those ones I intended to dry tonight. I don’t need him to dry mine. Do I?

“I’m sorry about Jeanne.” McGee whispered, as if he hadn’t said it a thousand times before.

“And I’m sorry about Amanda.”

It was like they were two little boys frozen in war, with only each other for support. Tony dragged his eyes away from the clock, amazed at how they itched with the strain and the tears he never knew he could bear to shed in front of McGee. He knew that work tomorrow was going to be awkward as hell, but he didn’t care, because McGee didn’t seem angry anymore and that was all that mattered, really.

“You’ll find someone, Probie,” Tony mumbled, feeling his coagulated thoughts from the whole night suddenly unblock from his throat. “You’re a catch, and this time I’m not joking you around. You’re – you’re the smartest person I know when it comes to all that geeky shit I’ve never understood properly, and you probably know how to treat a woman better than I do… because all that, all that – it all comes from your heart. I know what to say to make them smile and swoon and fall into bed, but the thing with you is that you’re so honest and earnest that nobody in their right mind would turn you down if they got to know you, McGee. I know the whole Abby thing didn’t work out, but c’mon, it’s Abby. You guys are still friends. And – jeez, I’m fucking rambling again…”

In a movie this would be when the orchestra kicked in, Tony thought wildly, as he suddenly stood up in an attempt to clear his head. It would be when the dawning brought character and audience together, when there was a flight or a fight or a fall. But there was no wild embrace, no blood spilled, no epiphany – well, maybe half an epiphany, if you could call Tony’s brain running in all directions and still crossing the same finish line an epiphany. McGee looked as though Tony had just turned into an alien; eyes wide, puffy lips slightly parted, hands shaking slightly. And Tony decided he must look even more surprised at the words that had just left his mouth, for McGee was standing too, reaching up to shake his shoulder, and Tony seemed a whole lot closer to him than he did ten minutes ago - and fuck it, he had nothing to lose by hugging McGee so tightly as if to press all those confessions between them so nobody else could hear. He could feel the shivers down McGee’s spine, the tension of his muscles and the tears on his neck, and as they parted just a few inches Tony’s head started spinning and before he knew it, he could feel his lips, too.

He was surprised not to find them scared, reluctant – or indeed his own scared and reluctant – but it seemed that all the inhibitions both of them held had withered and died, because Tony was met with something so powerful it seemed to knock the wind out of him. He could taste salt, knowing that McGee was responding to Tony crashing against him so well because he just needed that bit of reassurance to back up what Tony could have just babbled out as a fabrication. Hands scrabbled at the backs of shirts and feet shuffled around on the floor; neither were used to anything other than the soft submission of a woman’s body, as far as Tony knew, and before he realised that this was McGee he was pushing into the table, they stumbled and ended up entwined on a chair, not knowing where they ended and the other began. It was just a little bit weird, clinging to a solid, flatter chest than he was used to and straddling an obviously bigger crotch, but it was a good weird and hell, who ever said Tony was averse to change, anyway? He felt McGee’s long fingers in his hair – those icy, soft, yet irrevocably masculine fingers – and felt them drain out all his conscious thought.

When the clock in the apartment hit midnight, Tony’s mind jerked back to him, trying to make sense of the fist pulling at the collar of his shirt and the lips that paused, swollen and damp but this time because of him, a fraction of an inch away from his own. He realised he didn’t care what the reason was.

“Y’know why else you shouldn’t doubt yourself when it comes to relationships?” Tony whispered, his breath humid and so fucking close against McGee’s cheek, he wondered where the hell the little conscience he posessed had gone to let him do something so very unlike him.

“Why, Tony?” McGee breathed back, almost afraid to look Tony in the eye, as if he hadn’t just done something ten times more intimate. Tony put a finger to McGee’s cheek, turning his head back to face him.

“Because if you kiss every girl like you just kissed me, they’re not going to want to let you out of their sight.”

McGee’s cheeks flushed pink, and Tony felt like a bug was squirming with accomplishment inside his stomach. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before. That was the first time… the first time I just had to do something, right at that moment… I…”

“Glad I was able to bring that out of you, Probie,” Tony chuckled deeply over McGee’s increasingly endearing babbling, his spine relaxing and melting his chest back into his team member’s touch. “For the second time this week… I’m proud of you.”

And Tony had to admit, as the two men both grinned and clung and threw damn near everything they had into their next kiss, he couldn’t find the phrase my Probie too strange a thing to contemplate anymore.