Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money
Author's Notes: Gibbs can ice skate, Tony can't. This, of course leads to a skating lesson. It's more of a snippet than anything else *apologises*. Written for Day 20 of tibbs_yuletide
Tony eyes the pond. The very frozen pond. That looks very, very, cold. And frozen. And is very definitely not an ice rink. Indoors. With hot coffee and food close at hand.
“Sometimes,” he mutters, the words forming clouds as his breath hits the air, “just sometimes, I think I really hate you, Leroy. Jethro. Gibbs.”
Gibbs’ lips twitch. “You think I drove us all the way out here for a bracing walk, DiNozzo?”
Gibbs doesn‘t roll his eyes, but it‘s a close thing. “And the bag? You think I hefted this thing along with us for fun?” The bag lands in the snow just ahead of Tony’s feet with a soft whump and a muffled, metallic clatter.
“I thought maybe a picnic?” he says, looking around at the whited out landscape, as if - even now, with Gibbs kneeling at his feet pulling out not just one, but two pairs of ice skates - a table might appear from somewhere. Which is stupid, because Gibbs doesn’t ‘do‘ picnics. He does take-out food, and steaks, and beer.
“Sorry,” Gibbs replies, totally lying through his teeth. “No food, though I do have a blanket.”
Of course he does. He’s Gibbs, he’s not going to rely on there being a convenient log for them to sit on while they change out of their footwear. Though there is one, picture perfectly placed right there, where the ice and the snow meet.
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
“The ice.” Somewhere there’s a snowball fight going on, it sounds far away, though Tony half expects a gang of little kids to come bursting through the trees at any moment, complete with skates and parents, or big brothers, or uncles and aunts. Or with parents and big brothers and uncles and aunts - a ready made audience for his very first skating lesson.
“It’s January, Tony,” Gibbs says patiently, long legs stretched out in front of him, already tugging at the laces of his walking boots, “the ice should be just fine.”
“But you’ve tested it, right? Hit it with a stick or whatever it is you’re supposed to do?” He’s not good at stuff like this, Gibbs knows that, so it’s really not fair of him to be looking up at him like that, amused and- expectant, not right now.
“You trust me?”
“With my life. You know that.” Tony says, sinking to his knees beside him.
Gibbs shakes his head. “As a pastime it‘s not generally considered quite that dangerous.”
“No but-” Tony breaks off as Gibbs grabs him by the wrist, dragging him down farther, and he allows himself to be maneuvered into a sitting position - legs out, Gibbs straddling his thighs.
“It’s my butt I‘m worried about,“ he mutters, and Gibbs glances at him, curious. “I’m going to fall on my ass, aren’t I?”
“I was kind of hoping for an ‘I won’t let you fall’ there, Jethro.”
“Can‘t promise you that.” Of course he can’t. He’s the only man Tony’s ever known who’s never promised him anything he couldn’t deliver. This close Tony can smell the cold on him, which is… distracting, in a way that makes him want to pull Gibbs down on top of him and make out with him until they both forget what they’re there for. “But what I can promise is, I‘ll kiss it better for you, later.”