Chapter Text
Existing after being injured certainly wasn’t as easy as Tony or Gibbs made it look. Sure, Tim had had colds and flus that had taken him down for a couple days, but it was nothing like this. His face hurt always, especially if he made the mistake of looking down. His jaw was so bruised he was on a soft foods diet, and his ribs burned with every small motion—even breathing.
He’d tried to be macho and not take the painkillers to get him back to work quicker, but the constant aching and the jolts of lightning when he moved his abdomen were too much. He’d unhappily swallowed his full dose under Gibbs’ watchful eye, his boss’ knowing glance both weirding him out and reassuring him at the same time.
And yet, it wasn’t so bad here, being looked after. Sure, Tim was second-guessing his every move from where the towel went after a shower to if he should be making meals to thank Gibbs for getting up every two hours with him last night—that one had been settled with a slap to his shoulder that probably would have been to his head if he hadn’t been seriously concussed, and a stern statement that he wasn’t allowed to work anything with fire or major electricity until he was no longer dizzy.
So he sat there while Gibbs made the meals and just carried the plates back to the sink like a little kid. Slumped at the couch watching the one hour of TV he was allowed to have because any more than that hurt his brain. He’d even tried to view this time as a silver lining to maybe catch up on some reading, maybe do a little writing with the typewriter Abby brought over, but the concentration he needed to keep up with the plot and long list of characters, combined with the thunderous clacking of the keys, had his head aching worse than if he’d been staring at a screen. He’d fought hard to seem as fine as possible while Sarah visited, though he knew the bruising on his face was a clear indicator he was far from it.
Mostly though, he slept. Despite his best efforts, Tim could barely stay awake for more than a couple hours at a time. He’d woken up on the couch, in the bathroom, and even once at the kitchen table.
None of that seemed to bother Gibbs who was ready with a deck of cards and crosswords when Tim was awake, so long as Gibbs did the shuffling and read out the crossword clues and the number of spaces. It was totally opposite to how he would have spent any other day not in the office, but it was… not fun, but not as horrible as Tony sometimes made his stays at Gibbs’ sound.
It didn’t even occur to him until the second day that Gibbs was taking off work to help him. Tim tried to say Gibbs could go in, that he’d be fine for a couple hours on his own, but a sharp look from his boss and a reminder that this is what a team did for each other, was enough to silence any further protests.
As much as Tim was loathe to admit it, Gibbs was right; there was no way he could have gone back to the office and worked efficiently. His balance wasn’t quite right, his head still felt like slush when he had to think for too long or too hard, and there was no way he was being trusted with a gun.
He didn’t understand how Gibbs or Tony always did it. Tony especially. He could be far worse injured—clocked over the head, drugged in a sewer, chained to a serial killer, beat up by hitmen, shot on the docks—and was back at work within hours, like it was nothing. Even when he’d had the plague and looked like a strong wind could blow him over, he’d returned a week early, promptly saving his and Kate’s lives.
Tim’s injuries were minor compared to all that, and yet, that first morning, it was a serious struggle and a series of prayers to whoever was up there to just get out of bed, to get downstairs without breaking his neck, to not see Gibbs’ scrambled eggs and toast again.
But he was getting better, feeling more stable. And with it, grew his irritation at his body’s inability to pick up where it’d left off before the L.V.M. case. And with that, his irritation at Gibbs, though he was making a valiant effort to hide it since he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. He could walk to the kitchen for his own water when he needed it; he no longer needed his concussion checks even though he knew Gibbs was still making them; and the watchful eye he’d appreciated the first two days was starting to feel smothering.
But he’d chosen this, and Gibbs had opened his home to him, saving him from what would have been a far more stressful experience with Sara, so Tim bit it all back, grinned and accepted the help, and wondered how they were going to shift back into their old habits when he was healed enough to leave.
Wanting a bit of space after today's lunch, he’d gone upstairs for a rest, and when he woke, it felt like someone was stabbing an ice pick through his temple. He would have just stayed in bed and begged sleep to come again, had his bladder not felt like it was going to pop.
Bladder first. Pills downstairs second.
“Here,” a non-Gibbs voice said, an arm sliding under his shoulders and pulling Tim away from the wall.
Tim cracked open one screwed-closed eye to find Tony at his side. “What are you—”
“Bathroom first. Questions later,” Tony said, shuffling them down the hallway. He walked Tim into the small room, instructed him to keep a hold on something while he did his business, then stepped out to give Tim some privacy. It didn’t escape Tim’s notice though how he left the door slightly cracked.
Deferring to Tony’s experience, Tim did, his grip helping him avoid a collision with the laminate counter when his head swam. He washed both hands, one at a time, then hobbled back to the hallway.
“Feel better?” Tony asked, immediately stepping in beside Tim as he made his way back to the bedroom, because there was no way he was managing the stairs in his current state.
“No.”
Tony nodded. “The drugs will help with that.”
“They’re—”
But Tony was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out a bottle of meds and a banana, which he shoved into Tim’s hands once he was propped up against the headboard.
“Banana first or you’ll puke.”
He would know.
“What are you doing here?” Tim asked between bites.
“Not cleared to go back to work,” Tony said thinly.
“You’re not—”
That was when Tim saw the cast on Tony’s arm and the bruise on his forehead. He’d been so caught up in everything going on with him, he hadn’t even considered the rest of the team could have been in the same situation. “What happened to you?” he asked, straightening up with a wince.
“Same thing that happened to you, except some mall cop stopped them from dragging me off.”
“Oh… Ziva?”
“Couldn’t catch her.”
Tim’s breath caught in his throat. “Abby?” He’d seen her when she’d stopped by yesterday and she hadn’t seemed injured—
Tony gave him a strange look. “The rest of the team is fine, Tim. It’s you everyone is worried about.”
“Oh.”
Tony disappeared then, back seconds later with the TV from downstairs, which he set-up with practiced ease.
“What do you want to watch when your brain resolidifies?”
“Uh.”
Tony tapped what was left of the banana. “Too much, too soon. Got it. Eat so you can take your pills, then we’ll talk about it.”
Tim forced down the rest of the banana, ignoring the way his stomach rolled, then dry-swallowed the pain pill Tony held out before closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall and letting the drugs do their work.
“What does Gibbs have?” he asked a couple minutes later when he could think without the stabbing in his temples increasing.
“Not much.” He heard some shuffling, then what sounded like Tony paging through a box.
“Air Force One. Star Wars. Westerns. Pretty much Harrison Ford’s and John Wayne’s whole catalogue.”
Tim felt good enough to crack open one eye. “He got Raiders?”
Tony nodded approvingly. “A man with taste!” He slid the VHS out of its sleeve, inserted it into the player, and handed the remote over to Tim. “Fire when ready.”
It took another ten or so minutes of a rather unusual silence, but finally the ache in Tim's head was so minimal he felt comfortable pressing play.
Raiders was one of Tim's favorites, but about half an hour into it, he had to admit he wasn’t really watching. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bruise on Tony’s face, the split lip, the brilliant white cast with a skull and crossbones doodled on it.
“How do you do it?” he heard himself ask.
Tony reached over and paused the movie. “What, sit here with you and watch this banger of a flick from the ‘80s?”
Tim scowled. “No… let Gibbs worry over you.”
Tony quirked an eyebrow. “Why, McInjured, are you suggesting amenities are substandard here at Casa Gibbs?”
“No, Tony, I didn’t say that. It’s just… it’s a lot.”
“Ah. So you’re well enough now for his ‘barely let you out of his sight’ and ‘throwing food and water at you every turn’ thing to start to bother you?”
Tim winced. “I know it’s wrong, but…” he paused, not knowing where he was going from there. “I know he means well,” he tried again, “but it’s a bit…”
“Stifling?”
Tim nodded. “You won’t tell him I said it?”
“He knows. He’d been told it by me a time or two,” Tony grinned. Before Tim could comment, Tony continued. “Takes some getting used to, I’ll give you that. But it’s what he does when he feels guilty. You just gotta ride it out.” He hesitated then, almost like he didn’t want to share his next thought.
“What?” Tim prompted.
Tony lifted one shoulder. “It’s kinda nice though, too. You’ll miss it when he goes back to barking orders.”
Tim wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he wasn’t going to make any final decisions until he was thinking freely—it was another concern of his that the drugs were exacerbating the situation, making it feel worse than it was since he was feeling worse than he had… ever. But hearing Tony confirm that was just Gibbs’ way made him feel… special, in the oddest sense of ways. Like he’d been let into a club he’d previously been denied access to.
Then his brain caught up to what Tony had said. “Guilty? It wasn’t his fault.”
“Bernal tried to use us to get to him,” Tony said with a loose shrug, looking entirely unperturbed. “Gibbs always takes that stuff seriously.” He leaned back and gently elbowed Tim. “You know that.”
He supposed he did. Tony was right. God, Tim wanted his injuries to heal enough to stop the pain pills so he could think straight again.
“I can talk to him though, if you want?” Tony then said. “See if he’ll back off?”
“You think it’ll work?”
Grinning, Tony shook his head.
“Then why did you offer?”
“Cos McGee, your poker face sucks. He knows. I was trying to make you feel better.”
Tim tried to push himself upright. “He does?” he gasped, one hand wrapping around his abdomen as fire raced through it. Would Gibbs want him on the team anymore? Was he going to get fired?
A hand was on his shoulder, pushing him back into the bed. “No, he’s not going to fire you, McGee—”
Shit, he had said that out loud.
“—If he was, I would have been on my ass a long time ago. It’s just what he does. You just gotta—”
Tony gestured. Tim had to wait until his heart slid back into rhythm to recite, “Ride it out.”
Tony nodded sagely, then tilted his head back at the screen. “You done crisis-ing? Cos we’re getting to one of the best parts.”
It was only about twenty minutes later when Tim heard the front door unlock and saw Tony tense.
“What is—”
“Just Gibbs getting back from his meeting with the director.”
“Oh.” Tim said, but as much as that reassured him, it did absolutely nothing for Tony, who still hadn’t relaxed. It took Tim’s drug-addled brain another minute to realize something had happened.
“What did Gibbs do?”
“I told you. He had to close out the case with the Dir—”
“No, to you.”
Tony frowned. “Who said he did anything to me?”
Your face, Tim wanted to say, but he made himself shake his head. “My mistake.”
Tony clapped him on the shoulder as he stood. “Get better, McHostage. It’s awfully lonely at the office without you.”
“I thought you weren’t allowed to go back to work.”
“Not the good work. I’m on desk duty. Spent the last two days digitizing files from before I worked here.” He rolled his eyes at Tim. “Miss it yet?”
Yes, Tim wanted to say, but shook his head instead, knowing that was the answer Tony wanted.
Tony just scoffed under his breath and wished Tim well before leaving the room.
“Case closed?” Tony asked as he grabbed his jacket off the rack.
Gibbs, who was locking his gun into the safe, nodded.
“McGee?”
“Newly drugged but feeling better.” Tony slid on the jacket, yanking it over his cast. “Anything else come in, or should I keep digitizing files from when I was in college?”
“Tony…”
Nope. He was wrong. He was so not ready for this yet. “Never mind.”
“Tony—”
He shook his head more fervently. “I really don’t want to get into this with you right now, Gibbs.”
“Been too long. Don’t want it to fester.”
“You been talking to Ducky?”
“More like chewed out by Ducky.”
Tony’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a small sense of satisfaction at that. He pulled in a deep breath, scrubbed at the right side of his face, then turned to his boss. “You know I’d never put you or the rest of the team at risk.”
“I do.”
“Then why—”
“You were putting yourself at risk. That’s just as bad.”
Tony blinked. “I—” he trailed off, not sure where to go, finally landing on, “I would have handled it.”
“You said that.” Gibbs took a hesitant step closer and let out a long breath of his own. “I overacted. But I wasn’t wrong.”
“You never are,” Tony ground out through clenched teeth. Then, before he could say something worse that would definitely get him fired, he pulled open the door.
“I’m sorry, Tony.”
It stopped him in his tracks. Tony could count on one hand the number of times Gibbs had broken Rule #6 in general, and on his thumbs for the times Gibbs had said it to him. Hell, he’d said it to McGee a couple cases ago…
“For what I did,” Gibbs was saying. “For what I said. I was out of line and,” he cleared his throat, “I’d trust you to watch my back, broken wrist and all, if it came down to it.”
“Really?”
Gibbs nodded.
“Well, thanks boss, I—”
“Didn’t need to come down to it, though,” Gibbs interjected. “Could have gotten a cast and at least offered it some protection.”
Tony felt himself tense, the anger that had momentarily dissipated back with vengeance. “You honestly saying you’d’ve let me back in the field?”
“Interviewing a suspect, probably not. Going to a crime scene, yes.” Gibbs stepped closer again. “I trust you, Tony. But we don’t need to take unnecessary risks.” He gestured down to Tony’s arm. “That was an unnecessary risk.”
Tony pressed his lips together, gnawing on the insides as he considered this. His gut reaction was that Gibbs took unnecessary risks all the time: surrendering to the terrorist in Colombia, exchanging himself for Ducky in autopsy, going off with Colonel Ryan, having lunch with Ari. All of this he’d said to Gibbs’ face—multiple times. But Tony supposed he could see, for this one very specific case, that Gibbs might… might… have a point. Besides, it wasn’t as if a cast would have stopped him if they’d gotten a hot lead on McGee anyway.
“Can we agree to disagree?” he tried, still feeling a little reluctant to concede Gibbs’ point.
Gibbs just fixed him with a stare.
“Fine,” Tony sighed.
To Gibbs’ credit, he didn’t press the issue. In fact, his expression didn’t change in the slightest. “Stay for lunch?” he asked after a beat, tilting his head at the open door. “There’s steaks.”
“You’re going to feed McJawInjury steak?” Tony asked incredulously.
“He can cut ‘em small.”
Tony looked at Gibbs for a long moment, then shrugged in resignation. “What the hell. You get ‘em started, I’ll get McGee down here.”
For the briefest second, Gibbs smiled, wide and honest, before he gently clapped Tony on the shoulder. His hand lingered, squeezing slightly, the gesture conveying something Tony was having a hard time picking up on after the emotional whiplash of their conversation, but appreciating the sentiment all the same.
Then Gibbs was gone and the fireplace sparking to life. Tony turned to face the stairs, calling out to Tim as he headed up them, “Time for dinner, McStarving. If we’re lucky, Gibbs might even cook your steak past rare.”
He leaned over the banister. “—which you should for McGee, Gibbs, otherwise it’s going to be vile in a blender.”
Gibbs seemed to ignore him, as he set the stakes on the grill, but Tony knew he’d heard him and that he would listen.
Tony may have issues with some of the way Gibbs ran his team—ran his life—but stuff like this? This was the stuff Gibbs always got right.
Plus, they were all okay, and Bernal and his seconds were in jail.
It was time for some Rule 11, a semi-drunken walk down Gibbs’ stairs—which he was convinced were not up to code—and some steaks.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for now.