It's time for a new beginning.
A first time story.
Warning: Major character death mentioned.
Written: April 2010. Word count: 500.
It's over. His life as he knew it is over.
They've buried Ducky; at least his death was quick.
Fornell's moved; following Diane and Emily.
He's retired from NCIS.
At fifty-seven, he has to start a new life. He's ready to start a new life.
He'd told Holly Snow he hadn't got many friends; he hadn't. And now he has none, least not in DC. Ducky dead. Fornell gone. Two friends; not much to show for fifty-seven years, is it?
Of course there are the kids; but he's never seen them as friends. He was their boss; they were his team, his family, his surrogate kids - all except for one. There was one he'd never viewed through father's eyes.
It's a secret he's kept for eight years; a secret he didn't even share with Ducky. He hadn't kept it a secret because of Rule Twelve; he'd kept it a secret because it wasn't right; it couldn't be right. It wouldn't work; it couldn't work. He was twenty-three years older for one thing
But now things had changed. He wasn't the boss any longer; his best friend was dead; his other close friend had moved away. Life was too short. He'd never been a gambler in the true sense, but much of his life and work had been about gambles.
So he made a phone call and they'd met. Had coffee together, talked. He'd learned what the team had been up to; how they wasn't a team any longer, but part of new teams - something else that was over.
And then he'd made the invitation: dinner at his house. Steak, fries, salad and beer - his speciality; make that pretty much his only dish.
Now he's waiting. He's dressed casually, but slightly less causally than he normally does, because his guest tends to dress up.
The doorbell rings. He swallows hard and wipes his hands on his trousers. He can't believe how nervous he's feeling. He tells himself it's 'only dinner', but deep down he knows that's not true. It's not just dinner; hopefully it's the beginning of his new life.
The doorbell rings again and he hurries to open it. "Hey, Tim," he says, hoping his tone doesn't give away the fact he just wants to grab Tim and -
Five seconds later, he finds himself pressed against the closed front door, Tim's mouth on his, Tim's arms around him, holding him, pulling him nearer and nearer, Tim's arousal pressing against his thigh. He moans into the kiss, opening his mouth, letting Tim inside.
"Hey, Jethro," Tim says, when they finally break away in order to breathe. "You haven't started dinner yet, have you?" He shakes his head. "Good." And he finds himself led up his own stairs, into his own bedroom and undressed in the most loving, caring, passionate way ever.
It's Tim who declares steak and chips and beer aren't suitable for breakfast - even if they do come with salad.
His old life is over. His new life has begun.
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