Tony vacations in Miami in April. He lets everyone think it's another Spring Break adventure with his frat buddies, but the truth is that Tony's on his own for this one and he made damn sure to book reservations at a posh enough hotel that it would be relatively free from partying chaos.
His second night in the city he goes to a small, authentic salsa club, and finds a tall, pretty blonde woman with strong features and a wide smile. He coaxes her onto the dance floor and keeps her there for three songs. She moves with a combination of athletic grace and feminine sinuosity, and when Tony spins her, the scent of her hair is reminiscent of lilies. After the third song he kisses her hand and walks her back to her table, where her friends are waiting.
Tony goes to the bar then and gets a drink--Coke mixed with locally made rum that's probably illegal but far better than anything found in a liquor store--and watches the clock. When it hits midnight, he tips his glass in a half-toast to a ghost. "Here's thinking of you, Paula," he says under his breath, then downs the drink in one swallow.
He has a tradition for Kate, too, on the anniversary of her death. He thinks he might have one for Jeanne by the end of the year, because even though she's still alive, still breathing, she's still someone he's lost.
He leaves by twelve-oh-five and ends up at a beachside sports bar, drinking beer among a small crowd of locals.
What first gets Tony's attention about the guy who walks up to the end of the bar is the suit: Italian, summer-weight, fitted to perfection and worth a small fortune. After that it's the posture. Tony's gut isn't as finely tuned as Gibbs' is--come on, whose is?--but he trusts what it tells him about the way the man carries himself. He's military or government, in some way.
Tony looks at the guy's face, watches it subtly flicker through half-a-dozen expressions before settling into one of innocent affability. The only people Tony's seen who can do that are Spooks.
Tony's maybe sucked down several beers in a short period of time, and is in general known to be a pain in the ass, so it's no surprise that he chooses to catch the guy's eye, smile sharply, and telegraph: I see you; I know what you are.. Right away the guy's expression tightens, his eyes going narrow and assessing. Tony's smile widens, becomes that shit-eating grin that Kate always hated so much, that Paula was frustrated by, that Jeanne seemed immune to.
The guy moves like he's coiled tight, ready to spring, and Tony should probably feel an answering bunching of muscles under his own skin, but the alcohol, heat and the long lines of the body under that tailored suit combine to make the opposite happen. By the time the guy gets to him, Tony's slid off his barstool and is slouched back against the bar, loose and relaxed.
"Haven't seen you here before," the guy says.
Only an idiot wouldn't hear the layers stacked beneath his oh-so-bland tone, and Tony's always been smarter than he lets on. "Ooh, that thinly-veiled threat is spooky. Does that come naturally? Or are there classes at CIA school?"
It's clever, the way the guy backs Tony tightly against the bar under the guise of reaching for Tony's beer like it's his own. "Did Bly send you?"
Abruptly, Tony's tired of this game. He should have known better than to bait someone when his own mood is so capricious. "Don't know him. Her. Whatever. I've got an eye for your kind and thought I'd give you some shit."
There's a long staring contest before the guy finally steps back, Tony's beer in his hand. "FBI?" the guy asks.
Tony can't help but laugh. "No, god, no," he says and rubs his forehead. "Three letter agencies are the bane of my existence."
The guy finishes Tony's beer and leans around him to set it on the bar, giving Tony plenty of room this time. "Lots of bitterness there, too good to be a local-type LEO, specific reference to three-letters...I'm guessing NCIS."
Tony startles. It's a rare, rare day when someone knows what NCIS is, much less pegs him as part of it without seeing him decked out in the gear on a scene. "Impressive." He pulls his hand up from his side and flips open the guy's wallet, which he snagged while pressed against the bar. "Michael Wheaton? Now that's got to be an alias."
The guy--Michael--blinks, then grins, seemingly genuine, before holding up his own hand and Tony's wallet. "Anthony DiNozzo. I bet you go by Tony."
And Tony laughs, even though nothing about the situation is worthy of actual laughter. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he's been chased by ghosts of women known and lost all night, has come here to remember one in particular, and ended up getting into a pissing contest with some CIA agent, of all things.
Tony laughs until he can't hold himself up and has to brace a hand on his vacated barstool to stay on his feet. He laughs until his eyes are streaming with it and he's verging on hysteria. The thought of collapsing into a laughing heap in some sports bar and completely losing his shit is horrifying enough that he gets control of himself.
His laughter stops abruptly and the first thing he sees when he rights himself is Michael, who is still standing in front of him, watching him with knowing eyes.
"One of those years?"
Tony twists to the side and takes his coat from the back of the stool. "One, a few, a half dozen. Who's counting?" he says as he shrugs the coat on. "It's been swell, and all, but I've got a hotel bed calling my name, and I've just remembered there's a three a.m. showing of Charade on A&E."
Michael lets him leave, and it isn't until Tony's halfway to his hotel that he realizes they never switched wallets back. He comes to a stop, tilts his head to the side, and calls out, "You could have just said something in the bar."
"Where's the fun in that?" Michael drawls and steps up beside Tony. He hands Tony his wallet, takes his own when Tony offers it, then adjusts his jacket and slants a look at Tony, who catches it from the corner of his eye.
It's a familiar look, one that Tony's used to giving and receiving, though it's usually restricted to women. Only usually, though, because Tony's always been less straight than he lets on.
He turns, gives Michael a head-to-toe once over, and he likes the shape and tone of Michael's body, wants the line of his neck, curve of his lip, and the rasp of his end-of-day stubble. Tony nods and they start walking. Neither of them speaks on the way to Tony's hotel, or on the way to his room, or even once they get there.
Instead, Michael shoves Tony against the wall by the door leans into him with weight, width, and hard planes of muscles. Tony slams his head back against the wall and lets himself be pinned, and rides the thigh that Michael pushes between his own.
There aren't any ghosts in this room, aren't any memories of the expectations that Tony never did live up to, and Tony tilts his head, bares his neck and goes with it.
.End
Story Notes:
Written for lillian13 on LJ.