Characters: DiNozzo, McGee (maybe DiNozzo/McGee if you put your slash glasses on)
“You eat this stuff?”
Tim sighed and stilled his fingers on the typewriter keys. “Eat what, Tony?”
“This...crap.” Tony stuck his head around the corner and held something up for Tim to see. “You eat this?”
“'This' is a whole wheat bagel. And yes, I eat it.”
Tony's head disappeared. Tim tried to focus again on the white page in front of him. He flexed his fingers and placed them on the keys. All right, where did he leave his hero? Ah, yes, opening the--
A bang distracted him.
“You got cream cheese?”
Tim bit his lip and took a deep breath before answering. “At the back. Bottom shelf.”
The clatter of jars in the fridge was his only answer. Okay, one more time. He started to type: Tibbs opened the door of the fridge and found--
“McGee, where did you hide the pickles?”
Tim turned on the shredder and fed the piece of paper through. He rubbed his temples knowing that neither pain (not the one in his head or the one in his kitchen) was going to go away anytime soon.
“Pickles are in the door.” He tried one more time to get Tony to leave because he really preferred to convalesce in peace and quiet. “Once you've eaten you probably need to head home.” He stressed the word home.
Tony came in to the living room with his plate full and sat. A couple of bagels loaded with cream cheese, a few pickles, an apple cut into slices, and some Oreo cookies Tim didn't remember having, spilled over the edges of the plate.
“You got anything to drink?” Tony asked. “Wine? Beer? I guess bourbon would be too cliché.”
“I've got a liquor cabinet by the--”
“Oh, wait, no alcohol for the probie. Possible concussion. Whoops! I'll bet you drink Dr. Pepper. Or Orange Crush. Maybe you like,” Tony spun in the chair, “Mello Yello.”
Tim watched a pickle slide to the floor. “I've got something diet in the fridge. Stay there. I'll get it.”
“Diet's good. I'm glad to see you're watching your weight, McGeek. You'll never get past junior field agent unless you watch your figure.”
Tim looked at the disaster area that used to be his kitchen. Mellow, yeah, sure. He put away the pickles and cream cheese, wrapped up the bagels, and threw assorted pieces of cutlery in the sink. He gave the counter a cursory wipe and promised himself that tomorrow, early, he'd clean the floor. Maybe he should stick his head in the freezer for a minute before he went back to the living room just to cool down. It was rude to murder a guest, wasn't it, even one he didn't want? Tim grabbed two diet sodas from the fridge and a handful of napkins from the counter.
“Here, Tony, this should...” His voice petered out. “Tony?”
“In here,” came the call.
Tim ignored the pickle on the floor and entered the next room with some trepidation only to see Tony DiNozzo sprawled on his bed, legs crossed, plate in front of him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You don't have a couch like normal people, and your TV is in here. What do you think I'm doing?”
“You're getting crumbs all over my bed. You're in,” Tim sputtered, “you're IN my bed.”
Even around a mouthful of cream cheese, the grin was lecherous. “You seem a little rattled there, Probie. Not see much action in this bed?”
When Tony turned over to grab the remote from the side table, Tim couldn't stand it any more. He made it to the bed just in time to grab the plate from Tony's lap before the contents spilled all over his clean sheets.
“Whoa there, McDreamy.” Tony said, his voice soft and sultry. “Warn a guy before you jump him like that, especially grabbing where you're grabbing. I am, after all, a trained field agent,” the voice snapped, “and I know how to harm you severely.”
“Harm me severely? You're going to harm me severely? After dessert or before?” Tim grabbed the wandering Oreo from the covers. He plunked it and the rescued plate on the floor before he flopped down on the bed beside Tony. Grabbing a pillow, he pounded it into a ball and tucked in behind him so he could lean against the headboard. It was, after all, his bed.
“Dessert?” Tony tweaked an eyebrow. “Why McGee, I didn't know you cared.” With slow, deliberate movements, Tony crawled up the bed, the remote in hand.
“DiNozzo, are you always an ass?”
“An ass? This keeps getting better and better,” Tony said as they were face to face. “Just what is it you're proposing?”
“Why are you here again?”
Tony's leer changed to a smile. “Because you have a concussion and Ducky wanted somebody to keep an eye on you.” He took up a position mirroring McGee's. Leaning against the headboard with a pillow behind his back, he flicked on the TV.
“Possible concussion,” Tim corrected. “What are we watching?”
“Your head hit the pavement so hard, it bounced. How about 'I Love Lucy'?” Tony asked. “'Lucy, I'm home.'”
“Not on your life,” Tim said. “And the head's fine.”
“You still have a headache. How about 'The Brady Bunch'? I always thought Marsha was hot.”
“Keep changing the channels,” Tim insisted. “I don't want to hear about your adolescent fantasies.”
“Okay, how about 'Star Trek'? That should appeal to your your adolescent fantasies. 'To boldly go where no man has gone before.' Since I'm in McSpock's bed, I'm no doubt going where no man has gone before.”
“And who are you in this scenario? One of the tribbles?”
“Tribbles? What the hell is a tribble?”
Tim snatched the remote away and started channel surfing. Tony retrieved his plate from the floor, placing it between them. Then he popped the top on the diet colas and passed one to his bed mate. He handed over a half a bagel as well. “Here, make sure you eat something.”
“Thanks,” Tim said absently.
“How's the head? You feeling better?”
“Yeah, I'm good.”
They settled in to watch TV. Tim took a sip of his soda and gnawed his bagel and Tony did likewise.
“Good choice there, McGee. I haven't seen this show in years.”
“Yeah, I always related to Oscar even when I was a kid.”
“Oscar? Are you kidding me?” Tony leaned forward so that he could turn to see McGee. “You're so white-bread and stuffed-shirt, you're Felix without even having to think about it.”
“White bread? That bagel you're eating is--”
“Boring, McGee. Anal retentive. You have the tidiest bathroom of any man I've ever met. I mean who folds their towels like that?”
Tim ignored the jibe. “Oscar Madison was a writer.”
“A sports writer. Do you know anything about sports?”
“What's that got to do with being a writer? And I know lots about sports.”
“About as much as owning a typewriter. And you know nothing about sports.” Tony re-settled against the headboard and turned up the volume. “Oh, is this the episode where they have a power blackout? I think I remember this one. Did you know that Jack Klugman played Oscar Madison on stage before he was in the TV show?”
The canned laughter from the TV set mingled with the sounds of “Pass me an Oreo” and “Where'd you put the napkins?” until they'd worked their way through most of the food on the plate. Tim sighed, settling more comfortably on the bed.
“Do you need anything,” Tony asked. “A pickle, more soda.... Another napkin to brush the crumbs off our bed?”
“Fine, I'll shut up. Hey, maybe this is a marathon. We can watch Oscar and Felix all night.”
“God, I hope not,” Tim muttered.
“Just shut up and eat.”
Tim passed Tony the last Oreo and Tony passed Tim a couple of Aspirin from the bedside table which he downed with the last of his soda. They watched as Oscar and Felix sat down at the card table with their buddies.
“I like poker,” they said at the same time.
Tim laughed and slid further down the bed. “Pass me a pickle, Oscar.”
Tony did and slid down as well, pulling his pillow with him. “So, Felix, what were you saying earlier about my ass?”