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Gibbs had just gotten off the phone with Ducky when Tony walked into the bullpen. Even though it had been weeks since his bout with the plague, Tony’s suit hung around his frame, his belt cinched too tight, and on any given day, Gibbs was about two seconds away from shoving Tony’s favorite candy bar down his throat just so he consumed more calories.
Today though, Tony’s normally impeccable suit was dusty and rumpled and he was forcibly hauling their suspect—an equally disheveled and now cuffed John Dansfield—beside him. Gibbs didn’t even have a chance to ask what had happened before Tony parked himself and Dansfield in front of Gibbs’ desk.
“Can you take him to interrogation?” Tony asked, his voice strained and thin.
“Every—”
“Please.”
Gibbs nodded, immediately standing and grabbing Dansfield’s arm. Tony barely spared a second to return it before he hustled out of the bullpen… to the men’s head, if Gibbs had to guess by the sound.
Dansfield’s mouth flew open but Gibbs shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
As he grabbed Dansfield’s shoulder for additional leverage and led him to interrogation, Gibbs wondered where the hell McGee was. If it had been serious, Tony would have said something, which meant Tony had willingly left McGee at the scene… perhaps in light of new evidence?
There was only one way to find out. After setting Dansfield up under the watchful eye of Hardison, one of the better interrogation room techs, Gibbs called McGee as he headed back to the bullpen, noting neither Tony nor his gear was at his desk.
“What the hell happened?”
He could hear McGee wince on the other end of the line.
“Dansfield ran. Tony pursued. And then…”
“And then what, McGee?”
“I’m pretty sure Dansfield sneezed on him, boss.”
Gibbs swore under his breath then made a turn toward the elevator, bypassing Ziva who was returning from her own assignment.
“Anything there?” he asked McGee.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe?”
“I—I’m not sure. There’s a computer, some papers. I could use the van, boss.”
Gibbs snapped his fingers, instantly garnering Ziva’s attention. “Get the MCRT van and meet McGee at Dansfield’s.”
“Everything alright?” she asked as she slung her backpack high on her shoulder.
Gibbs didn’t respond, all but punching the down button on the elevator, which showed up almost immediately.
“She’s on her way,” he informed McGee before ending the call.
“Gibbs—” Ziva tried to say through the closing metal doors, but he just shot her a look which thankfully, ended her line of questioning.
He had something else he needed to take care of first.
A * A
Tony hovered outside of autopsy for about ten seconds. He would have waited for longer, but he knew he was on the clock. It was only a matter of time before Gibbs called McGee and found out, and inevitably hurried down here.
Time had all but stopped when he’d felt the drops land on his face, and he was back in that room with those lights, fighting for every breath.
Conversations with Dr. Pitt about scarred lungs and a compromised immune system.
Being easily susceptible.
Being careful.
Not being a hero.
Six weeks out, he knew he was better; he wasn’t struggling to breathe as much and food was starting to have taste again. Even chasing Dansfield had felt surprisingly normal. Until it hadn’t.
He knew he was probably overreacting—it was just a sneeze—but it was the first time since… and okay, dammit, he was a little scared.
He’d already scrubbed the shit out of his face and neck in the head, then his hands too for the hell of it. Taken a puff of his inhaler. Ran through his least favorite breathing exercises. Hoped any of it would do some good.
He checked his watch, groaned as he realized another minute had passed, then stepped into the sensor for the automatic doors.
“Anthony!” Ducky crooned as he looked up from his paperwork. “What brings you down here?”
There was unfortunately no time for formalities or deflection.
“A suspect sneezed on me.”
“And?” Realization washed over Ducky’s face an instant later. “Oh. I assume he or she is sick. Do you know what they have?”
Tony shook his head, biting at his lip. “I’m overreacting, right?” he asked, fully aware his voice was higher than it should have been.
Ducky was on his feet and over by Tony in an instant. “Most likely, my dear boy,” he said, resting his hands reassuringly on Tony’s shoulders. “But with your lungs, it never hurts to be too careful.”
Tony heard the doors slide open behind him and forced himself to turn around. He couldn’t though make himself to meet Gibbs’ expression, not ready to see whatever lay there.
“Sorry, boss,” he said softly, staring intently at the floor. “I just—”
Another hand was on his shoulder, squeezing. You don’t have to explain, it seemed to say.
“What’s the plan, Duck?” Gibbs asked, and while going on about his friend from boarding school who had contracted the most unique symptoms, Ducky pushed Tony onto an autopsy table for an evaluation.
Thankfully, that scare had turned into nothing. Tony’s immune system was better than he was expecting—go it!—but he knew it wasn’t perfect. He was still a human. He’d get sick eventually, despite all his precautions.
And yet, he refused to stop living his life, so when he got the email about volunteering at the free basketball clinic at the Y this weekend, he couldn’t say no.
None of the rugrats had even been exhibiting symptoms, but within the hour after the clinic ended, Tony felt the pressure under his eyes, the ache in his temples, and knew this was it.
It had been a few months now, but that didn’t make the flashbacks any less terrifying: the way he struggled to pull in even the smallest of breaths, even with the oxygen mask flowing fully. The screeches of the monitors. The vice around his ribs.
He couldn’t go back there. He couldn’t do that again.
So he took his cold meds and his inhaler but didn’t call Ducky—or Gibbs—because it was just. a. cold.
And if he didn’t sleep all night, worried his heart would stop, or he’d choke to death on his own mucus, that was no one’s business but his own.
“You did what?” Gibbs snapped as he hauled Tony down to autopsy.
Tony didn’t repeat himself. He knew Gibbs had heard—after all, it was his eyesight that was going, not his hearing.
He also wasn’t going to apologize for trying to get back a sense of normalcy, even if this was the outcome—okay, if this turned into pneumonia and another hospital stay, maybe he’d reevaluate that, but a simple cold? The day was bound to come, and honestly, Tony was kinda glad it was sooner rather than later just to have it under his belt to see how his body reacted. Besides, any other day, any other time, he’d still have come to work and done his job and not had to face the Spanish Inquisition from everyone he ran into on the way in.
He was not about to tell any of that to Gibbs, though, given that the man was glaring at the elevator doors so intently Tony was worried he’d bore a hole in them.
They rode in silence, Gibbs not saying another word until he all but shoved Tony through the autopsy doors.
“He coached at the Y, Duck,” he announced to the unfortunately empty room.
Scowling harder, Gibbs let go of Tony long enough to head toward the office, practically steamrolling Ducky who was headed back in with a cup of tea in hand.
“Jethro, what—”
As if on cue, Tony sneezed, the sound echoing in the empty space.
“Oh, Anthony, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Ducky asked as he put his tea down on his desk and gently pushed Tony onto the autopsy table.
“’s just a cold,” he said thickly as a blanket was wrapped around his shoulder and a pulse ox clipped to his finger.
Then, the back of Ducky’s hand was on his forehead. “I’ll be the judge of that, my dear boy.”
“Can’t be scientific,” Tony mumbled, refusing to cower when Gibbs fixed him with his scathing look.
Ducky must have felt it as well, since he politely asked if Gibbs would wait outside.
“No,” was the answer. Short, clipped, and daring Ducky to ask him again.
The ME shrugged then tapped Tony’s cheek and fixed him with a reassuring smile before disappearing back into the office.
Tony knew he had about thirty seconds at very most, so he cleared his throat hard and looked at his boss. “Didn’t want to be a bubble boy,” he said, the words all leaving in a huff.
“What?”
“Travolta. ’76. Kid with no immune system has to go around in a bubble then a space suit just to be social.” He clutched the blanket Ducky had given him tighter around his neck then said, “I just want to be normal again.”
The harsh edge to Gibbs’ glare softened slightly.
“Was gonna get sick eventually,” Tony was quick to continue before Gibbs did something more drastic like fire him. “Better now than later.”
“No,” Gibbs said, shaking his head. “Later, or never, would have been better.”
“But now we know.” Tony felt himself kicking at the bottom ledge of the autopsy table, his long legs not able to touch the ground. “Good or bad.”
There was a pause, then Gibbs stepped closer. “You’re going to be fine, Tony, you hear me?” he said gently, a tone Tony normally despised, but today found he didn’t mind so much.
He didn’t respond until a head slap jerked him upright.
“I hear ya, boss,” he said, reserving judgement on the ‘believing’ part of it until Ducky was back.
Before Tony knew it, Gibbs was sitting next to him on the autopsy table, close enough that their shoulders were touching.
“No, Gibbs!” Tony tried valiantly to scoot away before a coughing fit overtook him. A bottle of water was shoved into his hands, and he felt the tug of something by his waist. It was only when he could both inhale and exhale without seeing spots that he realized it was Gibbs’ finger in his belt loop, keeping him in arm’s length.
“What if I’m—”
“You’re not.”
He said it so confidently, without an inch of doubt, that a more naïve person would have believed him. Tony, who had been down this path before, still wasn’t sure.
Thankfully, he didn’t need to say anything as Ducky walked back in and began to insist Gibbs sit six feet away until they knew for sure what Tony had.
Gibbs just stared flatly and silently until Ducky stopped asking and returned to examining Tony.
One hour later, when Tony had been poked and prodded within an inch of his life, he was dispatched to Abby’s lab. Only a strongly worded reminder from Ducky about their current case and the Petty Officer’s family looking for closure kept Gibbs from following.
The throbbing in Tony’s head kicked up a few notches as he stepped off the elevator, but he didn’t stop, having learned time and time again that his ears weren’t actually going to adjust to the music blaring from Abby’s lab and that waiting in the hall for them to do so was an exercise in futility.
He gripped the vial in his hand more tightly, then stepped inside, screwing his eyes closed against the assault of sound.
“Abby?” he shouted thickly, sniffling in the wake of the cold meds he’d downed earlier wearing off.
He heard the pneumatic slide of the door, meaning she was in the other room, then a panicked, “Why are you wearing a mask?”
He wanted to respond, he really did, but the gunk running down the back of his throat had other plans. He was coughing again, harsh and jagged, every nerve ending in his chest on fire.
“TONY!” Abby was screeching, but he barely heard her. Panic washed over him as he couldn’t bring in air—those fucking blue lights—then her hand thumped into his lower ribs, right where he needed it.
The wad flew into his mouth, making him gag anew, but thankfully Abby had many trash cans in easy reach so he was able to lift his mask and spit it out before it made him puke.
“It's just that… they’re terribly comfortable,” he wheezed, gripping the side of Abby’s table for support as his heart raced and chest ached.
“What?”
“Masks.” Tony cleared his throat, pulled in a shaky breath then continued, “I think everyone… ’ll be wearing them in the future."
The swat to his shoulder wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was way gentler than it could have been.
“This is so not the time,” Abby said, letting out an uneven breath of her own.
“Sorry.”
She punched him again, this time more gently, seconds before the music in the lab cut out.
Tony made himself open his eyes to find her on the other end of the table, eyes wide in fear. “So you’re sick…” she began, her voice cracking mid-word.
“Seems that way.”
“Like normal sick or…”
He held out a vial, which, thankfully, he hadn’t crushed during his coughing jag. “Ducky wants you to run this for me. Please.”
She pulled on gloves and took it, spinning over toward her machines and doing things with his blood that Tony still didn’t understand even after four years of observing.
“How long have you been sick?” she called over her shoulder.
He didn’t want to answer, but he knew she’d know if he was lying to her. “Three days,” he admitted.
The glare she fixed him with was almost worse than Gibbs’.
“Was my phone broken?”
“Didn’t want to get you sick,” he countered.
“My immune system is much better than yours, buster. I could have made you soup and watched movies with you and wound you up when you started ranting about how they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
“I do not rant,” Tony retorted instinctively, while his brain was stuck on the fact that Abby seemed legitimately sad, like that was something she was really looking forward to. They had done that once after the club, a year or so back. Tony hadn’t realized she’d enjoyed it that much…
Fortunately/unfortunately, he could remedy that soon.
“Good chance… Gibbs sends me home. So tonight?” he asked. Assuming it was just a cold and nothing something more contagious.
Abby’s face lit up.
“You’re on!” She snapped her gloves off, discarded them, then disappeared to the back room, dragging out the futon and settling it under her fridge.
“Down,” she ordered, pointing.
“Sit and stay too?” Tony quipped, fighting again for the normalcy despite the pressure building in his face, the ringing in his ears.
He didn’t want to lay down, to show the proverbial weakness, but unless he did as Abby ordered, there was a good chance he’d be sent back to Ducky, or worse, Gibbs, for more than just an examination.
So he lowered himself to the futon, grinning when something came to rest by his head with a farting sound.
Tony pulled Bert into his chest, ignoring the memories that were creeping back in of the last time he’d been here, or who had still been on the team.
He squeezed Bert tighter, pushed away those intrusive thoughts on the winds of the flatulence.
“You got any Sinatra?” he asked Abby as he curled up on his side, dry-swallowing some cold tablets he’d stored in his pocket.
She scoffed, but a split second later, Tony heard some float out from the extensive speaker system.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.
“I would never.”
“Rest, Tony,” she added before returning to typing on her keyboard and moving fluidly around her lab.
He didn’t want to, but his eyelids were feeling heavy, despite him being totally wired thirty seconds ago. He fought for awareness long enough to say, “Wake me—”
“When I have the results. Yes. Now rest.”
“I am,” he said around a phlegmy yawn.
The mask itched, his own breath hot on his lower face, but yet, despite that, he found himself drifting off to the dulcet tones of Ol’ Blue Eyes and the watchful eye of his best friend.