Leather Pants.

“I can’t believe Abby talked me into this,” McGee sighs into his lemonade, avoiding my eyes.

“Well, its not as if I could have brought Ziva as my date, now, is it?” I point out to him, taking a gulp of my non-alcoholic beer.

McGee slams his drink down on the table. “Shut up, Tony, that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t have minded coming here if it wasn’t for what she had in mind.”

“Oh, c’mon, Probie, lighten up,” I grin. “You don’t look that… uh, feminine.”

He just glares at me. “I am going to kill her! I’m sure when Gibbs assigned her the task of dressing us up he didn’t mean to include this – this –”

“Eyeliner? Chest exsposure? Tight leather pants?”

I know I’ve toed the line, for McGee falls silent and crosses his arms, as if he’s trying to defend himself from my words. In all honesty, I was telling the truth; if I had to pick a word to describe his image right now it wouldn’t be feminine, per say – just very, very gay. I shuffle a little closer on the squeaky plush seat, adjusting the glasses on my face that have a camera feeding back to MTAC pinned into them, and growl into McGee’s ear. He ignores me, steadily turning pink-cheeked, and I snigger out loud. I can almost hear his nervous heartbeat over the thud of the music.

“C’mon, DiNozzo,” a voice barks through my earwig, making me jump. “We don’t want to see you seducing McGee, we want to see you get eyes on Rodriguez or Gonzales.”

“Uh, yeah – gotcha, Boss,” I murmur, leaning away from McGee’s cheek and surveying the room. The club is murky and dense; high-heeled skeletons shrink-wrapped in leather are squirming all over one another on the dance floor, both genders only focusing on their own sex. It’s hard to breathe over the pheromone-laced puffs of smoke, and difficult to see anything as the violet disco lights struggle to shine through them.

“You spot anything, McGee?” I ask, nudging him. He shakes his head, removing his own camera-specs and giving the lenses a wipe. His almost invisible microphone is pinned to a low cut white top with frills that would take him back to Shakespearian times, if it weren’t for the jacket he’s clutching around himself to hide it. I’ve told him to take it off several times but he refuses, even though the heat, the embarrassment or both are teasing unnatural amounts of sweat from his flushed forehead. I fight down the urge to smirk and wipe it off with my sleeve, and look around again for the drug pusher that’s supposed to be making a deal here tonight, according to his PDA.

“Only ripped guys with shaved heads looking curiously in this direction,” he grumbles, turning back towards me and following my line of sight. “You?”

I too gesture negatively, draining my glass and rubbing my nose. I shift uncomfortably in my own attire – whilst I got away easier than McGee did when we were dressed up for this undercover role, leather pants are still something I have never ever planned to wear in my lifetime and will never ever do so again, especially after tonight. There’s an itch on the inside of my thigh, and as I scratch it I try not to let McGee see that I’m nearly as edgy as he is dressed like this, only much better at hiding it.

“Hey, cutie,” a voice suddenly purrs on my right side, as its tank-top clad, thickset owner leers over a wide-eyed, frozen McGee. “Wanna ditch this square and come for a dance with me?”

“Get out of here, sweetheart,” I retort instinctively, as the man – who looks startlingly like Bruce Willis; Pulp Fiction comes to my mind straight away – lets his eyes linger over McGee’s slightly damp shirt that reveals just a little too much for the wearer’s liking. I throw my arm around his drooped shoulders in a protective act, my other hand resting on his burning thigh. “He’s with me, got that?”

All six-foot-seven of this Bruce guy, who looks like he could destroy McGee with a single grip of the hand, straightens up and narrows his eyes. “He ain’t your property, darlin’.”

I’d be more intimidated if he wasn’t wearing pink pants. “Like I said – he’s with me. He don’t wanna be your bitch – do ya, Timmy?”

McGee shakes his head, obviously wracked with mortification. I curl my arm tighter round his neck, pulling him in closer and fingering the frills on his shirt, so that Bruce will get the hint. He sighs, gives my junior agent one more look up and down, and leaves through the throng. I can feel McGee’s chest deflate in relief, and as he tries to lean away from me I realise just how strong my grip on him was.

“Uh… thanks, Tony,” he says, scratching his neck. I don’t know why this particular set up has him all bothered and worked up, but he avoids my eyes and scans for our suspects again.

“Don’t mention it, McJittery,” I reply, and to my utter horror my voice comes out all hoarse and shaky. I clear my throat, aware of how my face is heating up – what the fuck? – and remove my hand from his thigh before I look down and give the camera, and MTAC, full view of what I’d instinctively done. “And no, seriously, don’t mention it. That goes for you guys watching us, too – I’m talking to you, Ziva.”

My lips spit out the last vowel of her name – Zee-vah – because I just know she’s laughing herself silly at the improvised scene that just played out on a floor-to-ceiling screen back at HQ. I wipe my forehead and push back my hair, before standing up and wiggling my eyebrows at McGee. “C’mon, Timmy– they’re not over this way and we’re not gonna spot him if we’re sat in the corner all night. Let’s dance.”

His palm is sticky in mine as I pull him towards the sea of people, all bathed in the mugginess of exhilarated breaths. We’re lost easily, trying to spot our drug-dealing Marine over the crowd. As we move towards the middle of the room we encounter reluctant, fresh-out-of-the-closet boys trying their first taste of homosexuality; lesbians running their hands over every crevice, lump and bump; men just like Bruce with their tongues down each other’s throats, ignoring the people around them. There are women with mohicans and men smothered in tattoos; body-builder types with flimsy vests and army boots; scrawny kids in their early-twenties, with floppy haircuts and checked shirts. And then smack-bang in the middle there’s me and McGee, pushed together by the pulsing dancers and there’s nothing really to do but to go with it, get carried along with the waves, lifted over the crest and pushed down under the surface. His chest is crammed right up against mine, and this time I really can feel his cardiac muscle, pounding away to the beat of the techno babble that echoes on the glistening ceiling. I pull him closer by the small of his back just to keep appearances up – not that anyone’s really paying us any attention – and his hands come to rest on my hips. I start; I honestly didn’t know he had it in him to be even fake-forward, after that awkward confrontation with Bruce.

The song changes. It’s faster, but somehow more rhythmic. McGee puts his head over my right shoulder and I do the same with his, although I’m not sure how much of the gesture is to look for Rodriguez or try to fudge the fact to MTAC that we’re dancing together. It’s not like I care what they say back at the Navy Yard – I mean, I’ve had pretend sex with Ziva on an undercover mission, for crying out loud – but somehow, this feels a little too weird and personal to share with Gibbs. The tight leather clutching McGee’s legs is almost stuck against mine, and we’re slotted together in this mad space we can’t move out of, the heat pressing in on us from all sides. Holy shit, we’re practically grinding. I let out a deep breath on his neck, which is so close to mine I can even feel him gulp - and then one of his hands travels up my back, outside my shirt, a sort of half-barrier between me and the figure behind. I can’t stop goose pimples fizzling up under my skin, and as soon as I shiver McGee’s hips lurch forward - and somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong, not one tiny bit.

And then something pushes me, hard, a stray limb catching my face and nearly taking my eye out – probably would have done if my glasses weren’t there to take the brunt of the blow. Gibbs is shouting in my ear – something about losing visual, I can’t even hear properly over the music – and then McGee’s taking his hands off me, leaving handprint-shaped patches of this fuzzy, cold sensation that makes me shiver. He squeezes past me, taking my arm and pulling me out of the crowd – and then I realise that the guy who pushed past me is Rodriguez, and he’s got company.

We follow two Mexican men as they press on through disgruntled clubbers, seemingly oblivious to us. The latter, Gonzales, looks behind him as I get closer, and as his eyes drift to my waist I realise my gun is on show. His eyes widen and he shouts in Spanish for Rodriguez to pick up the pace and head for the bathrooms as they disappear into the crowd, invisible again. With him not realising that I’m fluent in the language, I grin and take the gun out of the holster as I try to navigate my way to the restrooms through the mass of people and smoke.

“NCIS!” I announce, as McGee and I crash through the door to the men’s room. The cramped, dirty space is empty, filled only with two cubicles and a grimy sink. Checking both, we find the room clear, but above the right cubicle is a tiny window, far too small for any man to wriggle out of.

“You don’t think – no,” McGee puffs, climbing onto the toilet and trying to force the window open. “Locked, there’s no way…”

Suddenly, the door slams shut on the room, and a key scrabbles in the lock. I run to it and try to force it open, but I’m too late – there’s mad laughter as the club owner walks away, evidently satisfied with trapping two feds in his club bathroom in order to make his getaway.

“Fuck!” I yell, pounding my fist on the door. McGee’s in the doorway of the cubicle: jacket ripped off, chest glistening with sweat and glasses missing. Double lack of visual.

“Boss, Ziva – they’ve – they’ve locked us in the restrooms, do you copy?” he asks into his microphone, which clearly isn’t working because I have one demanding and one concerned voice one in my ear, asking me what the hell is going on, and why they have no sound, now, either. I try to find my own microphone to test, but it’s gone, misplaced and lost in the chase through the crowd. The back of my head hits the plasterboard wall, and my spine buckles in defeat.

“Nah, give it up, McGee,” I sigh, looking at my cell phone. No reception. “We’ve failed. As if I fell for that stupid trap – I mean, why the hell would you go to the bathrooms when you have cops on your tail? Why?”

McGee sighs, leaning up against the doorframe, with his arms crossed and head bowed. His fringe flops over his face like a veil, trying to hide the fact that eyeliner has smudged all round his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Tony,” he eventually utters. “You had to think under pressure. There’ll be another opportunity to catch up with them.”

I can’t thing of anything to say to this, so I pace up and down. Gibbs… Gibbs wanted tonight to be the night we busted these guys, the last night they had free to walk the streets. And because I fell for a stupid ambush instead of trying harder to follow their heads, they’ve gotten away and I’m locked in this tiny bathroom with McGee until the boss and Ziva drive the half-hour route to get us out. But… why, why did I let my guard down? Why didn’t I ask for a visual from McGee instead of following my gut, which turned out to prove me wrong?

I throw my useless glasses down as anger sparks through my muscles. I lean over the sink and look into the mirror, seeing McGee glance up from the floor. He’s stood jauntily, so different to how he usually appears at work – maybe it’s the clothes. No, definitely the clothes. For one that feels so uncomfortable in them, his posture’s changed notably for the better – he seems taller, looks slimmer. It doesn’t even seem to be conscious, as his eyes are on me and not his reflection in the mirror.

“Tony?”

I turn around, carbon dioxide escaping from my nose in tiny, uneven spurts. His eyes stand out in the feeble lighting, shadowed by the make-up Abby had so eagerly applied hours before.

“Yeah, McGee?”

“Is something bothering you? Aside from, y’know, the obvious?”

I close my eyes, propping myself up on the counter. “No. Just a bit distracted tonight, that’s all.”

He nods, lips twitching around one another as if debating whether to ask what exactly is distracting me. And then as I realise my voice had to be raised to talk over the music that’s still pounding through the tiles and the plaster and the brick, and my mind flips back to the dance floor – how long it’s been since I lost my senses in a place like this, having them squeezed and triggered by writhing, damp heat pressing in on me. Of course, the older I get the less I find places like this are my scene – and by that I mean clubs in general, not gay bars – but it doesn’t mean that being pressed flush against another body in that kind of environment wasn’t invigorating. Was that small thing the distraction? Being reacquainted with the feeling of another so close, hands on my back and hips meeting in a rough rhythm? Or was it just the fact that the person I was with seemed to fit so snugly and perfectly along the contours of my body?

McGee takes one step forward, fanning himself a little with his open shirt, and I spin round, freezing him in his spot. This bathroom’s almost as warm as the club itself – I notice that fat heating pipes snake round the walls, radiating warmth that accumulates quickly in the tiny space. The heat carries his scent on it, spreading through the room like a perfume; sweat, clearly, but sweat that smells so fucking enticing I can’t even fully process the message of exhilaration it conveys. My eyes fix themselves on his feet, the boots that lace up his calves and blend into his trousers with hardly a glitch in his silhouette. The shape of his legs show he’s not who he was five years ago when he joined NCIS, not at all – I remind myself of where my hand was just before, and it shudders involuntarily. The black leather around his hips, tight; the fitted shirt half-tucked into his belt, tight; the low-cut neckline of the flowing fabric, so loose – as loose as his lips, which form a perfect orb of surprise and curiosity because I know he’s watching me with those open eyes.

Eyes that don’t realise I’m staring at him, yet, because they’re fixated somewhere around my midriff.

I shove him into the cubicle and lock the door before I have time to tell myself that I’m crazy, and then I’m backing away as far as I can go – which is about an inch or two – scared of what I’ll do next. I mean, c’mon, this is Probie. Probie. Probie that’s still looking at me, straight at my face this time, probably wondering why the hell Tony DiNozzo is acting like the muggy air in here is laced with the drugs Rodriguez sells on the side. Maybe it is, and that’s why I’m not thinking straight. I pull at my collar, and then McGee peels himself away from the wall I slammed him up against. Probie’s not the only one panting, sweating, a little hesitant and confused, but he’s the only one who doesn’t look scared, for once.

“You felt it, too.”

It’s not a question, and there’s no ambiguity between us. McGee’s suddenly back against the wall and we’re back like we were on the dance floor, only this time the grips are a little harder and the movements are a little more jerky and our lips are a little closer. I don’t know what this is, because whatever it is its part alien and part dragged up from a dusty part of my memory where fear crouches in a corner, but it’s also good, in an I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-the-consequences kind of way.

“Why were you so nervous, Tim?” I whisper into his neck, weaving my fingers through his hair and exploring this new territory, so willingly surrendered by its owner.

He has to clear his throat, the vibrations travelling through my lips and giving my breath its own stammer. Jesus. I think he’s startled by my use of his first name. “I, uh… I thought you’d make fun of me, Tony. But then, before…”

“You realised that you were hot stuff?” I murmur, tugging the rest of his shirt from his pants and gliding my fingertips up the hollows and curves of his spine.

He chuckles darkly, hoarsely, and my groin gives a violent twitch. “I realised that I couldn’t be the only one self-conscious dressed in obscenely tight pants,” he mumbles, fingers gliding so softly below my hipbone and round, down the back of my thigh. “And I know you’re used to doing kinky stuff whilst undercover – kissing pre-op transsexuals, pretending to be married to other agents – but I could tell, gradually, that this was new territory, y’know? Being inescapably close to another guy, one that you’ve known for years, at that. And - and I sensed something, something new. Something that wasn’t going to tease my clothes or back away from the obstacles we had to face to get this mission done.”

I don’t even dare look him in the eye, to show him how right he is. “You trust me?”

He nods, breathlessly, and the room turns from a sauna to a furnace as all that’s left in the world is he and I. His hands clutch at my own pants, mine fisted in those goddamn frills on his shirt, and as we kiss away all the bitterness about the failed mission he grows more and more relaxed about letting me take control, lead the way; more trusting for me to try something new, something that’s been hidden for god knows how long.

And I swear that if my giveaway heart hasn’t swelled to twice its usual size with that knowledge, I’ll eat these goddamn leather pants.