Story Synopsis: Tony and Tim try to navigate their new relationship while weathering relocation, infidelity, missed signals, and an impending health crisis. Can they help each other find common ground?

Author's Note: This story has a bit of history to it. It's my first attempt at a full length story about Tim/Tony, AND my first slash piece. I hesitate to label it "slash." Sometimes I feel like slash is written as some sort of joke. Or maybe as some sort of challenge to get two previously "100% straight" (society's words, not mine) men (or women) into a sexual relationship with one another. I'll admit I'm not much of a romance writer; I know folks who are 10x better at it. Sure, there's a little bit in here, but nothing that I think strays above a T rating. So, I'll just say that this isn't a slash story, nor is it really a romance story. It's about two guys who've found themselves in a relationship. As I like to do with many of my stories, the ending is fairly open-ended. Four chapters in all. As far as how this story fits within the canon timeline, I don't really know. Season 9 maybe, but then it's AU from there. Ziva is still with us. No Delilah.

Please let me know what you think!

Thank Yous: Inspiration for this story originally came from one of Sherry's (smackalicious) unused WEE prompts. It was a quote. Something about beautiful things not always being perfect. So a big thank you to her for letting me use it. Also, she looked over this first chapter long, long ago and gave me the confidence to continue on with it. I also want to thank both Sheila (hazelmom) and Sarah (flootzavut) for their awesome support and kind words.

Warnings: Occasional strong language, sexual references, sex in general

Beautiful, Imperfect

"A beautiful thing is never perfect."

...As Tim rested his head against the hard shower wall, sated and ashamed, he knew one thing for sure: there was no way in Hell he was leaving his life behind for Tony. Even if this was what encompassed his life as of late...

Chapter One

The restaurant was expensive, and with it being New Year's Eve in the heart of Washington DC, the place was adequately packed to the gills. Smart looking couples clad in Burberry and Valentino had emerged en masse from their gentrified apartments. They had descended upon the restaurant like displaced royalty, and for at least one night, they splurged on vintage bottles of Champagne, fifty-dollar lobster tails, and artisan-crafted thimbles of crème brûlée.

So when a certain DiNozzo had casually informed him of their mutual evening plans, Tim had spent the better part of an hour making sure his checkbook wouldn't bounce when all was said and done.

"Kind of expensive, don't you think?" Tim mentioned while nervously fingering the white cloth napkin. He knew enough about this restaurant to know that Tony must have called days ahead for reservations. It was hard to deny that it felt special to be the recipient of such planning.

Tony was clearly in his element. He liked expensive, dramatic things, and when things just weren't expensive or dramatic enough, he'd do his best to fix that problem. "I'm Italian!" Tony had explained more than once. "What do you expect?"

"Only half Italian," Tim would point out. And to that, Tony would wink and off things would go, hurtling around at Mach speeds. Invariably dramatic and expensive and - on occasion - traumatic. Hurricane DiNozzo tended to leave little in its wake.

Their friendly head slapping, shoulder-bumping bromance had started to bubble into something else, something subtly different but still the same. They'd been spending more work-time together and using more mobile-to-mobile minutes than was strictly necessary to get the job done. And recently, they'd been making up excuses in order to spend evenings at each other's places. Movie nights, video game nights, martini nights. They usually forgot to invite anybody else but each other. They already knew each other well, but now they were starting to know each other even better.

Oftentimes, Tim wished for something more straightforward and earnest. Something that could be defined and labeled, maybe. But Tony's personality was like a drug. It had the ability to assuage and defer.

Tony could pull the wool over Tim's eyes before he even knew what was happening, and that fact had Tim concerned. Concerned and wary. Tony had been acting strangely all month, even through Christmas which they had reluctantly spent apart because the team was off-duty - Tim with his family and Tony with himself, a bottle of Jack, and - inevitably - Gibbs.

The tight rope the two traversed was fraying. And the alligators in the pit below were looking mighty hungry.

"Oh, I know it's expensive," Tony winked. "But I have a surprise." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Drink your champagne."

Tim was suspicious. "Why?"

"Because you're gonna need it."

Sighing and shaking his head, Tim took a sip. And then a gulp. Yeah, maybe he would need it tonight. Plus, this was really good champagne. Really, really good. He could almost taste the one hundred bucks it probably cost, which was ridiculous in and of itself. Tony was heir to nothing but DiNozzo Sr's bad bets, but all the same, the man spent money like he had his own private mint.

The waiter brought some escargot, and Tony was already inhaling the first one. Tim set the champagne flute down and fingered its base. "It's good." He looked around at the surrounding tables. A sea of couples, men and women mostly, and one group of five that seemed to be just barely holding back on its rowdiness, considering the dignified surroundings.

"Glad you approve, McThrifty."

"So what's the surprise?" Tim blurted. He didn't like surprises, while Tony seemed obsessed with them, as long as he wasn't the target of them. The suspense was - well - suspenseful.

"Well-" There it was. Nervousness, anxiety, excitement. "We're moving to Chicago."

Tim blinked. He thought he must have misunderstood something. Maybe it was all of the talking and clinking of dinnerware going on around them. Maybe it was the tinkling of live piano music somewhere to their right. Maybe it was the champagne already seeping into his bloodstream. "What?" Tim asked in all earnestness.

"Chicago," Tony explained, leaning forward again. "Technically, Great Lakes, Illinois, but-"

"What?" Tim asked again. His face dropped into a frown. "We're what?"

"Moving? Together?" Tony seemed enthusiastic, but Tim's rather bemused expression was starting to chip that away. "I got a team. Can you believe it? I talked to Gibbs about it over Christmas. He thinks it's a good move for me, you know, career wise. Since I turned down Rota and everything. And it's a great place, really. You'd like it. Cheaper than here. We can buy a house-"

What the hell? Tim was floored, truly and utterly. Something roared in his head. He doubted it was the champagne, but he knew it was Tony and what seemed like his insanity. Insanity. Tim just sat there, forgetting to both blink and breathe, fingers now moving the flute in a small circular motion on the tablecloth. It was a false calm as Tony's prattle ran on.

"-Get a cat maybe. A huge yard for Jethro. I don't know. And I know you've been talking about being tired of DC, and I agree-"

Holy shit.

Tim finally spoke, voice low and soft. "Tony." He looked intently at the man sitting across from him and searched his eyes for some sort of joke. But he couldn't find it. "Tony, I don't know on what planet you'd think this was a good surprise. Or even a good idea. We're not even- You've never even-" He couldn't finish his sentences.

"But Tim, I thought-" Tony's face was conveying a fair bit of concern now. A bit of panic.

"No, Tony. I don't think you were 'thinking' at all. What were you- When were you- Just what?" Tim shook his head and moved to get up, placing the napkin, mostly unused, on the table. "I don't even know."

Tony watched quietly from where he sat. He didn't move to get up. Yet.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but that's not exactly something you spring on someone." Tim tried to keep his voice hushed, but the scene wasn't low-key enough to avoid the curious glances of those who were sitting nearby.

"Timmy, c'mon!" Tony started to say, the playfulness falling flat.

But Tim was carefully keeping his eyes averted. The truth was, he was pissed. Beyond pissed. But there was no way he was going to blow a gasket - which would be an event as rare as snow on the moon - here in this restaurant surrounded by peaceful, well adjusted, well defined, and sane couples. Instead, he'd just leave Tony here to pick up the tab.

"No," Tim grunted as he made sure he had his wallet. "Just, no."

And that was that.

"Hey! Tim, come on, stop! Slow down! I'm going to have a heart attack back here! Come on. Hey!"

Tim didn't slow. He wanted to get home, sooner rather than later. Even though his New Year's Eve dinner had been sufficiently ruined, the night was still young. He had several bottles of sparkling wine waiting for him in the refrigerator, and there were three straight hours of Anderson Cooper to take in. Maybe afterwards, while drunk on cheap liquor and the whole New Year thing, he would write. He'd write about Agent Tommy being an insensitive prick. Wait, no. Maybe he'd start something completely new. The whole Deep Six thing was getting a little stale, and there were still some sour grapes after his agent gave the red light on the idea of Tommy and McGregor ever giving each other hand jobs in the janitor's closet. If she only knew… Hell, if anybody knew… If both he and Tony got their heads out of their asses…

"Tim! C'mon! It's fucking cold out here! At least let me drive you home! Let me get the car!"

Still, Tim didn't slow. His hands were balled up and shoved into the deep pockets of his black coat. He hurried across a busy street, just as the flashing hand signal turned to a solid hand. Hopefully Tony would have to stop, allowing Tim the opportunity to slip into the crowd and become anonymous.

Instead he heard tires sliding on slushy pavement, a cacophony of car horns, and a few choice words thrown out of rolled down windows. Tim wheeled around in alarm only to see Tony doggedly jogging across the crosswalk, slipping and sliding as he did. He seemed oblivious to the vehicular traffic that almost ran him down. Tim toyed with the idea of turning back around and continuing his angry power walk, but Tony was close now. This public street corner was just as good as any other street corner on which to scream at each other. The mounds of plowed snow were just as gray, the slush just as sloppy and black, the spots of dog piss just as yellow.

"You didn't think that would stop me, did ya?" Tony was panting as he pulled to a stop. His breath rose in puffs of thick steam, his cheeks and nose were red, and he was shivering. Actually shivering, because - Tim noticed - the idiot must have left his coat behind in his haste. "Because I know-" he panted. "-that trick."

The two of them stood on the street corner for a bit and stared at each other. Tim spoke first, "So you're quitting?"

Tony shrugged and looked at the traffic. "No, I'm just being promoted."

"You're quitting the team, then."

"I already accepted the job. In Great Lakes," Tony explained. "It was sort of short notice. They needed somebody quickly. A supervisory agent." He had to yell a bit, to make sure his voice carried over the constant roar of the traffic.

"When did you apply?"

Tony shrugged again even as he answered the question. "A couple months ago."

"A couple months ago," Tim echoed. He watched Tony's eyes, murky and dark in the faux evening light, with the streetlights overhead and the headlights whipping by. A small group walked past, laughing amongst themselves, arm in arm. They were already warm with liquor, already happy to celebrate a new year. Tim wished he could be one of them. "And when did you accept it?"

Same shrug. "Three days ago."

"Three days ago." Tim nodded. "Why didn't you tell me about any of this?"

"I was confused."

Again, Tim echoed, "You were confused." His repeating of Tony's answers made them sound even more ridiculous than they already were. It helped him process his annoyance, his shock and disappointment.

"I was!" Tony's voice cracked. "I don't know what I'm fucking doing, Tim. I don't know what we're doing."

"Apparently," Tim muttered as he ran numb fingers through his hair. "When are you moving?"

Tony dodged the question. "I want you to come with me." He stepped forward and gripped Tim's elbows gently. He was close. Close enough for Tim to smell garlic and champagne.

Tim shook his head. Slowly at first, and then quicker and more resolute. "I don't know what you are to me, Tony."

"What does that mean?" Tony seemed genuinely curious. Desperate, even. He leaned forward, determined that his closeness alone would be enough to convince him.

Tim felt Tony's breath tickle his neck; he should have worn a scarf. With a strange look of regret, he shook Tony's hands off of him and stepped back. "One day you're pushing me away - saying we're just buds - and the next you're asking me to quit the job I love, leave the friends I love, leave the boss I love, drop everything and move across the country. With you." Tim gave Tony a soft look, a placatory look. "I'm not moving to Chicago with you. I can't."

It might have been the light, or the cold, or any number of things - but, honest to God, Tony looked like he was about to cry.

Tim turned, and he started walking. This time, he wasn't followed.

Thirty minutes until midnight, thirty minutes until a new year.

Tim was sprawled on his couch, half-drunk on his promised bottles of sparkling wine. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching. He was wondering whether or not it was possible to "break up" a relationship that had never been acknowledged, a relationship that maybe never even existed.

It was great. Just great. Pathetic, really.

Happy fucking New Year, Timothy McGee. You've been doing shameless things with your dysfunctional co-worker for the past several months. You're crazy, stupid in love with him. Maybe. And you want to kick him in the face. Because he's a bastard. A crazy, stupid bastard.

"Tim."

He woke up from the haze, squinting. He must have fallen asleep with Tony. Again. God, his back hurt. Wait. Tony? Tim moved to sit up.

"You said you didn't know who I was to you." Tony was talking.

Tim rubbed at his eyes, croaking, "What're you doing here?"

"Don't kick me out. Please."

"What time is it? I swear I just closed my eyes." Tim looked around groggily, eyes finally resting on Tony. He was standing in the dark wearing a long black coat and a dark blue scarf. They were the things he'd forgotten at the restaurant. He must have gone back. To settle the bill, to drink the rest of the expensive champagne, to chat up the dark-haired woman who'd been sitting alone three tables over.

The TV was still on; it cast artificial blue light throughout the room. An infomercial touted a facial cream strong enough to turn back the march of time. A man with an orange plastic face proved it.

Tim blinked as he moved a throw pillow off of his belly and stretched his cramped legs. "What time is it?" he asked again. His head was still muzzy. Damn champagne.

"I don't know." Tony shrugged. "Four, maybe."

Tim moaned. "In the morning?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"What are you doing here?" Tim was trying to read Tony's face, but the flashes of light from the television weren't enough to go on.

Suddenly, Tony came closer and practically sat on his lap. He was heavy. Unsteady and slow. Drunk. And before Tim had a chance to squirm away or push him off, Tony had pressed himself close. His face was nuzzling against Tim's neck just like the muzzle of a horse might, whuffling and warm. It was awkward and weird. "You said you didn't know who I was to you," Tony repeated in a murmur. He smelled like gin, spearmint and Chanel No. 5.

Wait. Perfume?

"I don't," Tim finally admitted. He sat still and stared at the TV. He tried to ignore what Tony was doing. Tried to focus on the wrinkles on the women's faces. The orange, plastic-faced man, smirking like he knew something everybody else didn't.

Tim felt like an idiot. A big, fat fool.

He felt the kisses now, wet and slobbery. Tony had the finesse of a mastiff. He felt Tony's hands groping. "Stop," Tim demanded, voice halting and quiet.

"I'll give up the promotion," Tony mumbled. He wasn't stopping. If anything, his efforts became more insistent. "I'll stay here. I'll do anything." He shifted to prevent himself from toppling off of the couch and onto the hardwood floor. "Anything at all."

That smell of perfume clung to Tim's nostrils. It was thick and nauseating. A sudden reminder. A wake-up call. He felt a cold hand on his belly, felt it slide against his skin, past the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. "Who did you meet, Tony? At the bar?" He asked, voice bland, monotone. His eyes didn't leave the TV.

"She looked like Kate." Tony breathed heavily against his throat. He kissed and nudged.

Tim kept his body still, even as Tony touched him. There was nothing he could do about a natural reaction. He hated himself for that. Hated Tony for doing it. "And how'd that go?" He found himself asking. "What did it feel like?"

"Like sex." Tony slurred. He was jerking Tim off now. Crudely. There was no other way to define it, really.

Tim felt numb, even as he felt his body enjoy it. "Why do you think that's okay?"

"It's not okay," Tony admitted. "I'm sorry."

"No, you can't just-" Tim fought away his urge to groan, although that was becoming increasingly difficult. He gathered up his anger and his revulsion, planning to dump it all on Tony's lap.

"I want to show you what I am to you," Tony pled.

That was it. Tim grabbed Tony's arm to forcibly make him stop. "Knock it off," he demanded, suddenly more awake than ever. When Tony still fought against the resistance, Tim shoved him away. Hard. "Stop! That's not how you prove yourself to somebody. God, Tony. What's wrong with you?"

Tony lost his balance and fell into a clumsy sit on the hardwood floor. "Don't you want to know?" He protested, as he looked up at where Tim was still perched on the couch.

"Do you love me?" Tim asked before he had even considered the lameness of the question. He cringed, suddenly embarrassed, and felt his face grow hot.

"I don't love anybody," Tony answered simply. "I don't even love myself."

Tim stared at his friend (boyfriend… fuck buddy… whatever) for a good, long minute, as if trying to figure out what the fuck that meant. He then shook his head and got up, throwing the pillow with a fair bit of force at Tony's chest. "You're a liar. And a manipulative piece of shit." Tim's jaw clenched as he said it. Those were some of the harshest words he'd ever spoken to Tony, let alone a friend or otherwise. "I'm taking a shower, so get out of here."

That was Tony's problem. Sex. Always had been. Always would be. Nothing was sacred. Given the time, the place, and the opportunity, Tony seemed incapable of self-control.

In the scalding spray of the shower, Tim viciously scrubbed away Tony's slobbery kisses. He had already mangled a difficult to open bottle of conditioner, having beaten it over and over again against the shower's wall. In the end, the plastic had cracked and let loose a lumpy cascade of creamy white liquid. It plopped against the shower floor and slid innocently down the drain. Tim glared at it.

He sure hoped Tony had caught some sense and left. Tim was not above punching him in the face. Fueled by anger and a need to feel some release - and with a little help from a palm full of the ruined conditioner and a showerhead pushed all the way to the right - Tim sought to finish what Tony had started. He went slow at first, and then faster and harsher, until his hips were jerking involuntarily and he was biting his lip. He tried to keep his mind blank. But when he couldn't do that, he tried to think only of anonymous breasts and not the feel of Tony's hands traveling up and down his sides.

Tim moaned at the futility of it all.

As he rested his head against the hard shower wall, sated and ashamed, he knew one thing for sure: there was no way in Hell he was leaving his life behind for Tony. Even if this was what encompassed his life as of late.