Fandom: NCIS " Anchor and Hold " (2/2)
Jun. 26th, 2011 05:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999It was 0430 and Gibbs took advantage of the open roads leading to Bethesda, gunning the accelerator. After staying past midnight at the office, he got three hours of fitful shut-eye before saying 'screw it' and flipped on his coffeemaker. It would be before visiting hours, but he wanted to see DiNozzo before diving back into the case. There weren't any voicemails on his cell, which meant zero new leads. He would have been ticked off about that if the team weren't already dead on their feet.
Three fires. Three warehouses that subcontracted supplies to the Navy. One dead petty officer from the first scene. Each blaze had been carefully orchestrated with accelerants, using several mini fires in precise locations that converged into one.
Like the one at LeBond. Except the arsonist had used the combustible chemicals on-site to ignite and spread the flames. The only reason he and Ziva had gone to the warehouse was because they were in the area when Abby called about a fire alarm in the vicinity.
It'd been DiNozzo's idea to monitor emergency switchboards covering all of the warehouses in the area with off-site security company contracts. With the sluggish economy, many places had cut actual physical guards. If any alarm got triggered, NCIS would know the same moment as the dispatchers.
He rounded the nurses' station, his badge out and up, and ignored the nurse's glare until she buzzed the door open.
His steps hesitated as he passed by other gravely ill patients, anxiety digging a pit in his stomach as he moved closer to curtains surrounding DiNozzo's bed. He hadn't expected three silhouettes standing behind the fabric and was even more surprised to discover one of them was Ducky's.
DiNozzo was pale, almost ashen. Two day's worth of stubble covered his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hair flat and a bit messy. A nurse had to hold him upright while a physician listened to his chest with his stethoscope.
“Give me the deepest breath you can, Tony,” the doctor instructed.
Gasping under the mask, DiNozzo did as he was told and broke into a horrendous fit for air, the nurse having to take on his full weight. Gibbs almost darted inside to give them all hell, but he refrained from tearing everyone a new one. Ducky was there; he wouldn't let any harm come to DiNozzo, and the elder physician painstakingly observed without comment until the coughing fit ended.
“I've got rales in both the upper and lower left lobes.” The doctor spoke to the nurse, but it was possibly for Ducky's ears as well.
The nurse eased DiNozzo back against the bed and plucked a thermometer out of a pocket, placing it in his ear. “Temp's 100.”
Flipping pages to a chart, the doctor made several quick notations before speaking to his patient, eyes flicking toward Ducky occasionally as he spoke. “Tony, yesterday you were taken off the ventilator because I felt your lungs could handle it. You needed mechanical ventilation to help supply your body with oxygen, but if you'd stayed on it for too long, your lungs could have weakened even further. The next forty-eight hours won't be easy. Your bronchi are still filling with fluid so I'm going to put you on Lasix to help relax your respiratory muscles and dilate the blood vessels in your lungs.”
DiNozzo listened, but it was obvious he was too exhausted to follow much of the medical babble.
“I know you're in a lot of discomfort, but other than general achiness, are you experiencing any severe chest pain?”
There was a hesitancy, but DiNozzo shook his head.
“Headache?”
That got a nod.
“That's to be expected with chlorine gas poisoning. We'll see about managing the pain,” the doctor said with a reassuring smile. Then he started rattling off instructions to the nurse. “Keep him on 100 percent oxygen and continue with courses of albuterol via nebulizer every four hours for his bronchospasm. If there are any flare-ups, you can administer a course of salbutamol.” He checked his watch and continued with his list. “He's scheduled for a CT in an hour, and let's do a full screen for PT on his next blood draw. Let me know if his O2 stats drop below 90.” Peering down when his pager went off, he looked over at DiNozzo. “It is very important that you let the staff know if you experience any further types of chest pain or nausea, all right, Tony?”
At DiNozzo's nod, the physician breezed past Gibbs, then stopped. “You're not allowed to—”
Flashing his badge again, Gibbs ignored the eye-roll he received and waited on the outskirts of the curtain. The nurse was speaking to DiNozzo while Ducky snagged the chart at the end of the bed, reading it quickly before walking over.
“You're here early,” Ducky greeted, rubbing a hand over his haggard face. “And without a cup of coffee.”
“Already drank it, but I'm sure we could find you one,” Gibbs answered. “You been here the whole night?”
“I came by after my last autopsy. With the rest of you busy with the case, I didn't want Anthony to be alone.”
“I'm glad you were here.” Casting a quick glance back at the curtain, Gibbs gave his old friend a serious expression. “How is he?”
“Tony is doing as well as can be expected. He's developing a bad case of bronchitis that they're trying to keep from developing into full-fledged pneumonia.”
“And?” Gibbs prompted, knowing there was more to it.
“The latest tests show the possible signs of blood clots in his lungs.” Gibbs' face must have gone white because Ducky grabbed his arm. “If caught in time, it's manageable with medication. The chest x-rays he's scheduled are to rule them out. If there were causes for alarm, Tony would be undergoing an angiogram. They're just being overly cautious.”
Gibbs stood there, jaw clenched.
“I'll get us both a cup of coffee. Why don't you go in?” Ducky suggested, giving Gibbs time and space to decompress.
The nurse finished up and eyed him suspiciously. “Agent DiNozzo needs his rest. Please don't be long.”
Gibbs nodded and walked over. The head of the bed was raised, DiNozzo's chest hitched with every breath, a sheen of sweat beading over his forehead. “Tony?”
Eyes springing open, DiNozzo stared out in confusion before registering his presence. “Boss.... Did you need…get a break in the case? Need me to—”
Gibbs was amazed he understood any of that babble under the muffle of plastic. “What I need you to do is to kick this thing in the teeth and get better.”
“Right.”
Gibbs stood there, listened to loud whistling sounds for air, his anger rose to new levels. It was the damn plague all over again, except this time, it was his fault that Tony was laying there.
“You want me to call your father?”
It was a dumb question. Even a probie knew the answer to that. But he had to ask, even if DiNozzo Senior was a clueless, absentee parent.
“No. Don't.”
He didn't feel like pushing things, unsure of what to say, but Gibbs didn't place much stock in words. Nailing the asshole responsible for this would soften the blow to this whole FUBARed situation.
Another horrendous coughing fit wracked DiNozzo and his whole body listed sideways. Gibbs grabbed him by the shoulders,and kept the younger man from doubling over the railing, feeling the heat emanate off DiNozzo's skin.
“I'm...sorry, Boss.”
“What the hell for?”
Whole body shaking with each breath, DiNozzo rasped something about screwing up.
“Never apologize, you know that. And never ever apologize for something that's not your fault.” Wrapping an arm around DiNozzo's back, he held him steady, allowing his head to rest against Gibbs chest. “You got Ziva and me out of a burning building. Saved our asses. If that's not bravery, I don't know what is.”
“Did you...find...any...new...”
The rest of DiNozzo's words were lost in a heaving fit and Gibbs wished for five minutes alone with that fucking arsonist.
“You need to leave,” a voice instructed. “I've got to wheel him in for a CT.”
DiNozzo mumbled something about missing the other nurse as Gibbs moved away. After being kicked out, he found himself searching for Ducky, wandering aimlessly around the nurse's station.
“Hey,” a woman with short silver hair approached him. “Are you with Agent DiNozzo?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I cover the ICU during the early morning shift.”
He had no clue why she was going at him like a Mother Grizzly Bear, but Gibbs never discounted anything in life. “Is there something you need me to—”
“What I need you to do,” she interrupted, “is to remind your people that this is a hospital. We can't have everyone just barge in here and demand to see a patient.”
Bristling, Gibbs stared at the nurse. “My team--”
“We're stretching the rules for you and the lovely Dr. Mallard, but your other agents have to abide by visiting hours.”
Something ate away at his craw. “What are you talking about?”
Huffing in irritation, she grabbed a chart and a mug of steaming coffee. “The agent who accosted me about seeing Agent DiNozzo a few minutes ago. I told him I just came on shift, and when I saw how many people were overextending their welcome already, I told him he'd have to wait.”
“What. Agent?”
“I didn't catch his name. He was really insistent. I figured he'd been hurt in that fire since he had an injured arm. He wanted me to tell Agent DiNozzo he'd be back to pay his respects.”
Hand on his Sig, Gibbs searched the hall. “Where? Where did this agent go?”
Flustered and pressing a hand to her chest, the nurse backed away two steps. “I don't know. Toward the elevator.”
“Are you sure? Did you see him go in?”
“Um, no. Why? What's this about?”
“Where's CT?” When she stared at him, Gibbs grabbed her elbow. “They took DiNozzo for a CT scan. Where is it?”
“Down the hall over there, tenth door on the right. But you can't go in.”
He yanked his cell phone and hit the speed dial. Gibbs ran down the hall and skidded to a stop at a set of doors that refused to open for him. Eying the locking device, he noticed it required a hospital ID card to slide through. Staring through the glass window, he saw signs for various imaging test rooms.
Ziva answered on the fourth ring but Gibbs didn't let her get a word out. “Grab McGee and both of you get to the hospital. The suspect was here!”
“Is—”
“Now, Ziva. Tony's fine.”
Clicking off, his eyes roamed the hospital. The bastard was had been right here.
But why? What was his endgame?
After sweeping the floor and ensuring that DiNozzo made it back to his bed without incident, Gibbs found Ducky just as McGee and Ziva arrived. Having informed hospital security of a possible situation, they were given a small waiting room on the same level as the ICU to hold a meeting.
“McGee, I want you to pull video feed from all of the security cameras. Ziva—”
“I will re-trace the suspect's steps according to the witness statement and dust for prints,” she answered, her face a mask of chiseled stone.
“Why would the suspect come here?” McGee asked. “He's left no forensic evidence so far. We have no leads to his identity, just a basic profile. And now he shows up to visit Tony?”
“To finish the job?” Ziva speculated. “Thinking Tony could identify him?”
“But he was wearing a mask,” McGee retorted.
“Perhaps it doesn't matter. He could be paranoid,” Ziva countered.
“It could be remorse,” Ducky suggested, all three heads turning toward him in scrutiny. “Arsonists like to watch things burn. Their targets are either political or personal in nature. They set fires out of anger or the need for revenge."
“To seek attention,” Gibbs said, following the line of logic.
“Exactly. They get off on the chaos it creates,” Ducky explained, his face reflecting that contemplative zone he went into when crawling inside someone's head. “They've failed in interpersonal relationships in the family, with friends, in marriage, and in school. For many, arson may be the only thing they have tried in their life that yields relative success."
“Why remorse?” Gibbs prodded.
“Most arsonists do not set off to commit homicide,” Ducky answered.
“Petty Officer Wilson died in the first fire,” Ziva pointed out, not buying the theory.
“But he wasn't supposed to be there,” McGee reminded them. “He stopped by to pick up some paperwork. His death might have been an accident.”
Bingo.
“Find out if the family has had any contact with the suspect,” Gibbs demanded, feeling for the first time that they were onto something. “Phone calls, mail. See if they've had any contact with sympathetic strangers.”
“And Tony?”
Ziva still had that haunted look of guilt, but it was something she needed to shake.
“I want one of us with him twenty-four seven. If this firebug steps foot in this hospital, I want him squashed.” Checking the time, Gibbs was surprised that it was already 0800. “We'll meet back here in an hour.”
“Um, Boss, it'll take me much longer to go over the security footage.”
“Then I suggest that you work fast, McGee,” Gibbs grumbled.
“Where are you going?” Ziva inquired, trying to school her emotions.
But Gibbs could see right through her mask. It was one he wore often.
“Someone needs to tell DiNozzo what's going on.”
Security was posted outside the ICU ward and Gibbs gave them a nod as he walked by. Wandering over to the bed, he found DiNozzo curled up on his side, opening fevered eyes at his approach.
“Hey,” DiNozzo rasped.
Taking a seat in the chair, Gibbs studied his agent's sweat-glistened face and bruised-looking lids. “You okay?”
“Headache....but on the bright side....just sucked on some meds, so I'm cough-free for a bit.” Rubbing at his temples, DiNozzo took a drag on his oxygen mask. “Something...up?”
“The suspect tried to pay you a visit.” Gibbs believed in cutting to the chase. No bullshit. “We're checking the camera feeds. If he comes back, we'll get him.”
“Huh...guess he didn't have enough fun...the first time.”
“We need to know what makes this SOB tick. Are you sure you didn't see anything that could ID him?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he ever hesitate or have second thoughts about leaving you?”
A flash of anger glinted in DiNozzo's eyes before he squeezed them closed. “No.”
Maybe they were barking up the wrong tree with the remorse theory.
Groaning, DiNozzo pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “S'rry...Boss... I...”
“Get some rest, Tony,” Gibbs said, squeezing DiNozzo's shoulder, worried by the heat that still raged beneath the gown.
With another glance at his watch, he headed toward the security office to check McGee's progress, not giving a damn that only twenty minutes had passed since their meeting.
“How are you doin', hon?”
“Better now,” Tony mumbled under the mask as Helen wiped his forehead with a damp cloth.
“Ohhh, are you flirting with me? Doesn't Garcia take good care of you when I'm gone?”
Muttering those few words zapped the rest of his energy, and Tony found himself drifting like he did every five minutes but unable to fall asleep. Not when the entirety of his existence was a constant wheeze, the rest of his body too wrung out to do anything but lay there and shake. Helen dabbed at his cheeks with the sponge as he relished the moisture on his roasting skin.
“If you keep up with this whole fever nonsense, I'm going to have to pull out the cold compresses. Or is that your plan?”
“Busted,” he whispered.
“Your CT results came back clear this morning. There were no signs of blood clots. Dr. Brzezinski was very pleased."
Tony followed Helen's movements with his eyes, since that was the only thing he was capable of doing.
“You thirsty?”
His mouth was bone-dry, and his throat felt like a cheese grater. Nodding, he tried lifting his head, but the movement sent the room spinning. Helen was there, easing a hand behind his neck until Tony rasped 'stop.'
It felt like he was falling, and he was panting when his stomach lurched. After thirty long seconds, he made a noise, and Helen, her hand still supporting his head, moved it a fraction so he could take the offered water.
The liquid was like sweet, sweet heaven. “Thanks.”
Settling against his pillow, he felt like he might melt into the fabric. Tony stared at the ceiling, watched the shadows dance around, his thoughts swirling with them.
“I've got other patients to attend to, hon. I'll be back, but I'm only a call away. And I'm sure your friends are camped right outside as well. If that man tries to show up again, they'll be all over him like butter on toast.”
Forcing his head to one side, he watched her disappear behind the fabric divider, her words stirring something louder and fiercer than his growing misery.
It wasn't a surprise when McGee showed up to take a seat, laptop propped on his knees. The babysitting game had begun.
“Hi...I...hope I didn't wake you. I downloaded all of the security footage to my computer, and Gibbs' been riding me to go over it all. I thought maybe you could use a friendly face and I could use the solitude to view it in peace.”
Wiping away the sweat in his eyes, Tony tried to think through the soup of his boiling brain. “Progress?”
“None yet, I'm afraid. There's not enough camera angles to grab a good look. I found three frames of someone's back at the nurse's station, but he never turned where we could see his face.”
“Prints?”
“He didn't touch the desk in the hall, but Ziva went over the elevator. There were dozens and dozens to go through even though the panels get disinfected several times a day. Abby's on it.”
He'd worked arson cases in Baltimore. Churches, homes, schools. All were symbols with hidden meanings. Fumbling for the controls, Tony raised the head of the bed even higher to help himself think. His wheezing had settled to a small set of spasms, his lungs too spent to give it their all. It was possible the latest steroid treatment was just wearing off, but Tony couldn't recall what it was like to take a solid breath without pain anymore.
The feeling of pinpricks inside his chest sharpened to tiny razorblades, but he rode them out, waiting for the two images of McGee to merge back into one. “W'y?” he rasped.
“I'm sorry, I didn't understand you.”
Yanking the mask down, Tony stared bleary-eyed at his partner. “Why?”
“Why did he come to the hospital?”
“Motive...Probie,” Tony hissed, burying a fist into his sternum.
Frowning, McGee shook his head. “We're still going over that. All three targets supplied industrial materials to the Navy. They're owned by different companies with no pending lawsuits or recent accidents. We're still searching personnel records of those who have been fired in the past five years, but so far, none of them have had any backgrounds that fit the profile.”
His mind drifting, a voice whispered in Tony's mind, all gloating in awed fascination.
“Did it look at you? Did the fire look at you? It did. Our worlds aren't that far apart after all, are they? So whoever is doing this knows the animal well, doesn't he?”
That was one of the best scenes in the movie.
“He knows the animal,” Tony muttered, recalling how the heat from the flames had licked his face.
“What?”
“Our suspect knows all about fire,” Tony mumbled. “Donald had a great performance...Tommy Lee's was good, too.”
“Tony, what are you talking about? Are you talking about Backdraft again?”
Chair legs made a horrible scraping sound and McGee was up, staring at the equipment cluelessly. “Do you need me to call the nurse?”
“But it was really about the brothers...right?” Tony went on. “Backdraft wasn't about fire. It was about...” The air was thin, the razors becoming knives again. “Family...”
“That mask isn't there to frame that handsome face of yours,” Helen announced as soon as she barged into his fabric cell, pressing the plastic back over his face. “That clip on your finger lets me know when your O2 stats go wonky.” Like all grandmotherly people, her sharp tone softened. She rested a hand on his forehead and stuck something in his ear until it chirped. “103. Can't you do anything easy?”
He was bruised and broken, but not out. Not out.
“You listen to me, Tony. You. Will. Not. Die,” Gibbs had ordered him once before.
Something wet melted under his armpits, icy liquid beaded around his lower areas.
He was tired of being sick. Of being trapped in bed by his own body.
People moved in and out around him, jiggling his IV. The feeling of rain pelted his skin.
Tony didn't open his eyes, not a single time, sleep finally winning a victory.
Cold water poured down his face, droplets soothing away the cracks by his lips. Sucking at the moisture, his heart clenched inside his chest. He recalled a fire hose, being stripped of his clothes. Of choking on his own fluids.
He jerked awake to blackness, then fading grey, until things slowly settled into a muted washout of color.
Beep, beep, beep.
“There you are, my dear boy. I'm sorry I had to take my leave earlier, but I needed to check on a few reports,” Ducky said, strolling over and pulling up a vacant chair. “Of course, you probably won't remember our talks, but I know you heard me on some level, even if the rest of your brain chose to tune me out,” he said with a charming smile. “We were discussing the fine works of Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales, to be exact.”
Tony had no recollection of Ducky's previous visit,but the older man sounded as if he'd been reading aloud for hours. “Everyone's been by, just so you know.” Ducky paused, turning a yellowed page. “Jethro and Tim are still here in fact, but I suggested they grab a bite to eat when it was time to cool you down again.”
Fire. He'd been in a fire.
And the guy was still out there.
Waiting.
The chair creaked with a shift in weight and Ducky began reading, his voice soothing Tony back into a fitful slumber.
“His temp is down to 100. The cold compresses worked.”
“Good. Keep him on eight hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen. The last set of tests showed a slight reduction in his edema. We might be rounding a corner.”
Tony held onto the nebulizer, taking the awful medicine into his lungs.
You can do this, DiNozzo. You beat the damned plague. That's got to count for something.
Or maybe you used up all your karma on the previous near-death experience.
His ray of sunshine breezed in, removing the medical torture device. “That's one serious face you got going on there.”
“Got a lot on my mind.”
“All that you should be thinkin' about is getting better,” Helen told him.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Don't ma'am me. I'm not in the military.” Pen going a mile a minute in his chart, she hung the clipboard back on the bed. “Is there anything else you need before I grab some grub downstairs?”
Petty Officer Williams probably had a grandmother like Helen, Tony thought.
“Yeah. Do you think you could track down Agent Gibbs?”
Gibbs walked beside the right side of the gurney, Ziva the left. With McProbie somewhere behind him, Tony didn't open his eyes since vertigo had become a recent companion. The tension surrounding him was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but stepping down to a normal room had been the right call.
The only call.
No more fabric curtains. A real room with a real door and real windows. It almost made breathing easier. Almost.
The O2 mask was replaced with a nasal cannula, the plastic scratching his nostrils.
Helen stood there, unhappy scowl in place. If looks could kill, the rest of Tony's team would be tarred and feathered by now.
McGee's cell went off and he excused himself to answer it, looking relieved at the distraction.
Busying herself by hanging his IV and connecting the pulse oximeter, Helen scrutinized Tony. “If you think I'm going to come down here to check on you while I have real sick people to attend to, you're deluding yourself.”
“Wouldn't....think of it.”
“I better not find you back on my floor, if you know what's good for you,” Helen threatened, crossing her arms in her most intimating manner.
“How else...will I find you...for our date?"
With a roll of her eyes, Helen took the time to glare at everyone else in the room, before taking her leave.
“I didn't know you were into older women, DiNozzo,” Gibbs deadpanned.
“What can I say...I'm broadening my horizons.”
Gibbs jabbed two fingers in the air, gesturing for Ziva to follow him out, and nearly collided with a bounding McGee.
“Boss,” he yelped, sidestepping him. “I just got off the phone with Petty Officer Wilson's father. An anonymous donor just paid for the funeral in full. The family didn't accept the money and gave it to charity.”
Eyes straying toward Tony's for a split second, Gibbs hung out by the door. “The fire marshal filed his final report on the LeBond arson. See if there's anything to dig up.”
“On it,” McGee said, scrambling out.
“Good luck,” Tony offered, watching his boss linger longer than needed.
“I don't believe in luck, DiNozzo.”
Tony allowed two orderlies who could pass as Redskins players to haul him up, keeping him upright when his slippered feet couldn't. Walking wasn't on his agenda apparently, and he played along with the illusion of moving on his own, the two linebackers doing all the work.
“The chair's just eight steps away,” one of them encouraged. “I know it sucks, man, but your body has to get used to moving again. Helps avoid muscle weakness. Doctor’s orders.”
IV, catheter, and various other wires and tubes were rolled along with his reluctant feet. Tony was lowered into the chair, huffing and coughing on his portable oxygen.
“You did great,” one of the linebackers praised.
Sure. For being carried.
Staring balefully at the NFL rejects, Tony focused on sitting upright, hoping not to fall right out as soon as his support was gone.
“You all right, Agent DiNozzo?"
“I'm...fine,” Tony growled, unable to quiet the unconvincing cough that followed.
“The call button is—”
“By my side. Got it.”
Funny how moving rooms felt like a gigantic victory. It still reeked of Lysol and hand sanitizer. Had the same repressed lighting and thin starched sheets. And he still had to use a nebulizer every few hours—and more than likely for weeks to come.
But it wasn't the ICU and twenty-four-hour monitoring, with that constant fear of being one alarm away from dying.
That was the job, though. Every minute of the day. While taking a bullet or getting blown up were accepted risks, it didn't mean he wasn't afraid of death. Ask him straight up and he might dance around the answer. Give a wink and say a joke. But deep inside he was scared shitless of it. He'd been that close once before, and God, the second time around was even worse.
So, yeah, sitting vertically in bed and breathing from a cannula instead of an oxygen mask was a victory. He was alone for once, his thoughts drifting into dangerous territory. Like how thrashed were his lungs? Would he pass the next physical? Would the headache that had taken up permanent residence in his temples ever go away?
But a louder, more persistent voice overrode all of those whispered what-ifs, and this one sounded more like an NCIS agent's. He tried focusing on what it was attempting to tell him. He trusted it. Trusted it so much that he had his little talk with Gibbs, dug in his heels, and insisted the man listen to it, too.
He was actually chilly for once, a nice change of pace from the last two days. He'd been given a robe to wear over his gown and was promised a set of scrub bottoms once he got rid of one of his accessories.
“Agent DiNozzo, it's time for your next scan.”
Tony stared at the nurse, waiting for the two NFL linebackers to return with him. When the guy pushed the wheelchair forward, Tony stared anxiously at the gap between the bed and the seat.
“Hold on, I'll go get some help—”
“No. I'm good,” Tony interrupted. “I should do this on my own.”
Not waiting for an argument, he shoved away the sheets, swinging his legs around until they were inches from the floor. Pushing off with his hands, his feet hit the tile, knees buckling. The nurse grabbed him under the armpits with a long grunt and helped him into the chair.
“Just give me a sec,” the nurse said, gathering all of the various tubes and securing them to the wheelchair pole. “There, you're all set.”
White knuckling the armrests as he was wheeled, Tony stared straight ahead, those instincts taking over as he memorized where people walked in and out. Keeping up with all the turns down the hall.
“Wow. Left, right. Left, right. We taking the scenic route?” he asked after the fourth corner.
“You know hospitals. They like to keep imaging studies away from patients. All that extra radiation.”
“Right. Wouldn't want that.”
Reading the various signs outside the doors, Tony raised an eyebrow when they entered a room, the sign labeled “PET Scan” on the outside. The door opened automatically as they entered a dimly lit room filled with computers with a large window peering into an adjacent room with a large tube.
Staring at the vacant chairs in front of the controls, Tony gave his escort a smile. “We early for the party?”
It was the first time he got a good look at the orderly. The guy was clean-shaven with short brown hair. Average height and build. Mr. Nondescript.
“No, everyone is all accounted for,” the guy replied, stepping toward the door to the hall.
“You got a name?” Tony asked, a suspicion confirmed when the lock went click.
“Lieutenant Andy Jacobs.”
His head was roaring with another migraine, but Tony pushed it aside, ignoring the invisible drill to his temples. “I take it that you're not a Bethesda employee?” he asked, adjusting the flaps of his robe.
“No, sir.”
Tony noted the southern accent for the first time. Possibly native Virginian. “Well, Andy,” he said casually. “I was told you wanted to talk to me. You could have visited me in my room. Saved us the stroll.”
Fingers tapping a staccato against his right hip, Andy shook his head. “I tried.”
“But—”
“It was too risky. Too many people and they—” Shaking his head again like a nervous tick, Andy paced. “They wouldn’t understand.”
That so? Tony thought, but he kept his tone even. Sympathetic. “Understand what?”
Andy waved a hand in Tony's direction. “I didn't mean for this to happen.”
Squeezing the rubber armrests, Tony channeled all of his adrenaline at keeping physically and mentally together. “You didn't?” That why you kicked me when I was down?
“Of course not!” Striding over, nostrils flaring, Andy glared at him. “That wasn't my objective.”
“And what was that?”
“To neutralize my targets!”
“Your targets?”
“Those profiteering on the war! You think they care about blood money?”
Breathing on his oxygen, trying to remain perfectly still and relaxed, Tony tried following the man's ramblings. “You were targeting the companies that provide supplies to the Navy.”
“Yes, sir.” Andy's fingers kept tapping against his hip. That's when Tony got a peak at the sidearm strapped there. “Those getting fat off the hog supplying the military. I had to stop them.”
“By destroying the warehouses that shipped supplies to our bases in the Middle East,” Tony said, piecing things together. Andy was breathing fast, his left eye twitching. “That took some skill, burning those places to the ground. How did you accomplish your mission?”
“I'm a chemical engineer. Wasn't hard.”
That explained the sophistication behind the fires as well as the protective gear.
“And Petty Officer Wilson?”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was! It was an unforeseen casualty.”
“A casualty?” Tony growled, his chest tightening. “He wasn't a friendly fire accident, Lieutenant!”
“If he'd been following orders, been at his station instead of inside, it wouldn't have happened.”
“And what about the NCIS agents you shot at? Were they unforeseen targets?” Tony snapped.
“They were a threat to the mission.”
Catching his breath, arms wrapped around his ribs, Tony glared. “Yeah? And if they'd succumbed to the fumes? Been eliminated as a threat. You would have done the honorable thing and helped them out?”
Yelling triggered a bout of coughing, dark spots clouding his vision. Antagonizing an unstable suspect with a stick wasn't the best strategy when his ability to defend himself was close to nil.
“You know, I came here to apologize. Explain my mission.”
“Yeah?” Tony wheezed. “And now?”
Antsy fingers tapped a beat on the butt of his gun as Andy peered intently at him.“Analyzing the threat level to the rest of my campaign.”
Ziva put an agitated lion to shame, pacing a scant four meters back and forth. “This is not a good idea.”
“It was Tony's,” McGee said, adjusting the volume level to the computer for the twentieth time.
“Exactly.”
“I agreed to it,” Gibbs reminded them both. “I trust DiNozzo. He knows what he's doing.”
“But Boss...” McGee looked over, hesitating a second before plowing onward. “Tony's—”
“Still an NCIS agent.”
“And he's unarmed and vulnerable,” Ziva hissed, not afraid to argue. “He shouldn't act as bait.”
“He's wearing a wire and we're right across the hall. We have no physical evidence and no suspects. Give DiNozzo a chance to take this guy down.”
Let him feel in control again.
“Agent DiNozzo, it's time for your next scan.”
Everyone froze, McGee increasing the volume and clearing up the static.
“Tony does not have any tests scheduled,” Ziva said, striding closer to the computer.
Listening intently, they monitored the conversation, Gibbs' gut churning when he realized DiNozzo was on the move. He hadn't expected their suspect to pose as a hospital worker.
“Should we go after him?” Ziva pressed.
“Not yet,” Gibbs answered, smiling when DiNozzo fed them tidbits about which direction he was going. Thataboy, he thought.
Grabbing a notepad, McGee scribbled down the various turns while he listened.
Ziva was frozen in place, the bandage across her forehead the only indication that she'd been in the fire. She was practically vibrating with the need to do something, eyes laser-lined on the laptop.
“And Petty Officer Wilson?”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was! It was an unforeseen casualty.”
Biting his lip, Gibbs slammed his hands on the table, reining in his need to ring the guy's neck. That was it, the last nail in the coffin. But they needed a signal from Tony or risked going in blind.
Come on, DiNozzo, give the damned signal.
But things were escalating. Tony's voice had gone from calm to agitated.
“Yeah?” Tony coughed. “And if they'd succumbed to the fumes? Been eliminated as a threat. You would have done the honorable thing and helped them out?"
Damn it! Don't let your emotions get the better of you, DiNozzo, Gibbs groused. “That's it. We're going in,” he ordered. Before things spiraled out of control.
Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds to go down one hall, turn, go another ten feet. Turn. Then turn again and again. Running full tilt, eyes roaming the empty hallways, he dismissed every possible bad outcome.
Locating the room, he slowed, ears straining for noise, waving McGee over. “Take out the lock.”
Aiming his weapon inches away from the metal knob, McGee fired twice, smashing it apart.
Barging in, Gibbs aimed at the suspect's forehead. “NCIS! Hands on your head and get on your knees.”
“Tell them, Tony! Tell them why I did this!”
Increasing the tension around the trigger, Gibbs eyes darted from the screaming suspect to DiNozzo, assessing the risk in a split second. He noticed the holstered .45, the agitated manner in which the guy was acting.
With Ziva covering, Gibbs grabbed the suspect's shoulder, squeezing it in just the right spot to pinch a nerve. The suspect was rendered motionless with a yelp and Gibbs shoved him down to the ground, taking one of the guy's arms and locking it behind his back.
“My arm!” the guy screamed.
Ziva disarmed the suspect, slapping the cuffs around both wrists. “Sorry, does it hurt?”
McGee was there, weapon still out, waiting for the unexpected because, this week, nothing could be taken for granted.
Satisfied that the asshole responsible for this nightmare was in custody, Gibbs holstered his gun and moved toward DiNozzo. “You okay?”
“We talking...rhetorically...Boss?”
Outside, the hall filled with the boys in blue and Gibbs nodded at Ziva. “Secure our suspect wherever security has a place and wait until backup arrives to transport him.”
“Wait! I still have my mission to complete!”
With a hard shove, Ziva escorted the trash away with a satisfied expression. McGee was already on the phone, arranging for the agents to handle the transfer.
DiNozzo was silent except for the long drags on his oxygen, eyes focused on the door.
“Guess I'm your taxi,” Gibbs grunted. Walking behind the wheelchair and taking the handles, he began pushing.
“Did you get everything?”
“Every word.”
“Good.”
“Except for your signal.”
“Oh...It must've not got picked up.”
The need to head slap DiNozzo was great, but Gibbs let it go, wheeling his agent into his room. Without a word, he helped DiNozzo to his feet, holding him up as he swayed.
“'m...good now.”
“Sit on the bed, Tony. I'll do the rest.”
By 'doing the rest', Gibbs did everything. He held DiNozzo up, leaning him toward the bed. Once DiNozzo got a hip up, Gibbs took on all of his agent's weight and heaved him the rest of the way there. Thankfully an orderly bounded over, hanging various tubes and transferring the IV lines and portable oxygen.
With a tap on Gibbs' shoulder, the orderly gestured at DiNozzo. “I'll let the doc know he's back.”
Cradling his head into his left hand, DiNozzo sighed.
“Another headache?” Gibbs asked.
“Think it's the same one.”
“You can have until the morning to give me a report. I'll see about McGee finding you a tape recorder.”
Patting DiNozzo on the shoulder, Gibbs turned to give him some peace when he heard a 'thanks, boss.'
Releasing a long breath, Gibbs knew exactly what he was being thanked for. “Next time your signal gets lost during a wire tap, you'll be out on your ass.”
The moment his head hit the pillow, Tony slept. And slept. Through vital checks and blood draws. During his next nebulizer treatment, he might have pissed off the respiratory tech when he didn't inhale as fully as he should. But as soon as it was over, his lids became too heavy to keep open, and he allowed them to flutter shut.
“Come on, sleeping beauty, you gonna skip out on meatloaf?”
“Helen,” he whispered, forcing himself awake.
“Don't get too excited. Just got off shift, thought I'd say hi, and noticed your tray just sitting here.”
Tony grabbed the fork and cut through the soft meat. As he ate, his enthusiasm grew with each bite.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah. Been...tired,” he mumbled between spoonfuls.
“Guess that's what happens when you save people from fires and take down criminals from your wheelchair. What do you do for an encore?”
“I skip those.”
“Something tells me you're not one to shy away from the spotlight.”
Laughing, Tony cleared his throat when everything tingled. “Normally, you're right.”
“Awww. But only when it's highlighting your best side?”
Looking up sharply, he shoveled the last of the carrots into his mouth.
“This is Bethesda, hon. Working the ICU, I get all kinds. Traumatic brain injury, amputees, burn victims. People on the worst day of their life. It's not about appearing weak. It's about accepting your limitations and finding ways to overcome them.”
Blushing, Tony fumbled for words. “I wasn't trying to compare myself to—”
“It's okay, hon,” Helen hushed him, taking his arm. “Wasn't trying to. I'm just saying you're not alone. You've got your team. Never seen so many civilians act like such devoted marines. And lordy, that boss of yours. I think he'd cover your six through hell.”
He smiled at that. Tony wasn't the same green agent that sought Gibb's approval for everything. Not always anyway. But getting thrown into the hurt locker again, not knowing when he'd get out—if he'd get out—had been a massive weight bearing down on him. Maybe getting Lt. Jacobs had been a way to ease that pressure. And maybe Gibbs had allowed him that luxury.
It wasn't like Leroy Jethro Gibbs hadn't had his fair share of life altering experiences that required him to get back on that horse.
“Guess getting hurt again...well, it scared me,” he admitted.
“My grandson has a saying for such an occasion.”
“Yeah, what's that?'
Helen gave him a cheeky grin. “Knowing is half the battle.”
Approaching each day like it needed to be conquered was a good strategy. It helped that the nighttime nurse was quite the talkative type who lingered long enough to encourage him to hurry up and get better because of what was waiting outside. Sure, she had a boyfriend, and was ten years younger than Tony, but it was fun to flirt. It made him feel almost normal.
“Aren't you tired of being in bed?” Gibbs had asked him, plopping a deep-dish pizza with the works on his table.
“Sure am.”
“You gonna do something about it?”
“Working on it,” he replied.
A much more exciting torture device, one he was familiar with, replaced the nebulizer: the spirometer. Instead of breathing in meds, he had to breathe out so all the little balls would stay in the air. It was a lung capacity test, or a toy according to Ziva.
“I think you like being here. You can sleep all day. People bring you food and fluff your pillows.”
After day six, Tony was crawling the walls. “Please tell me you're here to entertain me?”
“I'm too busy for that,” she snorted, despite flipping the pages of a magazine.
“What happened to Jacobs?”
“He's undergoing psychiatric review. His brother was killed in Iraq guarding a convoy of private contractors.”
“Let me guess. They were escorting employees of the companies that were involved in the rebuilding effort?”
“Not bad. Ducky tell you?”
“No, figured it out all on my own.”
Placing the magazine down, Ziva fiddled with the edge of a page, crinkling it with her fingers. “Tony—”
“You don't have to say it. I understand. I mean...of course, if you wanted to show me any gratitude, I'm partial to a good massage anytime. Foot. Back. Maybe even a fully nu—”
His right cheek stung when it was hit with the magazine.
“I have to go. Some of us have work to do.”
Despite her brisk exit, Tony saw the smirk on Ziva's face.
Dr. Brzezinski was worse than one of his professors, rambling on and on without taking a breath. The man was a medical robot, spitting out ten-thousand-dollar words, using crazy hand gestures and shoving a stack of care sheet instructions and prescriptions into Tony's hands.
Eyes fuzzed over, he turned toward Ducky for the translation, trying to keep the fear from registering in his face.
“You've got a long few weeks ahead, my dear boy. The headaches and vertigo will persist for a while, as will general weakness. Your body has been through a great ordeal, and it's going to need plenty of downtime and lots and lots of bed rest. ”
He didn't need to be told twice. Tony doubted he could walk to his mailbox without huffing like an old man. “Yeah and then?” he pressed.
Grabbing a shoe and sliding it over Tony's foot, Ducky began lacing it up. “Every form of respiratory distress scars the lungs, my dear boy. Bronchitis, pneumonia. Since the body cannot recreate healthy skin or tissue, it puts together new fibers that, while not as functional as the original tissue, still serve as a protective, useful barrier. It is limited in function, but it does the job.”
“So, that means?”
“That women will dig you more than ever,” Ducky beamed.
“Yeah?”
“No, DiNozzo, it just means you better start hitting the gym more instead of watching movies all day.” Gibbs stood there impatiently. “I don't have all day to drive you home.”
“You're driving me home?” But Tony shut his mouth as soon as he said the words. “Right, Boss.”
Settling himself in the wheelchair for his last stroll through the hospital, Tony gave Gibbs one of his patented smiles. “You know, Boss. If it wasn't for my love of cinema, I would have never cracked the case...or I mean, in my fevered state, of course, I would have never put the pieces of the puzzle of together. Not that I could have known about the brother but—”
Smack.
“You ready, DiNozzo?”
As long as he was still in position to get head slapped, yeah, he thought he really was. For anything.
Fini--
My first time writing an NCIS fic. Feedback is always appreciated.
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Date: 2011-06-29 09:05 am (UTC)I love the Backdraft references - I love that movie!
I love TJ and the way he handled Tony and Gibbs. :)
The H/C was, as always, wonderful and I love the way you described the care Tony received - be it the nurses (Helen!) and doctors or the vent and so on.
Thank you for this fic! :)
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Date: 2011-07-11 05:23 pm (UTC)Laura.
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Date: 2011-07-12 01:48 am (UTC)Dekorativno sivanje
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Date: 2011-12-21 11:16 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing. :oD
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Date: 2012-02-25 09:14 pm (UTC)