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Tony's cough had started on the roof: a tickle in the back of his throat, a feeling he never wanted to feel again. It had been raining for hours with no let up, the brim of his cap doing little to keep the water off his face. He was well and truly soaked, and his lungs hated it.
That and all the exercise. He and McGee had only a general idea of the direction the bullet had come from so they had been searching all the surrounding rooftops, sweeping the area while the clouds rolled in, while the temperature dropped, and continuing once the rain had started. Up and down a series of ladders, rungs slippery and wet.
His lungs ached, the space between his ribs burning with every breath, but Tony just wiped his running nose on the back of his jacket and kept on going. He probably should have kept on his vest, but it was so heavy and awkward, putting pressure on his already delicate chest, that once Metro had showed up, lights flashing, area secured, he’d slipped it off. McGee had either done the same thing, or the weight wasn’t bothering him. He was slightly surer of foot on the ladders—another way the world was spinning off its axis today—and wasn’t far behind Tony on the climbs.
To say Tony breathed a sigh of relief when they found the sniper’s nest was the understatement of the century. However, that same hefty breath almost turned into a cough before he could bite it back. He didn’t have time to be sick again: not with someone after Gibbs, not after Kate…
He cleared his throat, longing for some water. Well, they had a plethora of that. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Big mistake.
Water stormed down his throat, and fuck he couldn’t breathe.
He was back in the blue lights, the glass room. Kate.
His fight or flight kicked in, knocking his head forward, and Tony spat out the water, with enough wherewithal to keep it away from the shells. Coughing now for an entirely different reason, he grabbed at a chimney as his lungs tried to invert themselves.
There was a hand on his back, hesitant at first, resting then starting a small drumbeat, which increased in intensity as Tony’s coughing fit did.
“Breathe, Tony!”
McGee.
Panicked.
Dark spots danced at the corners of his vision and each and every rib felt two seconds away from breaking. And still he coughed, and coughed, and coughed.
McGee’s hand hit harder, sure to leave bruises matching Gibbs’, but finally, something dislodged and he could breathe again. It took his system a lot longer to get the message, but eventually the spasms eased and he could push himself upright.
There was no mistaking the concern written all over McGee’s face. He was reaching for his phone when Tony wrapped his own hand—shaking, freezing—around McGee’s.
“No.”
“Tony, you need help,” McGee all but pleaded.
“Gibbs and Ducky… have other things… on their minds… right now.” Kate. Her body in autopsy. Whacking Ari.
“Tony.”
“Later, McGee.”
McGee’s mouth tugged to the right, clearly displeased, but he did step back. “We better get this scene shot then.”
If McGee absorbed a lion’s share of the work while Tony fought to keep his breaths steady, neither of them mentioned it.
The concern from Gibbs wasn’t surprising but the location was. Tony hadn’t died, so there was no reason to notify his father, and he wasn’t allowed to stay by himself the first week, so it was rehab or Gibbs’. Gibbs had been plenty nice to him the past two weeks: changing sheets, running in at all hours when Tony couldn’t breathe, doling out medicine and the occasional feather-light head slap when needed. Tony had just assumed, like with all their other interactions, that that would stay outside the office. But it hadn’t—not really. Yesterday, Gibbs had ordered him to rest, stolen McGee’s food for him, demanded he eat. But still gruff, still Gibbs. This, this nice Gibbs, in the office, ordering—no, strongly suggesting that he change—was just weird.
Tony would be lying if he said he didn’t yearn for a pat on the back or the ghost of a hand on the back of his neck, but another time. Not now. Not after…
He knew he needed to change. He did! And he would, but after he took the casings to Abby so she could start to work her magic. That would take time—time they didn't have. For now, Tony shrugged off his wet jacket and hat, which made a world of difference, and continued doing his job.
He hadn’t been expecting the shot. It was close enough to whiz by his ear, embedding itself in something probably very expensive behind them.
He was moving before his brain had caught up to the idea, slamming Abby to the ground and knocking what little air he had out of his lungs.
His body was still moving—without air, he wasn’t sure how—but he was covering Abby, bracing for the next shot.
“You hit?” he gasped out, as a cough ripped his way up his throat. He turned barely, hacking into the ground next to her.
“Tony…”
He found a solitary breath. “Abby! Are. You. Hit?!”
“No. But Tony…”
He noticed her struggling to pull in a breath. Matching pair they were.
He had just started to leverage himself up slightly, bracing on one elbow, so he could look for a wound when she managed to say, “You’re heavy.”
“Oh.”
They had to get up anyway. Get out of the way of another shot.
Using the left computer table as leverage, he pushed himself into a crouch, grabbed Abby’s arm and pulled her toward the window.
“You’re wet.”
“I’m fine.”
Her hand rested on his quad as he pulled his weapon, peeking over the table to see out the window. His line of sight was blocked by all of Abby's neatly-labelled equipment.
“No wonder you’re so heavy, Tony, you’re all muscle.”
Any other day, he’d preen at a compliment like that. But not today, after Kate, and not now, while they were being shot at.
“Abby, shh!” He slipped past her, to the brick pillar where he could stand up in relative safety. As his breath whistled through his lips, he looked up at the window, through the shattered glass. There was no sign of anything: no sounds of running, no squeak of tires, just the rain pouring down, now through the window.
“—nice booty too.”
She was going to give their position away!
“Hey!” he snapped, shaking his head to ward off a cough. “Is this how you deal with getting shot at?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “It’s my first time.”
He was saved from having to respond by Gibbs flying into the room. “Abby!”
“Boss, down!” Tony hissed. “We’re taking fire!”
It was the most action movie thing Tony had seen in real life as Gibbs practically slid across the room, flipping the lights off as he went past.
He waited, weapon up and pointed at the window, but still there was no second shot.
It was silent, except for the rain, as Gibbs slid next to Abby, pulled her in close.
“You two okay?”
Abby responded, then Gibbs began to call out orders.
The questions hadn't been directed at Tony; he didn’t need to respond.
The orders, however. He could follow orders.
His body led the way before his brain absorbed them. He stepped forward, caught by a hand around his ankle. His chest collided with his knee and he gasped for air quietly as he ground to a stop.
“What if he has a night vision scope?”
…that was an excellent point. And a rookie mistake.
Tony’s eyes ached, his head hurt, his chest throbbed. He had to get his head on straight before someone else paid the price.
“On it boss,” he muttered as he crawled around the edges of the room, and eventually out into the hallway, up the stairs—stopping to catch his breath more than once—to the squad room.
Back down in the lab, Abby was still tightly tucked under Gibbs' arm, as they waited, and waited and waited.
“I’ll keep you safe, Abby,” Gibbs was saying to her.
And she believed him. As long as she didn’t have to leave this spot, she totally believed him. Just… she wasn’t the only one.
“What about Tony?”
Gibbs pulled away slightly so he could look her in the eye.
“He hit?”
Abby shook her head. “But he’s wet and coughing. And not the good kind of cough, Gibbs. The very, very bad plague-y kind.”
She looked up at him, sad eyes wide. “Dr. Pitt warned us about him relapsing.”
Gibbs leaned over and kissed the side of her head, his actions belying the churning in his gut. “Not on my watch, Abs.”
He wasn’t going to lose another agent. Especially not tonight.
Gibbs heard sirens above them, waiting until he saw foot activity outside the window before grabbing Abby’s hand and hauling her to the elevator.
The next time he saw DiNozzo, it was down in the evidence garage. He had changed but his clothes hung wrong on his frame, the bags still prominently featured under his eyes. Gibbs wouldn't have known what to say even if Tony had given him a chance.
Thankfully, Tony informed him of the director’s orders, sending him back upstairs, but as the elevator doors closed, he felt slightly reassured by the way Tony was needling him, straining for a level of normalcy that wouldn’t be achieved for a long while. It meant his spark was back, a spark that had been sorely missed over the past two weeks.
Yeah, Tony was going to be alright. Gibbs would make sure of it.
With everything happening, Tony knew his definitely-not-a-relapse fell low on the list—as it should. Getting Ari had top priority. Then, whatever was going on between Gibbs and the new Director. Given that she was a redhead, Tony shouldn’t have been as surprised as he had been when he realized they had past romantic history.
And yet, somehow, though it was way less important than Ari abducting Ducky and threatening Gerald and taking pot shots at McGee and Abby, Gibbs kept showing up for him in little ways: a hot chocolate dropped on his desk as Gibbs headed out of the office with the young, kinda-cute redheaded woman in tow (descriptors used before Tony realized she was the new Director). The head slap when he’d (admittedly) ogled the redhead (their new Director??)’s ass on the way out of the bullpen (before he realized she and Gibbs had sexual history). The sandwich Gibbs had brought back from…wherever he had gone with the new Director… and shoved into his hands in the elevator with a strict and uncompromising “eat it”.
The way Gibbs didn’t order him home at any point, from when he’d shown up in the elevator the morning Kate had… Not that Tony would have listened to that order anyway, they had a job to do: an Ari to apprehend... or kill. Tony wasn’t finding the second option all that difficult to stomach at the moment, despite the small ‘innocent until proven guilty’ banging in the back of his head.
And then there had been the check-in from Gibbs himself, the night he was sent to tail Ziva. Maybe Tony was making too much of it but Gibbs could have sent McGee or Balboa or any other agent. Instead, he had come himself, blasting the car heater at full speed with all the vents turned in Tony's direction and bringing pizza—dough still warm, cheese still melty—filched from the night staff.
It hadn't escaped Tony's notice that he hadn't been ordered down to Ducky at some point as he had so many times in the past for far less serious injuries, but he wasn't about to press the issue. He was positive he wasn't relapsing—didn't even make room for that thought in his brain—so it wasn't worth him taking resources away from the bigger picture, especially after Ducky had been abducted.
So he kept his head down and tried not to draw attention away from what was important: Ari. And it was working.
He wasn’t an idiot though: he knew his still healing body needed sleep. With Abby’s futon not an option thanks to the workers Gibbs had gotten Morrow (or Shepard?) to install the new bullet-resistant glass in the lab on only a day’s notice, Autopsy definitely not an option while Kate was… Tony had strung enough cushions together from the break room to form a futon of sorts. That scant amount of sleep, plus a blister pack of extra-strength cold meds dropped on his desk with a steaming hot tea by McGee, followed by a steaming shower in the locker room seemed to have done him a world of good. He was just coughing from irritation now, no longer hacking up water or worse, manageable with cough drops—though if Tony had to be honest, if he never smelled menthol again, it would be too soon. But it had mitigated his symptoms enough to keep doing his job.
And then, just like that, it was over? Gibbs and Jenny (The Director? Out on a mission? With a terrorist on the loose? That was stretching it, even for Gibbs) shot Esfiri and apparently that was the end of it because they were allowed to go home. Well, Director had ordered it, Gibbs had okayed it without a fight. Maybe he believed her, but Tony could tell from his face that he didn’t. He just didn’t know what they were going to do about it. Gibbs was as stony-faced and closed off as ever, and if Tony was being honest, he was too tired to put up a fight.
Tony needed to though, go home, even if it was just for an hour. Get out of the striped button-down that was crinkled and crusty from the rain and sweat and chlorine exposure. Take a puff of his inhaler, maybe one of those fancy pills Brad had prescribed that he didn't take unless absolutely necessary. Let the mask drop, and allow himself really feel for the first time in days. Process. Grieve.
He had somewhere to go first though. His partner—his only remaining partner—needed some backup. Of the emotional kind.
Tony downed the rest of his tea as he walked to the elevator, pointedly not looking at Kate’s desk as he passed, then punched the button to head down to Autopsy.