Work Text:
“Uh, landscape, fruit bowls...” Tony fell silent for a split second. “Boss, you need to pull over.”
“DiNozzo, now is not—”
“Now, Gibbs!”
There was no mistaking the urgency in Tony’s tone, especially after years of working together. This wasn’t one of his jokes; whatever was going on was serious.
Whipping the wheel around and slamming on the brakes, Gibbs screeched the car over to the shoulder. Tony spilled out of the backseat in seconds and immediately began retching into the shoulder.
“DiNozzo…” Gibbs began, momentarily torn how to proceed. On one hand, a little girl’s life was in danger. On the other, his SFA and long-time friend was very clearly ill—an illness that had yet to be determined as natural.
Tony lifted his head from the bushes, face pale, chest heaving, the sight bringing back memories of blue lights and oxygen masks and airlocks Gibbs would just as soon forget.
“Go get Angela,” Tony rasped. “I’m fi—” he broke off as his shoulders heaved forward, throat bobbing. As he turned away from the car, he managed to kick the back door closed, silencing any internal battle Gibbs was facing.
As he pulled back onto the road and floored it to make up the time, Gibbs could tell Ziva was watching him, perhaps second-guessing him, but he didn’t comment and she didn’t raise the issue.
Neither spoke the rest of the way to Angela’s childhood house.
It was only after Ducky and Palmer had arrived, and an ambulance had checked out Angela and her mother, that Gibbs was able to spare a second to check his phone.
Not a single call from DiNozzo.
The churning in his gut ratcheted up as he held the button for the familiar speed dial. It rang once, twice… three… four times before his agent finally picked up.
“Sorry, boss,” Tony said, voice thin and strained. “I really shouldn’t have had that clam chowder.”
“Food poisoning?”
It would be surprisingly mundane for them, but much preferred to another genetically-modified bio weapon.
In lieu of a response, Gibbs heard the far away sounds of Tony retching yet again. He checked his watch. It had been over forty minutes since they’d left Tony on the side of the road; for him to still be throwing up, even if there were on-spells and off-spells, wasn’t good.
“DiNozzo!”
He waited a long fifteen seconds before Tony came back on the line.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Ducky is coming back for you. He’s going to take you to the ER.” Gibbs didn’t give Tony time to respond before adding, “I’ll spell him once I’m done here.”
Then he waited, receiving only silence where there should have been protest.
“Tony!”
“’m not gonna argue with you this time, boss,” Tony finally rasped out.
Gibbs turned on his heel in a second, all but sprinting toward Ducky while ordering Tony to stay on the line.
Less than an hour later, Gibbs stormed into the ER, flashed his badge at the front desk, and was promptly pointed toward Tony’s curtained off area. The fact he wasn’t in a room seemed to indicate it wasn’t anything more severe than food poisoning, but Gibbs was reserving judgement until he’d heard a full report from Ducky.
He yanked back the curtain, finding Tony curled up in a hospital bed, clutching what looked like a small trash can to his chest. He was pale and sweating, hair stuck up at all angles, and it was only when Gibbs looked harder that he spotted the IV in the back of Tony’s left hand.
“Hey boss,” Tony said weakly, shortly before burying his head deeper into the trash can.
Ducky, who had been sitting to Tony’s right, was on his feet in an instant, rubbing his hand up and down Tony’s back while the agent heaved into the trash can.
Gibbs quickly went to Tony’s other side, his hand sliding into rhythm with Ducky’s.
“Thought the IV in his hand would help with this,” he growled.
“They were worried about how his body would take the meds, given his rather unorthodox medical history,” Ducky replied thinly. “Giving that he’s still vomiting, I believe they need to increase the dosage.”
Gibbs looked over Tony’s shoulder at Ducky, who nodded as he stepped away. “I will go find someone.”
The fact that Tony didn’t comment on that either had Gibbs more worried than he’d care to admit.
Eventually, Tony straightened up slightly and spat into the can. “Angela?” he gasped, barely audible.
“Safe and sound with her mother.”
“Norvell?”
Gibbs remained silent, knowing Tony would work it out for himself.
Even sick, it didn’t take Tony long. With a brief nod of understanding, Tony let himself slump back into the tilted-up head of the hospital bed, bringing the lined bucket with him. Gibbs couldn’t help but notice how utterly miserable his agent looked, face lined with an exhaustion that wasn’t entirely due to his illness.
They had been burning the proverbial candle at both ends since… well, Rivkin, if Gibbs was being honest. He could only guess how many sleepless nights Tony had endured coming up with a plan to get Ziva back, or, and probably and, second-guessing every minute of that night and the ones leading up to her asking Gibbs to choose. Then there had been the rat race as a three-man team, Somalia and an assortment of sick leave in various quantities, followed by Franks, Ziva’s recovery, Lee Kai. The power outage. Looking at Tony now, it was clear how much they all needed a break—a lull in cases, an uninterrupted weekend off. Might explain why his SFA was acting more off-kilter than usual the past few weeks.
“Sorry, boss,” Tony said, without opening his eyes. “I thought it’d be okay because it was on ice, but I guess not.”
“What do I say about apologies?”
One corner of Tony’s mouth lifted. “I think this one is earned. What if you had needed me?”
“Thankful we didn’t.”
Tony nodded, then winced, his jaw tightening and his throat working. Recognizing the signs, Gibbs pushed the trash can closer, but Tony shook his head.
“Nothing left to throw up,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Seen more food than I ate the past week.”
Not sure of what else to do, Gibbs let his hand rest over Tony’s, rubbing small circles the way Kelly had liked, while turning to face the center aisle of the triage room. “Where the hell is Ducky?”
“Right here, Jethro.” Ducky stepped through the curtain from the other direction, followed by a blond nurse who couldn’t be any older than his early twenties. Thankfully, he came wielding a syringe, which he slowly injected into Tony’s IV while carrying a one-sided conversation about the holidays and the variety of folks they’d seen in here tonight, Tony and his food poisoning not even registering as close to the most unique case.
Slowly, the lines of tension disappeared from around Tony’s eyes and by the time the syringe was empty, he had slacked into the bed.
“Better?” Ducky asked.
Tony dipped his head ever so slightly. Then, his nose curled up and he slowly opened his eyes, pushing the trash can down to the end of the bed with a sheepish expression. “Don’t suppose someone could take care of this before it sets me off again?”
“Sure thing, Agent DiNozzo,” the nurse said chipperly as he grabbed the trash can. He set it on the floor in the far corner then did a quick vitals check. “I’ll get it all cleaned out, and be back with another bag of saline.”
Tony opened his mouth but the nurse, clearly assuming the worst, didn’t let him speak. As if a switch had been flicked, his goodwill and chipper holiday attitude vaporized, loose smile replaced by a stern expression.
“Thanksgiving or not, you just stopped vomiting four minutes ago, so I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, are you, Agent DiNozzo?” The nurse didn’t wait for Tony to respond before continuing. “You’re dehydrated, you’re shaking, I bet you couldn’t get out of this bed if you wanted to.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bet on that,” Gibbs interjected with a knowing smirk.
Tony smiled weakly yet gratefully, but the nurse was not amused, fixing Gibbs with sidelong glance of disapproval. “Regardless, you’re here until that cocktail of drugs in your system wears off, and you have some color back in your skin. Preferably until you’ve had enough saline to urinate again.” He glanced between the two NCIS agents. “I assume that’s alright with both of you?”
“He’s here until you say he’s ready to go,” Gibbs said. He didn’t bother to look over at Tony, knowing what expression he’d find on his agent's face.
The nurse nodded then excused himself.
The second the curtain zipped closed, Gibbs braced himself for a fight, but a minute later, there was nothing but silence from Tony’s bed.
He finally looked over at his agent and read… nothing… on his face.
“No argument?” he finally asked.
Tony lifted one shoulder and let out a long breath. “To be honest boss, I feel pretty shitty, and since I don’t think you’d lie to me about us having gotten the guy and Angela being safe, my paperwork should keep for another hour?” Almost immediately, he winced then pushed himself up slightly, jaw and shoulders set. “I mean, I can rally though, if we have another case or something.”
He was almost challenging Gibbs to say he couldn’t do it, but his bravado was belied by the sweat lining his brow, the harsh pant to his breaths and the pasty color of his skin, signs Gibbs was still all too familiar with five years later.
He shook his head, resting his hand on Tony’s. “No, no new case. You rest up here, take the night. We’ll all report tomorrow at ten to start the paperwork.”
“I don’t need that much special treatment, boss. I can be in at seven like usual.”
Gibbs shook his head. “We can only run on fumes for so long. We have a break, we need to take it. All of us.”
Tony frowned. “So you’re not going to be hiding from Ducky in case he drives by tonight to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner?”
As Gibbs grinned and shrugged, he was hit with a wave of nostalgia. It had been a long time since they’d had a conversation like this, just the two of them, without biting comments or jokes or other forms of deflection. He wasn’t sure when they’d gotten away from it, but he hadn’t realized he’d missed it until just then.
As if on cue, his phone chose that moment to ring and he glanced semi-apologetically at Tony as he answered.
“Yeah, Gibbs.”
“How is our boy doing?”
It was a testament to the realization of just how worn out they all were that Gibbs only then realized Ducky was no longer around.
“They want to keep him an eye on him for a little longer.”
“As I suspected, which is why I opted to head back to autopsy. Mr. Palmer has already started his preliminary investigation—”
“It can wait, Duck.”
If it was possible to hear someone blink over the phone, Gibbs would have heard Ducky at this very moment.
“Excuse me?”
“It. Can. Wait. Go home, both of you. Get some rest.”
“Are you sure, Jethro? It won’t take more than a few hours.”
“There’s no doubt what killed the dirtbag, Duck. It’ll keep ‘til tomorrow.” Remembering what Angela had been tasked with doing at Ducky’s earlier, Gibbs added, “Besides, don’t you have a bird to cook?”
“With young Anthony in the Emergency Room, I assume I won’t get much attendance tonight.”
There was probably some truth to that, Gibbs thought as Ducky trailed off. If Abby hadn’t already heard the news from Ziva and McGee, she would certainly hear it from Palmer and would be over here as fast as her hearse allowed. The rest of his team, well Gibbs had assured they didn’t have any plans, but even he knew a turkey took hours to cook, making a dinner yet tonight very unlikely.
“Jethro,” Ducky began slowly, “it would be most unorthodox, but since the turkey has already been prepared and it’s far too much food for just myself, I’d like to extend your recent generosity even further and celebrate tomorrow with a Thanksgiving brunch. That is, if you’d all be able to come?”
“Turkey for breakfast, Duck?” Out of the corner of one eye, Gibbs saw Tony gag and moved as far away as the curtains allowed, vowing to keep the food talk to a minimum, especially while the trash can was nowhere in sight.
“As I said, most unorthodox. But our only option, considering you might catch another case tomorrow afternoon.” Ducky then added, “I do hope Director Vance would understand, given how you all worked today. If not, I know a few people in HR who are very serious about their employees taking all of their holiday hours.”
“Crime never sleeps, Duck.”
“But its fighters do.”
Gibbs took another searching look at Tony, who had settled enough to appear to be dozing, though Gibbs had no doubt he was listening intently to the call. He honed in on the bags under Tony’s eyes, large enough to merit their own zip code.
He’d already decided they’d be in at ten tomorrow, what was a few more hours? “Yeah, Duck. I think we can swing that.”
“Wonderful. Nine o’clock tomorrow then. I will make a soup for Anthony since he probably won’t be ready for solid foods yet. And, Jethro?”
“Yeah, Duck?”
“Don’t forget the bread!”
Ducky hung up then, leaving Gibbs muttering about Thanksgiving traditions under his breath while he settled into the seat beside Tony, noting exactly when his agent pretended to stir back into consciousness.
“I think the bad chowder messed up my ears,” Tony rasped out, eyes still closed. “I thought I heard you say you were going to Ducky’s Thanksgiving dinner. For breakfast.”
“I am. With bread. Assuming there’s any left in the store.”
Tony cracked open one eye. “I think you need to head slap me, boss. I think I’m stuck in some sort of It’s A Wonderful Life scenario.”
“That’s Christmas.”
Tony quirked an eyebrow but didn't otherwise respond.
“If you don’t stop lookin’ at me like that,” Gibbs spoke up after a long beat of silence, “I’ll make sure it’s two bags of saline and an overnight stay.”
Tony just grinned as he looked back at the ceiling and let his eye drift closed. “And Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ heart grew three sizes that day,” he mumbled, just loud enough to make sure Gibbs heard.
“That head slap still on the table?”
As Tony's smile only grew, Gibbs was again reminded of how long it had been since he'd seen Tony look this relaxed and act like his old self. If only there had been a way to bring this about without another hospital visit...
“Happy Thanksgiving, boss,” Tony said drowsily, pulling him from his thoughts.
Gibbs reclined as much as he could in the plastic chair, feeling his ribs crack over the top of the slightly bent back rest, before crossing his hands over his chest, extending his legs, and resigning himself to what was undoubtedly going to be a very long wait. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Tony.”