Title: Falling for It
Fandom: NCIS
Disclaimer: Not my characters or world! I make no money from this.
Summary/Prompt: Tony and Gibbs are on a stakeout. Tony doesn't feel so good. Gibbs tries to help. Father/son or Tony/Gibbs, anything goes.
Notes: Written for RUNNING HOT: A Multi-Fandom Fever Fic Comment fic meme. People kept telling me to write more, every time I thought it was done. But now it’s definitely done J

Part 1

Though his gaze is trained on the apartment building down the street, Gibbs spares a sideways glance at Tony. He hasn’t been keeping track, because that would be crossing some creepy line, but he’s pretty sure that if he had been counting, the tally of DiNozzo’s coughs, sneezes, and sniffles would be up in the dozens so far during this stakeout of theirs. Tony currently sits with his fist to his mouth, eyes tightly closed, lips pursed, and body shaking as it holds in coughs. Tony insists on keeping this secret, as if Gibbs doesn’t know by now that Tony’s coming down with something.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the shaking stop and an uncertain breath being taken. Then Tony reaches for the bottle of Pepsi that came with the pizza they’d polished off about forty minutes back. Tony takes a sip, then a swallow, and then sputters it out with a full-on cough. It’s desperate and strong at first, bringing tears to Tony’s eyes. Then the cough backs off, still wet and hard to stop until Tony finally manages it. Tony screws the cap on the bottle and throws the almost-full bottle into the back of the car to keep himself from making that mistake again. “Went down the wrong way,” Tony covers his ass, clearing his throat repeatedly and sniffling lightly.

Gibbs doesn’t believe him for one second, but doesn’t say so. He just gives Tony a look, a look Tony turns away from, pretending to be concerned about the motionless apartment building. The door hasn’t even opened in the last half an hour. “Wait!” Tony sits up in his seat and points. The door’s opening and the tension in the car intensifies. This might be what they’ve been waiting for.

But it’s not. It’s just Mrs. Kramer from 6B with her walker and her white toy poodle. Again. “That’s the fifth time. That dog must have a bladder the size of a pea,” Tony remarks, chuckling at his own pun. Then he flops back and clears his throat. He scrubs his nose with the knuckles of one hand or rubs the back of his neck when he thinks Gibbs isn’t looking.

But Gibbs is looking. Gibbs is always looking. Gibbs doesn’t ever miss a thing, especially not when it comes to Tony. He knows Tony better than Tony thinks he does. And he wonders if Tony thinks the same about him. If he does, he just might be right. You can’t work with someone in this kind of job for ten years and not know them inside and out. You can’t work with them all day and go home with them at night and not know what they’re all about. You can’t spend almost every minute of the day with someone and not notice when they start feeling sick.

Tony gives another silent cough and fidgets in his seat. He glances out all the windows, which would have looked more like a casual three-sixty if he had actually been looking. But he’s got a dazed, unfocused look and suddenly he can’t stop moving. He grips his armrest, fingers flexing. He rubs his eye and forehead. He presses a palm to his chest as it rapidly rises and falls. He toes the edge of the passenger side floor mat with his shoe. He rakes fingers through his hair. He glances out the windows again.

Gibbs wants to say something, but he knows better. He knows that if he presses, Tony will just feel shame and guilt. He knows he’s got to be patient and let Tony come to him. He knows Tony’s concentration is already shot and Gibbs is the only one who’s really still on the job right now.

Tony’s hand comes to rest on the metal door handle, toying with the idea of opening it. Tony’s not supposed to leave the car during the stakeout, not when it’s just the two of them on this shift. So even considering the idea of leaving must be killing the man. But Gibbs doesn’t like the look in his eyes or the shade of his face or the flush in his cheeks. He wishes he could give his permission, but he knows better than to do that. This is being recorded, after all. Gibbs reaches over to give Tony’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but his hand doesn’t make it that far.

It’s at that very moment that Tony throws open the car door and bolts down the sidewalk. He’s like a lion when he wants to be, pouncing on his prey. But in this case, he claims the trashcan by the far streetlamp as his own and bends over with his head in it. Gibbs winces in sympathy.

Now it’s his turn to feel restless. He wants to go after Tony, to touch him and calm him, to stroke Tony’s back as he heaves, to whisper softly in Tony’s ear that he’ll be all right. He’ll make sure Tony’s all right, because that’s what Gibbs does. Tony watches his back when they’re at work and Gibbs watches over Tony all other times. But he knows he can’t leave the car, can’t let himself get distracted. He’s still got a job to do and Tony’d never forgive him for putting him through all this just to botch the operation now.

The door to the apartment building opens and Gibbs sucks in a breath, though he isn’t surprised. When it rains it pours here in Washington, D.C. The blond women he identifies at once as Lieutenant Frazier leaves the apartment building. She walks normally, no limp, no sign of distress. In fact, if anything, she’s got a bounce to her step as she strolls down the sidewalk toward… shit. “Eyes on Frazier,” Gibbs says quickly. “She just left the building, heading south on 20^th. She’s walking toward Agent DiNozzo.”

There’s a thunk-like sound in Gibbs’ earpiece, and Gibbs guesses it’s the cup of coffee McGee’s just dropped. “What’s Tony doing out there, Boss?”

“Getting’ rid of the pizza we had for dinner,” Gibbs replies. “The hard way.”

Gibbs can’t hear, but he can see, and a shiver runs through his body. Little bumps spring up on his arms because he sees the woman touch Tony, pat his back, cock her head in sympathy. Tony lifts his head, a weak smile on his face. They talk. He shrugs. Then he snaps forward from a sneeze, only just caught in the crook of his arm. They talk some more as she digs a tissue out of her pocket for him. Gibbs holds back a growl of jealousy, knowing it’s liable to make McGee faint. Tony thanks her and shakes his head and she goes on her way.

“She’s on the move again. Going straight for her car.” Gibbs is quiet, unmoving, but he watches her pass by. He sees only the hem of her shirt and her tight black skirt as she walks past the window. Then he watches her reflection in the side mirror, seeing her glide down the sidewalk, graceful in high heels. “She’s getting into her car now.” He watches in his rearview mirror to be sure, not wanting to take his eyes off her even as Tony gets back into the car. “She’s pulling out and heading north on 20^th now past G. We’re a few car lengths directly behind.”

Gibbs turns the keys in the ignition and Tony clears his throat, a sound almost hidden when the engine turns over. They follow the car down the street until they get cut off at the weird intersection with Pennsylvania by a snazzy red convertible driven by a dark-haired woman and miss the light. Gibbs smiles. “Ziva’s on Frazier’s tail now. Tony and I are pulling out.” Their shift’s finally over. So Gibbs pulls into a rare vacant parking space and lets the car idle. They cut communication. 

Tony sighs and closes his eyes, head resting back against the seat’s headrest. “Boss,” he whispers.

Gibbs unbuckles and turns in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, DiNozzo?”

“I don’t feel so good.” Those are the magic words. He gives a single, pathetic cough that’s small but nonetheless shakes his whole body. “I really, really don’t feel so good at all. Sniff, sniff! I’ve got the chills, Boss. And…”

And he doesn’t have to say it all. “I know. I saw. And I’ve heard you.” He reaches out and tussles Tony’s short hair. “You’ll feel better once I get you back home in bed.”

Tony whimpers and coughs again. “Don’t think so, Boss. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.” 

“You’d better not. If you die on me, I swear I’ll kill you.” It’s said with all the strength and no-nonsense-ness of one of Gibbs’ usual threats, but it’s silly enough to produce a weak smile from Tony, who never passes up the opportunity to smile if he can help it.

A sneeze shakes Tony this time, and Gibbs feels a pang in his gut at the tissue Tony has in hand to wipe his nose with. Gibbs digs out his hanky and thrusts it toward Tony’s face with a grunt. Then he shifts the car back into drive and peels out of the parking space, which is immediately claimed.

“Sorry I fucked up the operation,” Tony says. “I didn’t realize it was that bad. Thought it was just a little cold or sniffle or something.”

“It’s not ruined. She didn’t make you, and we might be able to use you later if we need to make contact. Didn’t go exactly as we’d planned, but it’s not completely ruined.” He doesn’t bother signaling, just takes a corner at full speed as the light turns yellow.

Tony moans at the motion and hugs his arms around his stomach.

“And that’s definitely not a little cold or sniffle.” He reaches over and claps his hand to Tony’s forehead. The man’s burning up. Damn him. Gibbs had figured a fever for sure, but not one that high. He’s tempted to take Tony straight to the ER to get checked out. He would do it, but he’d rather get Tony home and changed into comfy clothes. He’d rather be able to hold Tony in his arms and make him soup and growl at him when he tries to eat too quickly. He’d rather get Tony settled on the couch amidst blankets and put in one of the DVDs he bought Tony for Christmas.

“Does that mean I won’t get laid later?” Tony bends his neck to facilitate a head slap. Instead, Gibbs takes his hand and kisses the back of it, limited by the fact that he’s still driving the car. Tony grins that grin of his and ever with fever-bright eyes, he looks almost too good to resist. And Gibbs knows what Tony’s doing, of course. Gibbs knows Tony saw that brief look of fear in his eyes. Gibbs knows Tony’s just trying to keep Gibbs from worrying about him. It’s a patented Tony DiNozzo the Charmer technique and he sees it coming from miles away. But he lets himself fall for it.

Part 2

They tried it their way first.

Gibbs installed Tony on the living room couch. He’d slept there for years before Tony moved in anyway, so he knew it was comfortable enough. And everything you needed was close at hand. He’d never managed to shake the habit of cooking over his fire and dining there; Tony had seemed to like it, too.

He made sure Tony had more than everything he needed. A tissue box was placed on the arm of the couch and a small trashcan on the floor beside stood as both waste receptacle and something in case of stomach emergencies. Three fluffy pillows were added to one side. A sleeping bag rolled out ensured a nice, warm fit, though there was a stack of extra blankets if needed. The side table had a bottle of water, a thermometer, and some medicine—painkillers for his headache and body aches, a decongestant for his sinuses, and anti-nausea tablets for his stomach. Tony frowned at all three, insisting he would be all right without them. Gibbs didn’t believe him and made him take the painkiller immediately upon being tucked in.

Tony, however, made Gibbs lie down on the couch with him. It was just big enough for two, if they lay pressed against each other, spooning. Tony had the television remote in hand and flipped aimlessly through the channels until he found a movie he liked. Gibbs didn’t care to watch the movie, and kept his attention on Tony. He draped an arm loosely but protectively around the man. And he stroked the back of Tony’s head in a way that soothed and reassured them both.

“Most likely this is just a twenty-four hour stomach flu bug,” Tony told him. “I’ll be fine once it passes through my system. You won’t have to worry about me after that.”

*             *             *

Twenty-four hours into it saw Tony curled up around the toilet bowl, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. He hadn’t budged from the spot in hours, and Gibbs had brought in a few blankets to keep him warm. Tony had managed to keep an entire Saltine cracker down for about twenty minutes, which was a significant improvement. But then he’d found himself clinging to the toilet again, getting sick, with Gibb’s hand rubbing circles on his back and a cool wash cloth wiping his face when it was over.

Gibbs sat down next to Tony, resting against the under-sink cabinet. And when Tony wasn’t clinging to the toilet, he clung to Gibbs. Gibbs cuddled him carefully, not holding too tight, so Tony could break away at a moment’s notice.

“Must be a thirty-six hour flu bug,” Tony said weakly. He coughed and rested his head against Gibbs’ chest, and then he closed his eyes. “I’ll be okay soon. Please don’t worry.”

*             *             *

Thirty-six hours into it found Tony back on the couch. He lay on sheets on top of the sleeping bag, on top of the couch. His whole body was hypersensitive from a raging fever. Even Gibbs’ hand running through his hair made Tony wince a little. Gibbs knew his touch normally calmed Tony, but the act of petting calmed him as well; not being able to touch Tony like usual was torture. The only emotion to occasionally show in the man’s fever dazed eyes was of pain.

An hour later, Tony began babbling and became unresponsive. Gibbs tried cold compresses. He tried a sponge bath. He ever tried kissing Tony to see if that would break the spell and bring him out of it. Nothing worked. Tony rambled on about movies and work and everything from spring breaks with his frat buddies to the last time he and Gibbs had made love out in the backyard, under the stars.

“Forty-eight hour flu,” Tony wheezed, though not at all in his right mind. His eyes met Gibbs’ ever so briefly, and he uttered a single, soft, “Don’t worry.”

*             *             *

If Tony were no better in the morning, after forty-eight hours, Gibbs resolved to give up doing it their way and take Tony straight to the nearest hospital. Exhausted, Gibbs fell asleep sitting on the floor, leaning against the bottom of the couch, arm stretched out on the couch and his head resting on his arm. Sometime during the night, Tony must have taken Gibbs’ hand, because he woke to find their fingers intertwined. If not for the desire to straighten himself out and feel Tony’s forehead, Gibbs wouldn’t have pulled his hand back.

Beads of sweat stood out on Tony’s forehead and glistened on his chest. In fact, his skin felt damp to the touch—almost cool and clammy—and the sheet beneath Tony was soaking wet. When Gibbs pressed his hand to Tony’s head, he found it nice and cool; the man’s fever must have broken overnight.

Tony felt the touch and woke slowly, turning toward it. “Mmmm.” He opened his eyes and looked at Gibbs. This inspired a smile. “Hey, Boss. G’morning.” His voice caught in his throat and his whole body shook with wet, productive coughs. He grabbed a tissue from the box and blew his nose furiously.

Gibbs waited for Tony to stop coughing and sniffling and blowing before giving the fantastically cool forehead a kiss. “Good morning, DiNozzo. You had me pretty worried for a while there.”

“Had myself worried,” Tony admitted. “Also… I seem to have had an accident.”

Gibbs chuckled. “It’s sweat. Your fever broke. Come ‘ere.” He helped Tony up. Tony shivered until Gibbs pulled his damp undershirt and shorts off. Tony seemed weak and unsteady on his feet. “How’s your stomach this morning?”

“Great.” Tony patted his stomach and the sound of skin slapping against skin made Gibbs smile. Then Tony doubled over, even with Gibbs holding onto him, coughing nonstop. The coughs were rich, strong, using up every ounce of strength he had gathered up during his sleep. When they were over, and Tony had caught his breath and blown his nose, Gibbs tightened his hold on the man. “Not a hundred percent yet, though.”

“No,” Gibbs agreed, guiding Tony up the stairs and down the hall. He started the water in the shower immediately, knowing that the more steam was in the room, the better. Then he started taking off his own clothes.

“I can take a shower by mys—”

“On those wobbly legs? Out of the question. You could barely make it up those stairs. And if you start coughing again…”

Tony sneezed suddenly and emptied his nose into a handful of toilet paper bunched together. He didn’t protest as Gibbs helped him into the shower and then proceeded to soap him up while still keeping a hand clamped around his arm or an arm wrapped around his middle to keep him from falling.

Gibbs relaxed a little while in the shower, feeling the hot water beat a pattern on his back and shoulders as he hugged Tony to his chest. Tony’s arms wrapped around him as well, for warmth. They stood for long minutes, enjoying just being together without all the misery of the last few days dragging them down.

Then Tony coughed and it drew Gibbs back. He kissed Tony’s forehead and pulled away, rinsing off, shutting off the water. Tony shivered until Gibbs wrapped a fluffy towel around him and rubbed his hands up and down the man’s arms to warm him up. As Tony stepped out of the tub, he lost his balance. He fell back into Gibbs, who braced himself on the towel rack bar and kept Tony upright.

When they were dressed and dry, Gibbs guided Tony back to the living room to sit in an armchair while he changed the sheets, blankets, and pillowcases on the couch. When Tony got in, he moaned almost orgasmically at the cool, crisp, new bedding. He burrowed in and gave Gibbs a smile that the man felt right in his heart. He bent down and took the pan off the grill resting in the fireplace. “Let’s see if you can keep some scrambled eggs down.”

Tony could. He sipped some Gatorade slowly and nibbled on the eggs for a whole forty-five minutes before fatigue took over. “Sleepy now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gibbs reassured him, easing the plate and fork out of Tony’s grip. “Get some rest, Tony.” He felt the man’s forehead again, out of habit. It was still remarkably cool. And Tony’s stomach was behaving as well. It looked like Tony was well on his way to recovery.

*             *             *

Swiftly they fell into a daily routine. Gibbs would wake early to start the coffee and make both breakfast and lunch. His breakfast was eaten and lunch was packed, but Tony’s went straight into containers in the fridge. Gibbs would kiss the man goodbye, which usually woke Tony, sending him into a volley of sneezes and coughs Gibbs didn’t stay to hear the end of. Without Tony at the office, they were relocated to reviewing old cases; Gibbs despised spending hours looking at papers and folders and folders full of papers. At the end of the day, Gibbs drove home to find Tony on the couch, sleeping in front of a movie paying in the DVD player. They would have dinner, talk for a while around Tony’s coughs, and head to bed where neither of them slept much because of Tony’s coughing.

“I wish I could go back to work,” Tony whispered one morning, as Gibbs pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m getting bored.”

“Then you’ve got to get better. That’s the only way I’ll let you leave.” Tony’s brown hair felt soft as he sifted it through his fingers.

“As soon as I get better? You promise?”

Gibbs’ word was as good as it got. “I promise. Until then, try to get some rest.”

“Tired of waiting.”

“Won’t be long now.” It had been days.

But days turned into a week and a week turned into a week and a half. And one morning, just before Gibbs was to leave for work, Tony’s productive cough was so productive he had to make use of the well-placed trashcan by the bedside. His breathing was raspy, harsh. Gibbs had heard it sound like this once before and he knew doing it their way wasn’t working.

Tony looked up at Gibbs, sadness in his eyes. “Wish I could go with you.” His hand ventured out from beneath the blankets and found Gibbs’, squeezing.

“You are coming with me.”

Tony’s eyes lit with an unexpected light and his mouth curved up into a smile, even as he wiped a tissue across it. He let Gibbs haul him up and manhandle him into a warm coat and clean jeans. “S’not what I wear to the office, Boss,” Tony protested lightheartedly as Gibbs ushered him downstairs and to the car, a tissue box crunched to the point of disfigurement under his arm.

Gibbs grunted so as not to lie and shifted the car into reverse. Tony had to have known they weren’t headed to NCIS headquarters, even though Gibbs wasn’t saying anything. And Tony had to have known he was much worse if it meant Gibbs was taking him to a doctor. But Gibbs was his normal silent self, trying to exude that calm, protective, authoritative manner to keep Tony reassured, to keep Tony from worrying. And when they turned left instead of right, toward the ER and not the Navy Yard, Tony had to have seen that coming from miles away. But he let himself trust Gibbs and fall for it.

Part 3

The nightmare of the situation returned as sleep abandoned Tony. He lay in a strange bed in an unfamiliar hospital room, feeling cold and lonely and miserable. The dim light from the hallway came in around the cracked-open door, barely illuminating the contents of the room. There was an IV hanging above him, the tube leading down to his arm. There was a peach and pink curtain pulled to divide the room in two, so Tony couldn’t see out the window. There was a television set that might have provided some comfort but he wasn’t supposed to turn it on because it would wake the man in the bed on the other side of the curtain. It would probably wake Gibbs as well.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs slept slumped to the side in a tiny armchair between Tony and the divider curtain. Tony wasn’t supposed to have guests after visiting hours and they didn’t have any sort of legal paperwork to explain that Gibbs was in a relationship with him. But Gibbs was Gibbs and had refused to leave Tony alone. He’d claimed Tony was part of a case they were working, having established himself with a suspect, and Gibbs was there because of the risk to his life.

Tony knew he didn’t need a bodyguard, but he did need Gibbs. He would probably be going crazy right now if he’d been left completely alone in the hospital. He felt so awful, head pounding, throat burning, eyes stinging. The tickle and pressure in his chest made him feel like coughing and coughing until his lungs felt clear, and he swallowed, trying to hold it back. That technique wouldn’t work for long and usually backfired.

He looked around for a cup of water, but couldn’t find anything. They must have taken his cup when the guy came in to remove his roommate’s dinner dishes. Tony’s stomach situation was touchy at best and he hadn’t eaten. The IV was helping him stay hydrated now, but his cough was terrible and impending. He forced himself to swallow again and, knowing he didn’t have long before coughs burst from him, he hit the burse call button on the controller hanging from the arm of the bed. He didn’t want to wake anyone, especially not Gibbs.

Even though it was totally Gibbs’ fault that he was here at all. If he’d had his way, they’d be at home together right now, spooning in a ridiculously large bed, the comforting glowing light of the television set dancing across the covers. Instead, he’d been driven to the ER and admitted to a hospital.

And Tony hated hospitals. He hated being on display when he felt ill or was injured. He hated the sickening smell of the halls and rooms. He hated the feeling of helplessness that came with being a patient. And he hated that there were so many people there who knew him.

The door opened slowly and Nurse Carly Marcano entered. Hours ago when he’d been moved from the ER to her ward, she had been cold but professional toward him. It was obvious she still blamed him for hurting Jeanne, and Tony couldn’t very well explain about Le Frog or actually falling for a girl who was part of his case. He was glad to see someone, though, and he mimed the act of drinking when her eyes met his.

“What do you need, Tony?”

Frustrated and not sure how to make the action more clear, he risked speaking. It seemed almost impossible to get the word out past whatever phlegm and scratchiness and soreness existed. “Water.” Immediately it triggered a harsh bout of coughing. His whole body shook and hurt horribly everywhere—pain shooting through his templates, aching in his chest, burning at his throat. He tried sitting up more, tried rolling onto his side, tried coughing into his warm pillow, but they seemed to take forever to stop. It was like he was trying to cough up something that wasn’t there. The up side was that none of them were strong enough to make him gag. The down side was that they woke Gibbs almost at once.

Bleary-eyed and without much-needed coffee, Gibbs stumbled over and rubbed a hand up and down Tony’s back. Carly returned with a pitcher of water and a Styrofoam cup with a straw much too large for it. She also had an inhaler and, in-between his coughs and wheezes, she managed to get him to inhale properly. A few moments later, Tony felt the cough back away enough. The urge to cough was still there, as his nose was too stuffed to breathe through and each breath caught in his irritated throat. But it was controllable now.

He cleared his throat and reached for the water. Tony sipped carefully, staring down at the cup and not the way Carly was watching Gibbs comfort him. It felt weird to be judged by an ex-girlfriend’s friend in the middle of the night when he was lying ill in a hospital bed and couldn’t say or do a damn thing about anything that had happened.

But then she was gone and Gibbs was climbing onto the small bed with Tony. Tony had learned that the easiest way to fall asleep was to lie down and get comfortable, but then he woke up within an hour, feeling like he was drowning, coughing and struggling for a dry breath just as he had when he’d had the plague. That terrible feeling was even worse than just coughing. But sleeping sitting up was so uncomfortable that he didn’t get much sleep and just sat up coughing all night anyway.

Gibbs leaned back against the wall and pulled Tony against his chest. Propped up by pillows and held tight in Gibbs’ arms, Tony finally relaxed. “I could have gotten you water.” Gibbs’ whisper was deep and soft. It made Tony smile.

“Didn’t want to wake you.” His voice was raspy, harsh, and strained, but in the quiet of the room, the light whisper was something he could pull off. He pressed the side of his face to Gibbs’ chest and heard the soft, steady pounding of the man’s heartbeat.

“Ya think I was sleeping there because I like uncomfortable chairs? Trust me: wake me up if you need anything.”

“Better than bothering Carly.”

Gibbs stroked his arm and pulled the blankets up. Tony’d had a light fever all day, but this felt good—a warm blanket and a warm Gibbs. “She doesn’t like you much.”

“Can’t blame her, after what happened with Jeanne. Man, I hate hospitals.”

“The fact that you almost died in one doesn’t help, I’m sure.”

Tony tensed again, stomach clenching, throat tightening. “My mother did die in one. Never liked ‘em after that. I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory, go down fighting.”

“I’d rather have you around for a long time.” Gibbs’ hold on him tightened instinctively so that it almost hurt, but Tony didn’t mind.

Gibbs didn’t apologize for bringing Tony to the hospital, but Tony didn’t expect it. The doctors had said his flu had progressed to severe bronchitis and if left any longer, probably would have developed into pneumonia. Neither of them wanted that again.

Besides, they’d run out of x-rays and tests to do on Tony and were holding him for observation as he got some fluids in him. As long as his temperature didn’t go up and his condition didn’t get worse, they’d load him down with medicines and release him in the morning. Waiting wasn’t Tony’s thing by any means, but he could do it if it meant getting better was within sight.

“You won’t get much sleep tonight,” Tony said, with a little cough into the thick fabric of Gibbs’ shirt. The sound was mostly smothered, but that wouldn’t work if any of the worse coughs struck.

“Don’t care as long as you get some.” He hesitated, still hugging Tony tightly. “I’m gonna make sure you feel better, DiNozzo. Don’t care what happens to me.”

His eyes closed, his body relaxed, his throat somewhat soothed, Tony smiled. “Yeah, but I do.”

Part 4

Tony woke to find the bed empty, though there was no surprise in that. He couldn’t expect Gibbs to stay in bed with him all day. Coughing from congestion, Tony rolled onto his side and reached for the tissues on the nightstand, grimacing at the collection of items there. He’d never been sickly like this growing up, but that damn pneumonic plague had done awful things to his immune system. Now instead of a DVD case or two, his nightstand was covered in what could easily have passed for a small pharmacy. There were bottles of aspirin, prescription anti-nausea tablets, nasal sprays, decongestants, bronchodilators. There was a tissue box and two different thermometers. There was a humidifier and a nebulizer at the ready. And that was just what was on hand; there was plenty more in the bathroom medicine cabinet.

Gathering a blanket around him and crunching a box of tissues under his arm, Tony headed down two flights of stairs. The blanket trailed behind him, but he gathered up the extra material and snuggled with it in the corner chair.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Gibbs said, not breaking his rhythm as he sanded the wood.

Tony shrugged and tilted his head, trying to assume a comfortable position that would still keep him upright and breathing fairly well. “I’m feeling better. I was sick to death of that bed. And I missed you.”

One of those rare Gibbs smiles crossed the man’s face. “Yeah, you’ve been asleep almost the whole day. And your fever’s gone. I expected to see you sooner or later. But all this sawdust in the air can’t be good for your breathing.”

After considering carefully and weighing his options, Tony replied, “I’ll risk it.” He coughed into a tissue. “I’ll leave if it gets bad.”

This seemed to satisfy Gibbs, who moved on to sanding another portion of the boat, which happened to be a little farther from where Tony sat.

If he hadn’t had this tickle in his throat, Tony might have drifted back to sleep. Instead, moist coughs seized his body repeatedly and he spat into tissues after each short bout before dropping them over the side of the chair. Tony watched Gibbs’ every move, as if it were a dance, seeing how the man ran the paper with strength along the grain, back and forth a dozen times before feeling the progress with his fingertips. Gibbs sanded each part carefully, until he decided the rough edges and seams were smooth enough. Then he pulled a tack cloth out of his back pocket and rubbed the area gently.

Tony loved watching Gibbs work on his boat. Once in a while, he joined in to help, but he mostly just liked to watch. He loved the way Gibbs used his strength and skill to make something rough and wild become soft and gentle. He hated to admit that was the exact same thing Gibbs had done to him—hell, what Gibbs had done to all of them, to one degree or another—but it was the truth.

After a little more than an hour, Tony was coughing more than not coughing. He barely had a few seconds to catch his breath. And, when he did, there was more wheezing involved than regular breathing. He was sitting forward in the chair, trying to assist his lungs in making it productive and just grimacing at how much his chest hurt from so much coughing, when he felt Gibbs’ hand on his arm. Gibbs pulled him up, re-wrapping him in the blanket, and guided Tony up the stairs.

Collapsing onto the couch with yet more coughs, Tony was grateful when Gibbs stretched out to join him. Tony thought his coughs were actually pretty annoying, but Gibbs never seemed to care. He displayed a level of patience he hardly ever showed to Tony on the job. But best of all were Gibbs’s strong arms around him, holding him lovingly but not confining him as his body needed to shake with coughs. He had to admit he was breathing more easily now. And he was going to suggest they pop in a movie, when the phone rang.

Gibbs got up at once and answered the land line. Tony could only hear Gibbs’ half of the conversation. “Had it off… how long?... No, he’s not… Sure.” There was a longer pause now, during which Gibbs closed his eyes. Finally he sighed. “Yeah, I got it. We’ll call you right back.” He put down the phone and glanced at Tony. Then he swore to no one in particular.

“Jethro?” Tony pushed himself up on the cushions. “What’s wrong?”

“You remember that case we were working on a couple weeks back?”

“Yeah. Cough. Lieutenant Frazier and that mysterious string of murders we couldn’t pin on her. Of course I remember. Cough, cough.”

“Another body just turned up.”

“Shit.”

“Yup.”

“So they need you back on the case?” Gibbs had taken off a few days because of Tony’s hospital visit and now that it was the weekend, Tony had been looking forward to two uninterrupted days of quality time together. But he knew better than to get in-between Gibbs and an important case.

Gibbs hesitated for a moment, scrutinizing Tony. Finally, he replied, “Actually, they need you.”

Part 5

Suddenly, this doesn’t seem like a good idea at all. “Quick and easy, right Boss?” Tony makes sure his sidearm is properly concealed under his suit jacket. 

“Right, Tony.” They both know the operation seems straightforward—nothing Tony hasn’t done dozens of times before. They’re both trying their best to believe this will be easy.

Gibbs watches Tony double right over with coughs, barely muffled into a tissue, and he wants to go in and take Tony’s place. But, thanks to a happy accident, Tony’s already got an in with the lieutenant. Tony’s cover is all set and the arrangements have been made. Tony insists this is the best idea, and he swears he’s ready. But Gibbs still feels sick when Tony hands over his stash of little medicine bottles. The pills rattle in the tiny orange plastic containers as Gibbs pockets them for safe-keeping. He can’t help but remember Kelly with the chicken pox, sitting by her bed all day and night, giving her medicine, lifting her spirits. 

“No worrying about me,” Tony whispers to save his voice; he’ll need it later. 

Gibbs can’t make any promises, but he smiles reassuringly. Tony’s a professional; he’s damn good. If anyone can do this, it’s Tony. “Ziva’ll be the hostess and McGee’ll be in the back room. We’ll have ears and eyes on you at all time if you get into trouble.”

“Yeah,” I know. He coughs again and adjusts his suit jacket with the button that doubles as a microphone. “We’d better do this before she gives up and leaves the restaurant.” 

They’re standing in the surveillance van, kind of hunched over and surrounded by a half dozen NCIS agents. But Tony still leans in for a kiss and Gibbs still gives him one, hoping it won’t be the last. 

He watches Tony leave the van then watches Tony on the closed-circuit system they’ve tapped into, displaying six different views of the restaurant on six different monitors. Tony sits at the far end of the bar for a few minutes. Then, when Melissa Frazier doesn’t notice him, he coughs and draws attention to himself. Then it’s all “Oh, hello”s and “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”s. Tony is careful, masterful, unusually patient. He coughs again.

She snaps her fingers. “You live in my neighborhood. I saw you a couple weeks ago when you were… how are you feeling?”

He looks embarrassed; Gibbs is sure it isn’t just an act. “Much better. I thought I’d stop in and grab a quick bite, maybe order to go. Haven’t decided what I want yet. You waiting for someone?”

She retreats a little, but only a little. “Don’t laugh, but I’m here on a blind date. And the guy’s…” She checks the silver watch on her wrist. “Almost two hours late.”

“Two hours? You’ve got to be starving.”

She gestures to her almost empty appetizer plate. 

“Calamari only goes so far. How about we get something together? I mean, you’ve already met me, so it won’t be blind. It doesn’t even have to be a date exactly. But we’re both here and we’re both hungry. What do you say?” 

She hesitates for far longer than Gibbs is comfortable with. He focuses on the look in Lieutenant Frazier’s eyes and tries to ignore the hint of wheezing each time Tony breathes in. Everyone is silent. The entire op hinges on her answer. But she looks at Tony, who flashes that charming-Tony grin Gibbs can see right through, and she falls for it. 

They settle their tabs and are shown a table. Gibbs studies her closely as she walks. She might have a gun in her purse, but he’s pretty sure it’s not concealed down the front of her dress. He hopes Tony takes into account the time it’ll require for her to reach for her purse and extract the gun. And he hopes Tony’s reaction isn’t dulled by that crud trying to take up permanent residence in his lungs.

The dinner goes remarkably well. She turns out to be a movie fan, and Tony geeks out about awards and directors. She tells him she’s a naval officer and where she’s been stationed since joining. They talk about the neighborhood and Mrs. Kramer’s neurotic poodle. Gibbs actually thinks they have a good shot at this. Tony’ll at least be able to take her home, if not go up for coffee. And when she makes her move, they’ll be right there to intercept. There is already a unit at her building, waiting around back. 

“One chocolate mouse and one tiramisu,” Tony orders for them, like a gentleman, and hands the menu back to the waiter. Then he takes a sip of water from his glass and it goes down the wrong way. Everything starts to fall apart as he begins coughing. It’s not some tiny, dry, polite cough. His coughs are thick, deep, urgent, and they won’t stop. He tries a throat lozenge and it does nothing but makes him cough more. Apologetically, and with the whole restaurant watching him, he rises and holds up his index finger to signal he’ll be back in a minute. 

Lieutenant Frazier, however, panics. She grabs his hand and eases him back down. “No. You have to say here. Take another sip of water. It’ll pass.”

But it doesn’t and it won’t. He wheezes in-between coughs, unable to cough up what’s stuck in his system and unable to breathe until he does so. Gibbs wants to thump him on the back and get him the hell out of there, but Tony hasn’t given the signal. 

Tony shakes his head and stands up again. “Be right… cough cough cough back!” The last word his higher in pitch and urgent. He’s coughing so much his throat can’t handle it. 

He rushes to the bathroom and Gibbs bolts over to the far row of screens, showing him a shot of what’s inside the men’s room. He hears McGee through the earpiece. “Tony, are you all right?” 

“Fine!” Tony squeaks, coughing as he leans over a sink. “Stay cough put.” The coughs sound louder as they echo in the empty bathroom, which isn’t empty for long. 

A guy comes in for a piss, glancing over each time Tony’s coughs reach a desperate crescendo. Tony’s going to get sick; it’s only a matter of time. The guy’s huge, with broad shoulders, a buzz cut, and a square jaw. He eyes Tony’s reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. “You with that hot blond in the red dress?” he asks.

Tony nods, unable to talk. 

“Too bad you won’t be joining her for the rest of your meal.”

Tony shakes his head. His cheeks are flushed, eyes are watering. He holds up a finger again, trying to explain that he’ll be okay in a minute.

But then the man reaches beneath his suit jacket. Gibbs jumps at the sight of a handgun. He swings it around just as Tony dives into one of the toilet stalls. Gibbs winces as he hears Tony getting sick.

“Ziva! McGee! Get to the men’s restroom, now!” Gibb’s own weapon is drawn and he runs from the van. He’s not the type to just sit around and watch anyway. And he’s kicking himself for making Tony do this. He’s in the restaurant, running past tables of startled diners, when he hears a bang, a warning shout, and then two distinct gunshots. They’re loud in his earpiece but he hears them up ahead as well.

Gibbs reaches the bathroom in time to see Ziva cuffing the lumbering guy, who is crying out in pain from where a bullet grazed his right arm. McGee’s got the weapon secured. And Tony’s got his gun still in hand as he slumps against the wall, coughing his lungs out. One of the mirrors is shattered, reflective shards littering the counter, sink and floor. There’s a bullet hole in one of the toilets and water spills from the tank, covering the floor in a thin, clear puddle.

“Oh my god. Ray?!” Gibbs has to hold Lieutenant Frazier back as she tries to get in the bathroom. “You bastard! What have you done!”

Ziva reads the guy his rights, and he nods in understanding. They all see it, even Tony, still coughing. But he still calls out as Ziva escorts him from the scene. “You never understood, Melissa. All I wanted was to be with you. I told you I’d make sure I was the only one for you.”

The lieutenant shakes against Gibbs, part angry and part scared. “Oh god… all those men I dated… I didn’t even think of Ray. I haven’t seen him in six years, not since I was stationed in South Carolina.”

McGee takes her statement. Ziva takes Ray away. NCIS agents manage the chaos of the restaurant and secure the scene. Gibbs approaches Tony. Tony looks dreadful, like a hurt little puppy. “It was a good shot, Gibbs. He didn’t expect me to have a weapon. I pulled it out when I was in the stall. Wasn’t planning on discharging my weapon, but at least I didn’t cough as I aimed and pulled the trigger.” He looks up, meeting Gibbs’ gaze. 

He’s looking for approval, and Gibbs wants to give it, to tell him he did an amazing job under the circumstances. But he knows he doesn’t need to say anything. He just smiles and Tony practically melts as both relief and pride wash over him. 

“Vance said this’d be easy. Guess we should have known better than to fall for that.” He coughs again, weakly, unable to clear his lungs or throat sufficiently. He needs a hot shower and time lying down. 

Gibbs doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of a crime scene, doesn’t care that they’re both on the job. He pulls Tony against him, holding him tight, as though that will keep him safe from everything that happened before and will ever happen in the future. Tony sighs as he closes his eyes and nestles against Gibbs’ chest. “I’m gonna go back to the office and write this up,” he says, his words slightly muffled into Gibbs’ shirt. “Then I’m gonna go home and fall asleep for a week. Maybe two.” 

Gibbs is sure he's never heard such an excellent idea.