Title: Day 2
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: NCIS
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my 'verse. I don't get paid a cent to play. Please don't sue and make things worse.
Summary: Tony is sick and the rest of his team eventually find out.
Note: Part of the 12 Ficlets in 12 Days project 2010-2011. Requested by symphonyflute

Tony sent Gibbs a pointed look as he shivered violently.

Gibbs gave him a patented Gibbsian smile. “Don't complain to me; complain to your government. Stakeouts aren't what they used to be. You get a choice of heat or running water, DiNozzo. Figured you'd rather be a little cold rather than holding it all night.”

Tony shrugged. When his boss put it like that, he guessed he could see the reason for it. But that didn't mean he wasn't cold. Freezing, actually. He glanced over at the apartment they were watching. Still no lights and no movement. He checked again with the infared night vision goggles and they told him the same thing. No one was in the apartment yet. It wasn't surprising; their targets weren't due in for another hour or so.

This was going to be a long night, and the whole team knew it. They had arrived early to set up the equipment and keep an eye on the place. After that, Ziva had headed out to get them food. Tony had requested something he actually had no appetite for any more. All he really wanted was the soup he'd asked for, but he'd ordered a bunch of other stuff—fries, a roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes—so they wouldn't notice. If the government couldn't spring for heat, the least they could do was buy him dinner.

Man, it was cold. Tony shivered again. Staring at a dark, empty apartment or outside at the leave-less trees was doing nothing to help. And he was a little annoyed that it seemed like he was the only one having trouble with the lack of heat inside. Gibbs, he could understand. The man could sleep in the cargo area of a plane; he could probably sleep perfectly comfortably on a block of ice if it came down to it. And Ziva would probably not say anything even if she were cold; Mossad officers were trained to never complain. Moreover, she would probably pretend she were warm just to annoy the hell out of Tony. And Tim…

He glanced over at McGee, who wore a puffy brown coat that looked like it was about a foot thick. The man looked toasty warm. His cheeks were even a little flushed. “McChubby, gimmie your coat. You've got natural insulation.”

“No way!” Tim exclaimed, inching away with his laptop, which was tied to the apartment building's security cameras—legally, for a change. They'd spent the whole day getting signatures and approvals and all that crap Gibbs didn't care anything for but Vance was a tightass about. This was an operation they couldn't risk cutting corners on. Not when it concerned the SecNav's ex-wife.

Gibbs knew a thing or two about ex-wives, and maybe that's why SecNav had requested his team specifically. Tony didn't really care. He just wanted to see some signs of life in the apartment across the street.

Normally, Tony loved stakeouts. There were all sorts of cool stakeout movies to inspire him. He got to sit around, cracking jokes, eating bad food—what could be better?

“het-IHShhhh!” Everyone jumped. The sound was so loud, so sudden, it surprised everyone—Tony included.

“Urgh,” McGee uttered, inching even further away.

“Yeah,” Tony sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. “What was that?” He looked warily toward Gibbs, who was frowning.

“Sounds like you're sick. You sick, DiNozzo?”

Adamant, Tony shook his head. But as he did so, he doubted his own convictions. His throat was a little sore. Well, actually, more than a little. And that dull headache he'd been popping pills for all day didn't seem to be going away the way most of his headaches did. And maybe he had the chills, which would explain why he was colder than everyone else. He cleared his throat and pushed the consideration out of his mind. “I'm just fine, Boss.”

“Good. Better keep it that way,” Gibbs instructed. And Tony knew better than to disobey a direct order from Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He wasn't allowed to get sick. End of story.

Except that his nose was kind of tickling again. Stupid nose. He pinched it and used the binoculars again. No change. No movement. No targets. Nothing. Nothing to do except wait and try not to sneeze. Oh, damn, he needed to sneeze again. He rubbed his nose a little, then pinched it again. But the sneeze still struck. And that resulted in this strange, half-stifled, half-explosion “heh-Tifchjkkk!”

McGee heard, and looked at Tony, but Gibbs didn't react to it, because Ziva had chosen that exact moment to return with the food, the sound of her coming in the door, carrying take out bags was louder than Tony's weird sneeze.

Ziva distributed the food, and Tony sat there, staring at the empty bag afterward. “You didn't bring me anything to drink?”

“You did not ask for anything,” she pointed out.

Sulking, Tony opened the soup he had been sure to order. He didn't feel hungry in the least any more and realized what this craving for soup probably meant. Damn it, he'd had his flu shot. He washed his hands almost religiously. He didn't have time to come down with something—especially because his colds had a way of sticking around for a few weeks instead of just coming and going in a few days like most people's colds seemed to. He'd be in for two weeks of a runny nose at a minimum. And he'd be in for another disapproving look from Gibbs as well if he admitted this.

“Any sign of the suspected arms dealer?” Ziva asked, walking over and snatching the binoculars from Tony, who was partly devouring his chicken soup, and partly trying to make it last.

“Not yet,” Tony answered.

“Then who is that in the apartment?”

Three heads whipped toward the window. The lights were off, but they could see dark figures moving about. And then a light turned on.

“How'd they get through the first floor lobby?” McGee looked crestfallen to find his technology had let him down. “I didn't take my eyes off it.”

“Except when you accepted the dinner I brought you,” Ziva pointed out.

“I would have noticed a little movement,” McGee insisted. “Maybe they've broken into the feed as well? Let me run a—”

“Get over it, McGeek,” Tony said, putting down his soup and drawing his gun in one continual movement that caused quite a bit of the soup to spill out of the plastic container. “We've got to get over there. It's going down now. Look!” Not much could be seen apart from a silhouette of someone… who held a gun.

Gibbs led the way over, at a sprint, followed by Ziva. Tony was supposed to be the one on Gibbs' six, but he was finding it harder and harder to breathe as he ran. The chill in the air outside was almost debilitating. He was sweating and shivering by the time they were across the street and in the next building. In fact, as they took the stairs two at a time, Tony felt his chest burn and his breathing come harder. His whole body felt hot and cold at the same time and his head felt fuzzy.

They were racing down the hallway when the shot rang out. Someone screamed. It might have been the SecNav's ex-wife, which would indicate it hadn't been a kill shot to finish her off, or it might have been someone in an adjoining apartment. It could have been a scream on a movie for all Tony could tell. His whole body had raised a protest with him and nothing seemed to work as it was supposed to. Even raising his gun as they burst into the apartment was infinitely slower than it should have been.

It was Gibbs who yelled “Federal Agents! Drop your weapons!” and McGee who called in backup and then, later, Ducky to examine the dead body. Ziva was the one who tackled the SecNav's ex-wife to the floor, but only after she had threatened to blow them all up with explosives that hadn't been connected to a dead man's switch. It was a rookie mistake, Tony knew, but he didn't care. Because as all this was happening, he was doubled over standing, then squatting, coughing his lungs out.

He hadn't heard himself cough like this since his bout with the plague, and he really would have been fine spending the rest of his life never coughing again after that experience. But this time once he started, he couldn't stop. Even when Ziva brought him a cup of water and when McGee wrapped the thick coat around his shoulders, he couldn't stop coughing.

He lay down out in the hallway so as not to disturb the crime scene, rather glad to not be able to smell the carpet, given its state. He could have been mistaken for a bum quite easily by anyone just passing through. But Ducky noticed him.

“My dear boy,” Ducky said, listening to Tony's chest as the man breathed. “What were you thinking doing this while sick?”

“M'not sick,” Tony insisted. “Gibbs told me I wasn't allowed to be… sick… heh-Chihhhhh!”

“Bless you.” Ducky carried a handkerchief, as it turned out. Tony accepted it gratefully. “I hate to tell you that Gibbs might be wrong this time.”

“I'm never wrong,” Gibbs said as Ziva escorted the SecNav's ex-wife out past them. Having been read her rights, she wasn't talking, but if looks could kill as well as the MK45s she'd been selling, they'd all be dead.

Tony wished very much that he could apologize, but knew enough not to do so around Gibbs.

“But sometimes you're wrong, DiNozzo. When you feel up to standing, I want you to go straight home.”

Tony nodded. He would obey, of course. But he didn't feel up to it yet. “hih-Ehshh!” All he felt up to was lying on the floor, feeling miserable, wishing he'd just owned up to this cold in the first place.

“Tony?” He looked up, realizing he'd dozed off briefly. Had it been a second? A minute? Ducky was gone, and Gibbs alone was in front of him, crouching down to be closer to Tony's level. “You feeling well enough to drive yourself home?”

Tony nodded automatically, then coughed and snuffled into Ducky's handkerchief. He didn't want to make more work for Gibbs, and certainly didn't want his Boss to babysit him and drive him home like he was a kid back in school with the school nurse. Although, that nurse he'd had at his second boarding school had been quite the fox. He wouldn't have minded having her around to look after him, though she was probably in her fifties by now, which was kind of icky to think about. “hehh-Kehshhh!” This cold was absolutely undeniable now. And he knew he really wouldn't be able to drive. He needed help.

Instead of leaving the crime scene, Gibbs took out his phone. He stood with it for a minute while he waited for the person he had called to answer. Then, finally, he spoke. “Hey Abbs. I've got a retrieval job for ya, if you have a minute.”