Chapter Five

“I ran away.”

Annie Reed’s hands were shaking, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“He didn’t expect me to fight back,” she said. “He thought I’d just go along. He—he had a gun—and he shot at me—I don’t know how he could miss, I think he was distracted—I just ran. But we were in the middle of a national park and I don’t know anything about surviving in the wild. I hid—I think it was for hours.”

“And the phone call to NCIS?”

McGee tried his best to look honest and trustworthy.

“My—my husband,” Reed said. “He told me to call an agent called Anthony DiNozzo at NCIS if I ever got in trouble. One of my husband’s friends—you helped him once, and he’d liked Agent DiNozzo—my husband just told me Agent DiNozzo’s name—easy to remember, or something, I guess. I just—I didn’t think much. But he heard me when I talked—he found me—and he hit me—and I thought he’d kill me then and there—and then he didn’t and we were walking again—”

She was crying openly now, remembering the horrific events.

“We just walked and walked—I don’t know where he was going, but he didn’t want us to stop—and then I heard someone—he heard too, and he bound me and he left and it was in the middle of the night and there were shots and then he came back and he—he was bleeding but he said we had to walk—and I don’t know why he didn’t kill me right there, perhaps he loved me a little still, he was a g-good guy, really, I know he was—”

McGee nodded. He knew the rest of the story; now it was just a matter of getting it on tape.

Tony’s fingers searched for Gibbs’ as the doctor pulled out the tube from his mouth. He coughed, a wet, unpleasant cough that didn’t sound good at all. A light spray of blood stained the sheets with every cough and a nurse dabbed Tony’s mouth with a napkin.

Gibbs was beside him, holding him up in a sitting position, gently stroking his back. He tried to ignore how each hacking cough felt like a stab to his heart.

“Easy,” he said as Tony struggled for breath.

Tony leaned back, into Gibbs’ embrace, and Gibbs ignored the world around them in favor of simply holding onto Tony. There was nothing more important in the world than Tony; perhaps this was the time to show that.

“Boss,” Tony wheezed.

“No talking,” Gibbs said. “That’s an order.”

Tony nodded weakly against Gibbs’ chest. A nurse held a cup of water with a straw to Tony’s lips and told him to drink slowly. Tony took a few sips, coming up for air between each of them. His breathing was labored, wheezing painfully.

Tony’s hands fumbled for Gibbs’, and Gibbs wondered how aware Tony was. The fever was still at a hundred and four degrees, which meant he might still not understand what was going on, especially after being completely out of it for two days.

Gibbs still hoped that Tony knew what he was doing.

“Hurts,” Tony whispered, coughing immediately.

“I told you not to talk,” Gibbs said. He ran his fingers through Tony’s damp hair, gently massaging, hoping it might calm Tony.

Tony didn’t respond. His body relaxed against Gibbs, his breathing evening out slightly into longer wheezes as he fell asleep. A nurse placed an oxygen mask over Tony’s face, and Gibbs simply sat back, Tony resting against him.

Ziva stared through the window at Rosenberg/Williams. The man, with dark hair cut short, was undoubtedly handsome. A strong jaw and straight nose, high cheekbones and what looked like a good body.

Ziva wanted to go in and strangle him.

McGee came up behind her. “He won’t be running around again any time soon.”

“He will be in jail,” Ziva said.

“Yeah,” McGee said. “With a cane.”

“Gibbs?” Ziva asked.

“No, it was the bullet he took when Tony—” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. “It was lodged in his leg. They couldn’t repair all the damage.”

“Good.”

She knew that must have hurt like hell. The bullet he had shot her with had not stayed in her body and she would still require physical therapy to get well again. The wound ached dully, but at least it wasn’t her right arm that had been affected.

“Tony?” she asked quietly.

“Sleeping,” McGee said. “Gibbs is with him. I don’t think he’s left his side since we came back.”

Ziva nodded, eyes still upon Rosenberg/Williams, the pain in her shoulder throbbing along with the anger and muted hatred she felt towards him, for the pain he had caused them. It was easier to blame him, than to blame herself, or Gibbs for that matter, even if Tony’s illness was just as much their fault, if not more.

“Why was Reed’s knife at Callahan’s?” Ziva asked, distracting herself with the case they had almost put to rest.

“It was a sharp meat knife,” McGee said. “According to Reed, she’d brought it over about two weeks earlier, because her knives were better than Callahan’s. They cooked together sometimes.”

There had been defensive wounds on Reed’s body that correlated to the story she had told. Knife cuts on her forearms, because she had tried to stop him from killing Callahan, and various cuts and bruises as she had tried to defend herself from his onslaught of violence in the woods. The psychological aspect of her trauma would likely take much longer to heal, though, than the physical injuries.

“Her husband is coming back this week,” McGee said. “I guess that’ll be good for her.”

Ziva nodded. She wondered, not for the first time, what it felt like to have a husband. Someone to love and trust and come home to at night. She was unsure about whether she wanted it or not – she had always been alone – but at times, she could think that it might be—nice.

McGee placed his hand on her good shoulder and squeezed lightly. “You okay?”

Ziva gave another small nod, and looked away from Rosenberg. She would not be thinking about him again.

She would be fine.

Gibbs had fallen asleep in his chair. Tony, who had been awake for a few minutes – as awake as he could be at the moment, with the coughing leaving him breathless and tired, the fever still refusing to release its grip on him – watched him with a small, fond smile beneath the oxygen mask.

He wouldn’t have believed it if he had not seen it, but Gibbs had barely left his side in four days. He had sat by Tony’s side, in that uncomfortable looking chair, and he had talked to Tony. Tony couldn’t recall any occasion on which Gibbs had talked as much as he had in the last few days.

He had been told of the case and what had happened after he had been hospitalized. There had been the pang of horror when Gibbs had told him that Ziva had been shot, but then he remembered, still in a feverish daze, that he had seen Ziva, and though her arm had been in a sling, she had been very much alive.

Gibbs hadn’t killed Rosenberg, although Tony could hear the hatred towards the man in Gibbs’ voice. He suspected it had taken all of Gibbs’ self-restraint not to put a bullet through Rosenberg’s forehead.

“He won’t walk again without a cane,” Gibbs had said, eyes dark and expression like an oncoming storm.

Gibbs was obviously angry about Rosenberg – or Williams, as Gibbs had told Tony his real name was – having shot Ziva. He wondered if Gibbs would have been equally angry if Tony had been the one shot. Then again, he thought, his heart giving a little leap, Gibbs had sat by his side for days.

A sudden fit of coughs brought his line of thoughts to an abrupt end, and he hoped he would not wake Gibbs. He did; he felt Gibbs’ strong embrace around him, getting him into an upright position where it didn’t feel quite as much as though the phlegm would suffocate him. Warm fingers rubbed his back, and he sank back into Gibbs’ arms, wishing not for the first time, that he could enjoy the feeling more.

“Easy,” Gibbs said to him. “Want some water?”

Tony nodded, wanting the taste of blood out of his mouth. He didn’t have to look at he napkin in Gibbs’ hand to see that he had coughed up blood once more. The sheets would need to be changed again, although he didn’t understand why they kept insisting, when it only took him half an hour to spew the fresh ones down with new blood.

Gibbs held a straw to his lips. Tony had gotten rather used to drinking out of straws again, just as he had the last time.

The last time.

This was worse than the last time. He would’ve thought that impossible without it bringing about certain death, but here he was. The doctors were fairly certain he would survive now, although they had already warned him that he would be staying in the hospital for weeks to come. Doctor Pitt had been there, and Tony had heard a worry in his voice when he had spoken. There was something they weren’t telling him.

Gibbs settled against the bed, Tony cradled to his chest. Tony was surprised – Gibbs usually sat back down in his chair – but didn’t protest, because why would he?

“You okay?” Gibbs asked.

Tony turned his head slightly to look at Gibbs and smiled slightly beneath he mask. “’m fine.”

Gibbs gave a low, rumbling chuckle. “That, you are not.”

“I will be,” Tony mumbled.

Gibbs voice was soft when he answered. Tony imagined that Gibbs’ hold on him tightened.  “Yeah. You will be.”

“Your fever is finally down,” Doctor Pitt said.

“So I’m free to go?” Tony asked, giving his best ‘I’ll-be-a-good-boy’ smile.

“Hardly,” the doctor said. “You’ll be staying here for at least another week, most likely two. The pneumonia isn’t gone and you may need oxygen at any time. I’d lose my license if I let you go home right now.”

Tony held back a sigh, knowing it would only lead to a coughing fit, which would in turn lead to proof as to why he should not be going home. Tony disliked such proof. Besides, he knew that despite his head being more than ready to leave, his body was not. It still felt as though it was lined with lead, and just sitting up was an ordeal that required help from a nurse, or Gibbs. He preferred Gibbs.

“Tony, I have some bad news,” Doctor Pitt said. He looked at Gibbs, who sat beside Tony, listening intently. “Perhaps I should tell you in private.”

Gibbs didn’t look happy with the prospect of being left out.

Tony shook his head. “Gibbs can stay.”

“Very well,” Doctor Pitt said. “Tony, when I looked at your chest CT – it’s not looking good. I’m not sure that you will be able to pass the requirements for active field duty.”

Tony stared at him, but it was Gibbs who exploded. “What?”

“Special Agent Gibbs, please,” Doctor Pitt said. “I can’t be certain yet; there might be some improvement in the weeks to come. But the way it looks right now, I couldn’t clear you for active duty.”

“But—what am I—what—” Tony said softly, not believing what he was hearing. Without his job, without NCIS – where would he be? Without the team, without Gibbs – what would he do? He knew that if he couldn’t be cleared for NCIS active duty, he wouldn’t be able to get a job in law enforcement at all, other than as a paper-pusher. And Tony was no paper-pusher.

“Like I said, we’ll have to wait and see,” Doctor Pitt said. “I just thought you should be aware of the possibility; you might want to look at other jobs anyway.”

“I don’t want another job,” Tony said, wanting to snap but knowing it would only bring about coughing.

Doctor Pitt nodded. “I’m sorry.”

He left, leaving Tony staring at his retreating back. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Gibbs – now he had truly failed. He would be of no use to Gibbs any more; he wouldn’t be able to do his job. He would be forced to leave, forced to—he didn’t know what he would be forced to do instead.

“I’m sorry, boss.”

He caught Gibbs’ sharp movement out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry? For what?”

“I obviously can’t do anything right,” Tony said. “I just—wanted to be a good agent. And now I can’t even be that.”

“You’re not gone yet,” Gibbs said, anger in his voice.

Of course he would be angry that he would lose his agent just because of said agent’s stupidity.

Gibbs stood suddenly, and walked out of the room. Tony stared after him just as he had after Doctor Pitt, and fought the need to cry. He wished that Gibbs had stayed – he didn’t need kind words or pity, but just company, from the man he loved the most.

Now he had really failed.

Shouting at Doctor Pitt hadn’t helped. Gibbs hadn’t really expected it to, although his threatening stance and harsh voice usually did the trick when he wanted something done. In this case, no one could do anything. Either Tony’s lungs healed up on their own or they didn’t; there was very little anybody could do about it, as Doctor Pitt calmly explained to him.

Gibbs stormed off again, a strong need to shoot something coming over him with the waves of rage at life’s general unfairness, and at his own stupidity. It was his fault – Gibbs’s fault that Tony might never be able to work as an agent again. Gibbs, who had knowingly forced him to go into the national park with a cold, despite knowing that it could be hazardous to Tony’s health.

Gibbs remembered all the times when Tony had saved his life. On your six, boss. Tony had always had Gibbs’ back. The most prominent memory was when he had gone under in the car with Maddie. Tony had been there, had saved his life, had literally breathed life into him again.

At least that time, he had forced Tony to come along to the hospital with him and Maddie, to get antibiotics and be kept under observation, so that his lungs weren’t aggravated further.

But he knew he hadn’t thanked Tony. A week after the rescue, things had been back to normal, and all Tony had gotten for his troubles was a head slap or two.

Gibbs knew he was a good team leader when it came to solving crimes, but he wondered, quite often lately, why Tony had stayed with him for as long as he had. It was nearing seven years now – seven rather wonderful years, in which Gibbs had only told Tony that he had done a good job on a handful occasions, and half of those had been with a joke coming soon after, with Tony as the butt of the joke.

“How is he?”

Abby woke him from his reverie. She had spent most of her free time at Bethesda, but as Gibbs’ team was not the only one she worked with, she had had other things to do as well. There were shadows around her eyes, and he knew she had slept almost as little as he had.

“They don’t know if he’ll be able to be an agent anymore,” Gibbs said.

“What?” Abby exclaimed, as horrified as Gibbs had been when he had heard the news. And for that matter, as horrified as he still was.

“His lungs are in a bad shape,” Gibbs said.

“Oh Gibbs,” Abby said, throwing her arms around him and hugging him, and he could feel her shaking. “But what will he do if he’s not at NCIS? Oh, poor Tony – NCIS is his life. Did you talk to him? What did he say about it?”

I’m sorry, boss.

I obviously can’t do anything right. I just—wanted to be a good agent. And now I can’t even be that.

Tony’s words echoed through Gibbs’ head. He hadn’t really listened, he realized – why had Tony been apologizing? Why did he seem to think that he wasn’t a good agent?

“Gibbs, what did you say to him?”

Abby was looking at him, rather accusingly, as though she could read his mind and had realized that he hadn’t been the support he ought to have been. Tony didn’t need his anger, nor did he need Gibbs yelling at the doctors, when there was nothing they could do.

“Gibbs,” Abby said, with stern anger. “Please tell me you weren’t an ass to him.”

Gibbs gave her a look.

Exasperated, Abby threw her hands in the air. “Gibbs! He wants nothing but to be a good agent, your good agent, and when he finds out that he might not be able to work as one at all, you don’t think it’s a good idea to be there for him?”

Abby had a way of making Gibbs feel very guilty, in a way that no one else managed. He imagined Kelly would have been like her.

Abby took him by the arm and led him towards Tony’s clean room.

“Talk—to—him,” she said, slowly, making Gibbs feel as though he were a child.

He sighed, knowing she was right. Could he do nothing but screw things up when it came to his personal life?

“Hi, Tony.”

McGee’s hesitant voice woke Tony from his slumber. He hadn’t quite been asleep, but when each breath caused pain, there was little else to do, other than try to rest. At least his fever was down and he didn’t cough up as much blood anymore. He knew it would freak McGee out if Tony stained his shirt with blood, and McGee looked worried enough as it was.

“Probie,” Tony said, pulling the mask down so that McGee would be able to hear what he said, and not get the muffled version. “You come to say your goodbyes?”

McGee looked stricken, eyes widening. “I—I thought you were g-getting better.”

Tony thought for a moment to tell McGee the latest news, but decided against it. He didn’t need pity, least of all from McGee, who looked as though he had lost weight in the last week, and who had dark circles around his eyes.

“Relax, I am,” Tony said. “Just messing with you, McProbie.”

“Oh—oh, good,” McGee said, coming closer to the bed. He frowned. “You look like crap.”

Tony gave a weak smile. He hadn’t seen his own reflection in over a week, but he didn’t have to; he had a very good recollection of what he had looked like after the plague. He couldn’t look all that much worse, lest he be dead.

“Yeah, well, hospitals do that to you,” he said. “Did you bring me anything?”

He kept it light, wanted to talk about something, anything, other than the illness that still raged in his body. At least he could talk now; a few days ago, it had been impossible even to do that.

McGee took out two magazines from a plastic bag. Playboy and Esquire; the latest issues of both magazines. Tony wished the girls on the covers had any effect on him, but his tired body wouldn’t be up to his usual antics for a good, long while. Besides, girls weren’t really what was on his mind these days. Still, he very much appreciated the gesture from McGee.

“There are a couple of DVD’s too,” McGee said.

“What kind?” Tony asked, because he couldn’t resist baiting McGee.

“Uh—um, not that kind, Tony,” McGee said. “Just action and stuff. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got some of the latest releases.”

“Thanks, Probie,” Tony said, and motioned for McGee to put the plastic bag and its content on the table next to the bed. There were no flowers – they weren’t allowed in a clean room – but several cards. The nurses had placed them nicely, so that each of them could be read from the bed if Tony just turned his head. There was one from Director Shepard, a huge teddy bear shaped one from Abby, and a dozen from other agents and workers at NCIS, most of them female.

McGee flashed him a worried look, realizing that the reason why Tony didn’t take the magazines from McGee was that Tony was too weak to do so. Tony pretended not to notice the look, and hoped McGee was smart enough not to say anything about it.

“So—” McGee started, “you’ve got a sweet setup here. People bringing you food, cleaning your room.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “It’s just like a hotel, except with lots of needles.”

McGee took a step back. “I—I’m sorry.”

Tony sighed, and immediately regretted it when he coughed. His entire body tensed as he tried to breathe through it, the pain making him want to gasp but he knew, from painful experience, that that would only make it worse.

He felt McGee help him sit up, hands uncertain and distant unlike Gibbs’ strong, safe embrace. Still, it helped, and McGee placed the oxygen mask over his face once more, and asked if he wanted water. Tony shook his head, and after a few moments, when Tony had regained his breath, McGee helped him lay down again.

Tony could sense McGee’s eyes on him, and he kept his own closed, not wanting to see the pity. He hated feeling so helpless and weak, especially in front of his teammates. He was supposed to be strong and protect them, not cough each time he took a deep breath. He wasn’t supposed to need help sitting up, or need a mask over his face to breathe.

“W-want to watch a movie?” McGee asked hesitantly.

Tony opened his eyes tiredly, and saw the nervous caring in McGee. He was only trying to do and say the right thing, never mind that such actions and words probably didn’t exist. Perhaps a movie would be good. It wouldn’t require talking from Tony, and it would be nice. Despite the hard words and silly jokes between them, Tony appreciated McGee’s company.

He nodded, still unable to speak, and a ghost of a smile passed over his lips when he saw McGee’s relief and brief happiness.

It had taken an hour of reckless driving and two cups of coffee to get Gibbs to a state that could almost pass for calm. He knew he couldn’t return to Tony’s room in a rage – it would undoubtedly lead to Tony getting upset, and that would lead to coughing and pain that Gibbs was already guilty enough of causing; he didn’t need more guilt added.

McGee was slumbering in the uncomfortable metallic chair that Gibbs had spent so many hours in, and Tony was resting, oxygen mask on. The TV showed the DVD menu of a movie that Gibbs didn’t recognize.

Gibbs regarded his two agents. McGee looked exhausted, and Gibbs was glad that he was getting some shuteye now, at least. The movie told Gibbs that McGee had been thoughtful enough to bring Tony something to do while confined to the bed, and that alone made him proud of his youngest agent. McGee might not be the killing machine that Ziva was, or have the same instincts as Tony, but he was a good agent and an asset to the team, caring about his teammates the way he did.

Gibbs placed a hand on McGee’s shoulder, waking him.

“Oh—boss,” McGee said, blinking rapidly. “I was just—”

“I’d like to talk to Tony.”

McGee looked at him and then at Tony, as though he hadn’t realized where he was.

“Oh, sure, yeah,” he said, standing up. “I’ll—uh—bye.”

He walked out, the doors to the cleaning chamber closing behind him.

Gibbs eyes traveled to his sleeping agent on the bed. There was no doubt Tony was still very ill – the mask covering half his face was a give-away, of course, but also the dark circles around his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks; he had lost weight since he came to the hospital. It was understandable, considering that he got all his nutrition from the IV:s he was hooked up to, and Gibbs doubted they contained as much calories as the hamburgers and pizzas Tony usually snacked on.

Still, despite the illness, he was a beautiful young man. Gibbs hated himself for thinking it, especially now. Tony didn’t need that kind of thoughts, now less than ever.

Gibbs reached down and squeezed Tony’s hand gently. He didn’t do it to wake Tony; he simply wanted to touch him, to remind himself that Tony was still there, despite Gibbs’ stupidity.

Tony stirred, head turning slightly and eyes focusing on Gibbs.

“Hey.” His whisper was muffled by the mask and a weak hand came up to remove it.

Gibbs took the hand midair, and steered it back to its resting place. “Keep it on.”

“You didn’t kill the doctors, did you?” Tony asked sleepily. “They’re just doing their job.”

Gibbs heard the dejection in Tony’s voice when he spoke. Gibbs wished he could tell Tony that things would be fine, that he’d get his job back and they would all live happily ever after. Unfortunately, he knew far too well that fairytale endings only existed in fairytales, and this was life. Their very, very real life.

“I didn’t kill them,” Gibbs said.

“But you ripped them a new one,” Tony said, and it wasn’t a question.

Gibbs made a face. “They had it coming.”

“It’s not their fault,” Tony said.

“No, it’s mine.”

Tony frowned at him. “Come again?”

Gibbs didn’t like heart to hearts. Opening up and exposing oneself was like going into the field without backup – one was bound to get hurt. He had gone through three marriages without opening up. Of course, his ex-wives may claim that was the reason the marriages didn’t work.

“I told you to go to the woods with Ziva,” Gibbs sighed. “I knew you were sick. Your cough wasn’t because the air was dry, or humid, or whatever.”

“I was fine,” Tony muttered.

“The same kind of fine that you are now?” Gibbs asked, then reminded himself that he needed to calm down. Anger would lead to Tony getting upset, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Tony glared at him. “I’ll be—”

“Don’t you dare say fine,” Gibbs warned.

“—okay.”

They glared at each other, both stubborn to a fault, until Tony started coughing. Gibbs wanted to smack himself for upsetting Tony, even as he helped him sit up. He felt helpless as Tony hacked, drawing ragged breaths. Gibbs hated feeling helpless. His heart raced each time Tony tried to take a breath, only to sound as though no air reached his lungs.

Then Tony leaned against him, limp and worn out, his body shaking.

“I’m tired, boss,” Tony said softly. “And all this—perhaps it’s for the best if I can’t come back.”

“Damn it, DiNozzo, don’t,” Gibbs whispered, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple. “I can’t lose you.”

Tony had stilled upon the kiss, but Gibbs couldn’t be sure that it was because of that, or because Tony was simply so exhausted.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Tony said quietly.

Gibbs shook his head, heart heavy. He couldn’t even snap at Tony not to apologize because it was a sign of weakness. Right now, Tony was anything but weak, no matter what he said. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Should’ve done a better job for you,” Tony mumbled.

Gibbs pulled away slightly, which earned a soft sound from Tony, and he gazed down at Tony.

“What are you talking about?” Gibbs asked.

Tony looked at him, his body radiating weariness. “I’m not good enough.”

Gibbs stared at him, wondering just how badly he had failed as Tony’s boss. Sure, he was a harsh boss, but that was only to get the best out of Tony and the team. He rode them hard, yelled at them when they needed that, slapped them over the head when they got too off track. But not good enough? Why would Tony think that?

He allowed Tony to settle against his chest again, and it felt almost as though Tony snuggled closer. Gibbs held him tight.

“DiNozzo, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Gibbs said, hoping his voice was soft and not horrified; he felt the latter, but only towards himself. “You wouldn’t have been on my team if you weren’t good enough.”

Tony coughed lightly, but it didn’t turn into a full-fledged attack this time. Gibbs held Tony’s limp body securely, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. His back would hurt like hell in just a few minutes, but it didn’t matter. This was where he needed to be.

To his surprise, Tony spoke again. The words were quiet and small, and said in a tone that suggested that Tony was almost asleep.

“I just want you to love me.”

Gibbs froze, and he was quite certain his heart stopped beating for several seconds. How could his best investigative agent not have realized what should be so obvious? Had Gibbs really cloaked his own feelings so well in harsh words and head slaps that Tony had no idea? They had worked together for years, and Gibbs was uncertain of when admiration of the younger man had turned into something more, but it had. When had that radiant smile become the main reason Gibbs looked forward to going to work in the morning? And Tony’s movie references, which did at times drive Gibbs crazy, were often fun to listen to, and had led to several bad guys being caught, ideas taken and changed to fit. To see Tony, so full of life and energy, working a case and being hot on a lead – it made Gibbs fill with pride and joy, and he had lost count of how many times he had wanted to take Tony into his arms and kiss him soundly.

Obviously, but not surprisingly, he had done a very lousy job of showing his affections, if Tony didn’t know.

His answer was rough but gentle.

“I already do, Tony. I already do.”

He had no idea of Tony heard him or not; either way, there was no response. So Gibbs sat there, the warm body of the man he loved leaning against him, breathing with the help of a mask. He wondered if it should feel so natural – he couldn’t remember it feeling so natural, so comfortable, since Shannon.

He never wanted to leave.

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