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In hindsight, Tim should have known something was wrong with Tony a lot earlier. He’d barely said anything on the drive to go interview their suspect, hadn’t complained about Tim’s choice in music, and had hardly acknowledged the college student who had whipped through the intersection ahead of them through what had to have been a red light.
But Tim, in a bad mood from Tony superglueing his fingers to his keyboard yet again, hadn’t noticed. In fact, he hadn’t noticed Tony’s face turning steadfastly redder while interviewing Ms. Danvers, how he’d started sweating profusely, or how Tony had let him take lead without argument either.
It wasn’t until he was at the car that he realized his mistake. Tony wasn’t behind him exclaiming it was always the wife; in fact, he was yards away staggering unevenly and staring blankly at the ground.
“Tony?” Tim had asked, seconds before Tony stumbled.
Tim was moving then, sprinting toward his partner, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch Tony after his eyes rolled up into his head and his knees gave out.
“Oh God!” Tim swore, dropping to the asphalt beside his partner, ignoring the gravel shredding the knees of his dress pants.
He jabbed a finger into the side of Tony’s throat—pulse there, lightning fast—and only then noticed the red, the heat. Whatever was wrong with him, Tony was running a fever, and a pretty bad one at that.
Call 911, McIdiot!
Right.
He fumbled for his phone, putting it on speaker as he undid the buttons on Tony’s shirt, looking for some sort of injury.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Federal agent down on Lankersham and Magnolia,” Tim reported before rattling off his badge number and credentials. “Pulse is fast.” He snapped his fingers a few times in tempo, then continued, “and he’s running a fever.”
“Any obvious signs of trauma?”
Tim threw the halves of Tony’s shirt aside, finding nothing but unmarred skin. “No.” He ran his hands down Tony’s arms and legs, finding no broken bones either. “But he probably hit his head when he collapsed.”
“Was he exhibiting any symptoms before he collapsed?”
“Just the flush and fever.”
“No cough or other signs of flu?”
“No.” Then, “Are you sending someone?”
“They’re already on their way, Agent McGee. Do you want me to stay on the line until they get there?”
Tim looked down at Tony, who had yet to stir, but was still breathing steadily. “No, we’ll be fine.”
“They should be there in a few moments then.”
“Thanks,” Tim said before ending the call. He wanted to prop Tony’s head up on his jacket to make him more comfortable, but since it was likely Tony had hit his head when he'd fallen, Tim didn’t want to make any potential fractures worse. So he just dropped onto his ass beside Tony and took his hand. “Hang in there,” he said, in what he hoped was a comforting, not-at-all panicked tone. “Cos if you die, Gibbs will have my—”
Gibbs.
He was more frantic now, dialling with his free hand.
“What’d you find out, McGee?”
“Boss, it’s Tony.”
There was a metallic screech, a chair being pushed back. “What happened?” Gibbs demanded.
“I don’t know. He was fine during the interview but he collapsed on the way to the car.”
“Breathing?”
“Yeah. Flush and feverish.”
“Did you—”
“Call 911? Yeah.” Tim checked his watch. “In fact they should be here pretty—” He trailed off as he heard the sound of sirens. “They’re actually here now.”
“Have them take him to Bethesda. I’ll meet you there.”
Gibbs hung up then, before Tim could, given that he was now swarmed by emergency personnel.
Tony didn’t remember passing out but he sure as hell remembered waking up. Actually, that was too kind a word for it: agony was ripping through his abdomen, stealing his breath, yanking him forcibly back into consciousness.
“Hold on, Anthony,” a soft British voice said. He heard a beeping then the pain began to dissipate, the vice around his ribs evaporating. Soon, he was able to breathe again, both in and out—Ducky said that was important.
Exhausted, he slumped back against the pillow. “’hanks.”
“You’re most welcome.”
The pull of the painkillers was strong, siren-like, but Tony fought against it. “Happened?” he asked, now able to recognize that was at a hospital on smell alone.
“You don’t remember?” Ducky asked, in surprise.
With an equally Herculean effort, Tony forced open his eyes to see an unusually disheveled ME at his bedside.
He shook his head, promptly winced.
“That would be the knock you took when you collapsed outside of Ms. Danvers' home,” Ducky said sympathetically.
“I collapsed?”
“Your appendix burst.”
The words were slow to register but when they did, Tony blinked once, twice. “It did?”
“It did,” Ducky confirmed. “You were nearly septic by the time the paramedics brought you in here.”
“Septic?” Tony repeated in disbelief.
Ducky nodded, then looked critically at Tony, who fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. “Anthony, do you mean to say you had no idea you were ill?”
It was floating back to him now, in bits and pieces. “I mean, I wasn’t feeling super great over the weekend,” Tony admitted. “But I thought it was a stomach bug, then Sunday night, I felt so much better—”
“That was most likely your body feeling relief after your appendix actually burst, before the infection set in.” Ducky shook his head. “You’re incredibly lucky, dear boy. Incredibly lucky indeed.”
“I’m gonna be okay though, right?” Tony asked hesitantly.
“The antibiotics seem to be helping. Your last blood draw showed very promising numbers and the fact that you’re awake and coherent seems to lend itself to the belief that we’re winning the war.”
Tony should have asked more questions about that, but found himself asking this more pressing one instead: “Does Gibbs know?”
“Of course he does, Anthony. He hasn’t left your side for most of past three days.”
A warmth washed through Tony, quickly eclipsed by Ducky’s last few words. “Three days?” he parroted.
Ducky nodded. “If I may be so bold to repeat my sentiments about you being incredibly lucky…”
Tony nodded, then groaned. “Is he mad?” he asked, feeling all of five-years old.
“Should he be?”
Tony shook his head, this time much more slowly. “I didn’t know it was that bad, Ducky. Honest.” He sobered even more, pleading for Ducky to believe him. “I don’t fuck around with infections, Ducky, especially when they’re so close to my lungs. I would have gone in for that.”
Nodding, Ducky reached out and took his hand, squeezing comfortably. “Then you will be fine.”
Tony sincerely hoped so.
“Where is he?” he then asked.
“Director Vance made him come in for a status update.” Ducky checked his pocket watch. “I believe he should be back relatively soon.”
“How about now?”
“Boss!” Tony shot upright in bed, then doubled over as pain ripped through his lower right side.
Ducky and Gibbs were talking, but the individual words washed over him, his brain unable to take in anything but the lighting shooting through his side. Hands were on his back rubbing, something cold washed down his arm.
Then he could breathe again. And he did, greedily gulping down air.
“That was stupid,” Gibbs said, eyeing him critically.
Not yet able to speak, Tony just nodded.
They were staring at him though, waiting, so he summoned a long breath then forced out a quick, “Surprised me.”
“Me as well,” Ducky added. “Jethro, would it kill you to knock?”
Gibbs didn’t answer, his eyes still locked on Tony. “You okay?”
“Like in general or right now?” Tony rasped, fully aware his heart was still racing.
As Gibbs' glare increased in severity, Tony felt one corner of his mouth creeping up. “Ducky says I’ll be fine.”
Gibbs looked over at Ducky who nodded. “I am cautiously optimistic, more and more with each passing hour, especially now that he’s regained consciousness.”
“His head?”
“Jethro, he’s only been awake for a few minutes. They haven’t had time to perform a concussion test yet.”
“Don’t have one,” Tony interjected. “Head doesn’t hurt at all.”
“That would be the painkillers talking, my dear boy.”
It wasn’t because they were only taking the edge off the pain in his side. It was still throbbing dully with every breath, every movement, every shift. His head, however, didn’t ache at all. But Tony wasn’t going to start an argument about that, not with the already high tension in the room.
“Boss, I—” he began before his gut could knot anew.
“Did you know?”
Tony shook his head. “I thought it was a stomach bug.”
“A stomach bug?!”
Tony felt himself shrinking against Gibbs’ gaze, so he shifted his shoulders back and forced himself to sit straighter. “I was fit for duty yesterday, er… Monday.”
“You had an army of bacteria flooding your bloodstream. You were far from fit for duty.”
Tony bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. “I didn’t know,” he repeated.
Gibbs’ expression softened ever so slightly. Tony wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to take away from that, but it felt like a good thing.
His boss then sat down beside him, eyes not leaving the monitors above his head as he addressed Ducky. “Have you told McGee?”
“Not yet. The poor lad would probably like to hear from Anthony himself, given that he collapsed in front of him.”
Tony bit back a groan. “In front of McGee?”
Gibbs nodded. “He’s been worried sick about you.”
“And rightly so,” Ducky chimed in, twisting the metaphorical knife in Tony’s stomach.
“I didn’t—” he began to protest but was cut off by Gibbs.
“Maybe you could go call him, Ducky?” Gibbs suggested in that way that didn’t really make it seem like a suggestion.
Ducky nodded. “As long as you promise to leave the boy alive, Jethro. McGee would be most sad to hear the good news only to find you murdered him.”
“Not gonna murder him, Duck. We’re just gonna talk.”
Ducky tsked. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Gibbs, I—” Tony began the second Ducky had left the room, but Gibbs was already speaking. “What happened over the weekend?”
“Gibbs—”
“What happened. Over the weekend?” Gibbs repeated, his tone razor-thin.
“I thought it was the stomach flu. Ran a fever, threw up a couple times. Started feeling better Sunday afternoon and woke up fine Monday.”
“You weren’t fine.”
Tony let out a breath. Made himself count to three. “I know that now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re not hearing me. I didn’t—”
“About the stomach flu.”
Oh.
“Contrary to Ducky’s statements, I’m not actually a small boy or a lad. I can take care of myself. Besides, if it was an actual stomach flu, I didn’t want anyone else to catch it.”
“I would have come anyway.”
Tony’s eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “To clean my puke off the bathroom floor?”
Gibbs shrugged. “If that would have helped.”
“I would have had to quit,” Tony said, knowing he’d never be able to look his boss in the eye after that. It was bad enough with the plague and the coughing and general weakness, but vomit and other bodily fluids were too much, even for him. “Really, boss, I could never ask that of you.”
“I know. You didn’t.”
The words were again sharp and biting, laced with accusation. Tony felt frustration lance through him but fought equally hard to keep his composure, knowing he wouldn’t be able to follow Gibbs out to fix this if he pushed his boss away.
“Are you upset I’m sick or upset that I didn’t tell you?”
“Both.”
Tony opened his mouth to retort but Gibbs wasn’t finished. “You could have died, Tony. You were in ICU, losing the fight to the infection. We weren’t allowed to visit. It was…” he trailed off, but Tony heard the words he couldn’t say.
Like last time.
The air lock. The lights. The blue.
He didn’t remember any of it this time. Maybe he was lucky in that regard.
“Gibbs…”
His boss pursed his lips, shook his head. “You tell me next time,” he said, voice ragged. “I won’t come over unless you want me to, but I have to know.”
“Okay.” The word tumbled out of Tony's mouth almost without his conscious effort. “I can do that.” He swallowed hard, forced away the lump forming in his throat. “Ducky said I’m gonna be fine though.”
“You’d better. Or I might actually murder you myself.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tony felt himself grinning.
“McGee’s okay though, right?” he then asked. “I didn’t leave him in the middle of a shootout or anything?”
Gibbs shook his head. “Just a witness statement. Though the way he’d been worried, you should probably not put superglue on his keyboard for a while.”
“How else will he know I care about him?”
Gibbs shot him a look.
“Dialing back the team bonding. Copy that.” Tony let out a breath, summoned what was sure to be the last of his strength for a little while, and made himself look directly at Gibbs. “We good, boss?”
Gibbs didn’t answer right away, causing Tony’s heart to sink.
“Boss—”
“You scared us, Tony. It’s going to take more than just this conversation to get my heart back into sinus rhythm.” He reached out and grabbed Tony’s hand. “But we can get there.”
Tony’s hand was flipped over, his phone pressed into it. “You should call McGee though. Let him know you’re okay.”
“I thought Ducky—”
“—is probably boring him to death with the medical part of it. I’m sure he’d rather hear it from you.”
“Okay.” Tony grabbed the phone, flicked it on. He paused then, his finger hovering over McGee’s speed dial. “I swear I didn’t know it was that bad, Gibbs.”
“I believe you.” The hand on his tightened for the briefest of seconds. “Call McGee,” Gibbs then repeated.
“On it, boss.”